Mad as Jazzmen |1930s Ryden AU| ✔️

-3-

The Spotted Cat, unlike the Pontalba Apartments, unfortunately didn't quite meet Brendon's expectations.

Instead of a sizable building bursting with excitable people, it appeared to be a low-energy, almost rundown shack from the outside.  Instead of bright neon signs alerting people that this was indeed The Spotted Cat, there was an old painted poster stuck to the grimy window.  Instead of hearing the sweet sound of jazz music coming from the inside, there was nothing but silence, dark, morose silence that jazz always seemed to fill.

Maybe this place really was where the lowlifes were.

Brendon was sure he'd never felt such disappointment before, but nonetheless, he knew he needed a job, and perhaps this place really got its energy and vitality once the night fell.  That was what he tried to tell himself as he pushed the door open and stepped into The Spotted Cat.

The club looked as if it hadn't been used in decades.  The wooden floors were dusty and anything but polished.  The old tables and chairs sat unused throughout the room, almost looking desolate and abandoned.  The stage at the far end of the room was dark and empty, completely devoid of all human life, and only one lonely music stand rested upon the floor.  Had Brendon missed the memo?  Was this place closed down?  It didn't even appear to be inhabited by people.  Was anyone here?  Had anyone been here in years?  It almost sent a shiver down his spine.  The silence was eerie.

As if to answer his question, the back door swung open, revealing a very tired-looking man with exhausted blue eyes and disheveled hair.  The poor man looked like he hadn't slept a wink in weeks, and Brendon could only imagine why.

If this was the owner of The Spotted Cat, Brendon was sure he'd look like a walking corpse, too.

It took a moment for the man to notice Brendon standing in the doorway, but when he looked up, Brendon could really see just how exhausted this man was.  "Oh, I didn't see ya there,"  the man said with a smile, but it looked dim, tired, forced.  "Welcome to The Spotted Cat, or what's left of it, anyways.  The name's Spencer.  How can I help ya?"

Brendon stepped farther into the building, letting the door shut behind him.  "I'm new to town, and I was lookin' for a job,"  he stated, plain and simple.  He was always taught to state his business when meeting new people.  It was crucial to make first impressions.

The look on Spencer's face was almost that of shock, but he shook his head and offered the wheat another kind smile nonetheless.  "Oh, all right, then!"  he said.  "Come have a seat and I'll see what I can do for ya."

While Spencer tidied up behind the counter, Brendon murmured a thanks and took a seat at one of the old tables.  A thin layer of dust coated the wood, and the chair groaned in protest as he sat down.  He was almost afraid that it was going to fall apart underneath him.  Now that wouldn't be a good first impression.

"So what brings you to New Orleans, kid?"  Spencer called from behind the counter.  Glasses clinked as he stowed them back in their proper cabinets.  "Lookin' for a new life?  Wantin' to get away from the folks?"

"Something like that,"  Brendon replied, absentmindedly drawing patterns in the dust.  He hadn't realized how nervous he was until just now.  What was he going to do if he didn't get the job?  He couldn't afford to live in Pontalba.  Dallon would give him the boot the second he had the chance.  He would have to say farewell to his dreams in New Orleans, and he had only just arrived.

"I feel ya,"  Spencer sighed.  He slipped out from behind the counter then and met Brendon at the table, his chair squeaking and crying out, as well.  So at least it wasn't just Brendon's.  "Well, I haven't seen many new faces lookin' for a job here at The Spotted Cat.  What's your name, kid?  We'll start with somethin' simple."