𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 | 𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘗 𝘢𝘳𝘬 ✧˚ · .

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘 ; New Beginnings

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

❝And here I am, the Only Living Boy in New York.❞
quote from from "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon & Garfunkel.

✧

BOBBY'S POV:

December 4th, 1971.
10:01 AM

The gates opened, there stood Bobby with nothing but the clothes he wore and a bag with all the few possessions he had in this world.
Nobody was waiting for him, the only faces he sees are the officer's as he passes by them and a couple strangers walking the streets, hunched slightly in their thick winter coats as they briskly journeyed down dull, dim grey pavements.

To his left were rows of fairly desolate buildings in disrepair being towered over by their neighbouring modern neighbours. The world hadn't seemed to develop much since he'd initially entered prison.
Taking in a deep breath of the cold morning air, Bobby exhales as he walked. Being in the prison sometimes fucked with his perception of time, even though the longest sentence he'd even done was just under one year. Time will move on, with or without him, and New York was a busy city constantly changing and evolving.

✧  FIFTY-TWO MINUTES LATER  ✧

The door opened with a creak, a short man balding with a clipboard in hand entered first, Bobby shortly after.
"Your keys." The man handed Bobby a set of copper keys, two. One for the front door, the other also for the front door but in case the first one was misplaced.
A tiny flat with peeling wallpapers, a steel bed-frame and narrow window in an awkward place. Bobby couldn't guess with a gun to his head how old the room was. The furniture in it had probably never left, the walls never repainted from their initial colouring.
The man was rambling on about the room. How you need to wake up before 10:00 AM if you want hot water & the café across the street opens at 08:00 AM. Bobby nodded along, taking a look around the room from where he stood.
He didn't care much for scenery, sure he could enjoy well orientated & decorated homes, but he never felt the need to do any home improvements himself. Not being materialistic, as long as the mattress he slept on didn't break his back and the chairs didn't collapse under him he'd be fine.

Bobby thanked the man, taking the keys as he watched the man exit the room, shutting the door behind him.
Silence fell upon the room, not like much dialogue was happening before.
He huffed, walking over to the bed just a few feet away and dumping his bag down onto it. The mattress squeaked, and then again as Bobby sat down. He pulled his boots off, dropping them on the ground beside the bedframe.
Taking out a pack of Embassy Gold cigarettes, selecting one and lighting it up.
Sitting at the very end of his bed, Bobby watched the street below as he took drags of the stick between his lips, held occasionally by his lightly tobacco-stained fingers.

Down on the street, Bobby observed people walking by. A man dressed in all-gold, likely phoney yelling onto a phone as he crossed the street. A taxi, a red car, a black car passed. Two women with arms interlinked and bright red lipstick strutted down the path, being cat-called by construction workers on break with nothing better to do than pester.
Bobby's eyes wandered up and down the street, and finally that little café his landlord had mentioned previously caught his attention. Tan bricks with a tea green awning, a dark-oak door and outdoor seating covered in raindrops thanks to New York's bleak weather. Nobody was sitting outside, and Bobby could see the outlines of bodies sitting down inside the café through the front windows.
As he took another drag, Bobby paused after exhaling. The door opened, out stepped a waitress with a ridiculous green half-apron on, grey uniform-top & hair wrangled back.
Her mouth moved, she was likely cursing the rain. In her apron's front pocket was a cloth which she took out, using it to wipe down the tables & seats affected by the rain. Bobby chuckled, her efforts were in vain; the furniture would be soaked again in a couple minutes.