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Let's Rock 'n Roll (for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fraser_rcmp)
Jun. 28th, 2007 12:53 amooc: Sorry it took so long! Clicky!
It’s only when Ray yanks open the door and steps back to let Fraser inside, that he thinks maybe the Hard Rock Café wasn’t the best place to come to celebrate the Mountie's engagement. It’s noisy and packed out and there are people walking around covered head to toe in badges. Sewn on, stuck on, pinned on. Waiters and waitresses that look like over-stamped letters, colourful patchwork designs that bring to mind harlequins and clowns, neither of which make Ray feel particularly comfortable. The music hits him like a wall of sound, Elvis Presley crooning something about his Blue Suede shoes and how he doesn’t want anyone to step on them. That much, Ray can understand. Only sadists would be crazy enough to stain those babies.
The air is thick with heat, sticky, turning clammier the further in they go. Ray nudges Fraser towards the bar, dodges out the way of a travelling platter of KnickerBockerGlories, melting over the sides, pooling at the bases of their tall glasses. It was unusual for Chicago to be so hot when they hadn’t even really hit summer time yet. But it was a freaky evening, and the clouds were promised to lift by the morning so it should be cooler by then.
Ray’s attempts to keep his cringing down to a minimum aren’t very successful. Neon lights really ought to be kept outside, he decides, blinking back the hazy glare from the orange illuminated Cadillac suspended over the bar. The retro décor seems to go down well with the kids, even the teenagers don’t seem to mind it too much judging by the way the group of would-be rock stars are jamming it down by the jukebox with their air guitars.
Fluorescent green stools, leather ones to boot, just aren’t made for the average middle-aged man though. Ray snags two nevertheless, signalling over to Fraser to let him know he’s actually found a place to sit in this kitsch jungle they call a restaurant.
“Hey, Benny!” He’d never factored in getting a sore throat from all the yelling they’d have to do when he made this evening’s plans. “You ever seen anything like it?”
His arm sweeps over the entire expanse of the establishment - a child blowing out candles, with a group of Swingin’ Sixties singers jazzing up a rendition of “Happy Birthday” Hard Rock style; a couple of jocks seeing who can down a S.O.B Burger and a Chocolate Yazoo the fastest without throwing up; a full length table with two extras stuck on the end to accommodate over twenty Japanese tourists and their Scottish tour guide; and finally Marilyn Monroe who's currently passing an appreciative eye over Fraser before pulling out her notepad and pencil from God knows where on her skimpy little outfit and heading their way.
It’s only when Ray yanks open the door and steps back to let Fraser inside, that he thinks maybe the Hard Rock Café wasn’t the best place to come to celebrate the Mountie's engagement. It’s noisy and packed out and there are people walking around covered head to toe in badges. Sewn on, stuck on, pinned on. Waiters and waitresses that look like over-stamped letters, colourful patchwork designs that bring to mind harlequins and clowns, neither of which make Ray feel particularly comfortable. The music hits him like a wall of sound, Elvis Presley crooning something about his Blue Suede shoes and how he doesn’t want anyone to step on them. That much, Ray can understand. Only sadists would be crazy enough to stain those babies.
The air is thick with heat, sticky, turning clammier the further in they go. Ray nudges Fraser towards the bar, dodges out the way of a travelling platter of KnickerBockerGlories, melting over the sides, pooling at the bases of their tall glasses. It was unusual for Chicago to be so hot when they hadn’t even really hit summer time yet. But it was a freaky evening, and the clouds were promised to lift by the morning so it should be cooler by then.
Ray’s attempts to keep his cringing down to a minimum aren’t very successful. Neon lights really ought to be kept outside, he decides, blinking back the hazy glare from the orange illuminated Cadillac suspended over the bar. The retro décor seems to go down well with the kids, even the teenagers don’t seem to mind it too much judging by the way the group of would-be rock stars are jamming it down by the jukebox with their air guitars.
Fluorescent green stools, leather ones to boot, just aren’t made for the average middle-aged man though. Ray snags two nevertheless, signalling over to Fraser to let him know he’s actually found a place to sit in this kitsch jungle they call a restaurant.
“Hey, Benny!” He’d never factored in getting a sore throat from all the yelling they’d have to do when he made this evening’s plans. “You ever seen anything like it?”
His arm sweeps over the entire expanse of the establishment - a child blowing out candles, with a group of Swingin’ Sixties singers jazzing up a rendition of “Happy Birthday” Hard Rock style; a couple of jocks seeing who can down a S.O.B Burger and a Chocolate Yazoo the fastest without throwing up; a full length table with two extras stuck on the end to accommodate over twenty Japanese tourists and their Scottish tour guide; and finally Marilyn Monroe who's currently passing an appreciative eye over Fraser before pulling out her notepad and pencil from God knows where on her skimpy little outfit and heading their way.
