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Granny Stephens had moved out of her Hotel. Yes, she had. There was a bit of cursing as that event transpired. Not by her of course, she would never use words like those that had found vocalization in that fight. Cursing at and by the unable and inebriated (so it seemed to her) hotel staff, including middle management. Cursing at a guest. Namely her. Her floating trunk, the old wooden thing from at least a hundred years before, had been quite unimpressed by all the noise. The staff had been impressed by it though. Thoroughly impressed. Against a wall. Not that she had seen the need to punch one of them over the head with it, but had she been younger and a bit more adventurous she might have done so. Young people sometimes got in over their heads. She knew that from experience. Well there had been this time once when she... But this had not been a good time to reminisce about the olden days. The adventurous and very brave young people had seen to that, shoving at her. And they called her old and ill. She was working great! And after Cursing and Screaming was over with she now needed new lodgings. But first she would need something else.

A stiff drink.

Because nothing picks you up just like that. Not that she needed much picking up, mind you, but she needed a drink. Because lifting a trunk was work. Because being old and frail was work. And because she had finally found that bar again after half-a-century.

~ ~ ~

There was a time in America when Alcohol was in strong demand. And available only via prescription from your local MD or Pharmacist. Pharmacies had dispensed Beer and Wine, yes. On Rx status nonetheless. Back in those days – it was before Granny had seen the light of day – there had been a few special places dispensing the valuable commodity illegally. Such locations were in the speech patterns of those times, called speakeasies; places where one could find their fix of drinking and dancing. Places of light talk and hushed whispers, objects of desire, valued commodities.

With the end of the Prohibition of these ventures quickly disappeared into the mist of illegal activities no longer profitable. Quiet rooms in corners of the city gathered dust, counter no longer productive, entryways to occluded to be of use any more. Some though survived by converting into legal liquor dispensaries, commonly called bars.

'Smiths', such a simple name. The brick of the house in one side-street simply painted. Nothing more, only the name, just as if this was a reputable import-export business. It was probably one of the oldest bars of the city. Change was slow here. The walls were hung with posters from the twenties and thirties, with metal sheets that doubled as advertisement and billboard (thanks magnet!) and a counter that stood the whole length of wall. Some bottles behind it were probably as old as Granny herself. The man behind the counter wore one of those fashionable lip-beards from the thirties, combining it elegantly with an appropriate uniform. Mixing drinks looked so effortless with him.

~ ~ ~

The old woman entering was something unusual here, though going by the small crowd the Smiths had become a place for the Hip and the would be Hip to gather. Since these people tended to distinguish themselves by wearing outrageous clothing or their outrageous mannerisms (or a combination thereof) an old woman entering caused only half-a-stir of polite interest. Said interest waned somewhat as people became aware of the wooden trunk trailing her that was wrapped in an emerald glow that pierced the shadows cast by the dim light of bulbs overhead easily. Eerily as well it settled upright in front of the bar, just settling down. The old woman sat upon it, motioning the stools around her out of the way with a dangerous-looking swipe of her cane. They dutifully obliged, whether people sat on them or not, just glowing green and liftg up. The Bartender took things in stride. “Hello Ma'am, what would you like to drink?” The old woman nodded once to herself and then removed a flowery hat from her head, settling it beside her on the counter of the bar. “Heya young one. Whiskey please. And a smoky one at that.” She flashed him a smile that said she knew her stuff after taking a sip of the thing that was provided to her. An approving smile. The Smiths did not disappoint. Even almost a century after its conception. It was a wonderful place. And she still was a wonderful woman.

Cue: Music!

Grannys flowery dress flew about her in wide folds of lightly colored linen cloth as New Yorks hot summer winds picked up strength, blowing in her face with some semblance of a hairdryer. Only that her hair was gray and hidden today under one of her many hats. A small round thing that made a particularly British impression, considering that it had a flowery arrangement off to one side that had, as it was finely made from silk, not wilted like the usual flower under this climactic charge. People called it the worst drought since... last year. But since Granny had not been there to see it she would simply assume that this years was pretty good along in terms of heat and dryness. 'If I didn't have a wrinkled face before I would surely get one now.' she mumbled to herself. She had to take the hand that was not holding her usual cane to stabilize this, the only, thing that kept her head from boiling, from being blown away in the face of this natural onslaught. Shielding was tempting now.

People around her stated bending like reeds in the face of so much concentrated heat, walks slowing to crawls, crawls stopping. Only an old lady continued her slow gait. Only that she was not faced with a multitude of obstacles in her way that had no interest in ever moving – it seemed. She mumbled a few choice words about bloody rudeness that went unheard, or at least unheeded, by at least the people standing next to her. Yes. Shields. They did not only stop bullets and bullies, but also helped clearing your way out of a crowd. Especially if they were bright green and everyone had their eyes closed against flying grime and dust.

People toppled around her like they had been shoved by some unseen force. They had been actually, and Granny headed off into the shade of an alley. It was cooler there, though not actually less dusty. Most certainly though there were less people there around her. To unnerve her or to run into her, unsettle her old bones and these things. She really did not take kindly to that. (The perfectly circular cleared-out area on the walkway would attest to that statement.) Because there was only so much an old Granny could take. Especially if she had super powers.

So she stalked. Now in the shadows (Anyone talking about hobbling slowly would be faced with a flying car!). There would be not much here that could hurt her, so she was not worried. And the people on the walkway had not fallen, only stumbled a way clear for her. And also finally the hot wind died down. Her dress stopped being flung about and the cool of the shade settled upon her. Her hand descended from her hat. Its job as finished.

“Mhhh only what should I teach? Mutants?” Granny sounded half-earnest. One of those old fingers tapped her chin playfully. Contemplation. “And Child!” She snapped a server out of her brisk walk with one hand. “Ill have a cup of the blackest tea you have. Please.” Because Old ladies could.

“And now there is that very old, very lovely Lady that takes up your time, too. I think I should feel bad for the Children. And for the adults.” Not to mention that she almost always did. Young people just worried too much. Much too much.

Their beverages came promptly. A mug of steaming Coffee. And a mug of something. Steaming, too.

Granny planted her feet firmly on the ground. “I returned, because this is New York. Chemistry I just do to teach some youngsters that Old Women aren't dumb. Maybe it was also because of Stink-bombs.” She chuckled lightly. This was, of course, one of the reasons. Young people needed to learn these things. Students needed to learn these things. And maybe they needed to learn about Mutants a bit too. They would, in short, need her level head and common sense. The box proceeded to lift itself into the trunk while Granny talked. The green glow soon faded once it was safely stored inside.

“Thank you.” Her tone was quite goodly. “This is still a campus I think. There will be Cafés around.” She stalked purposefully towards one of the groups of teenaged Students that had not dashed away and who were busy looking and pointing at her with various levels of covering skill. They were busy enough giggling with each other, that they recognized the incoming object of said ridicule a bit too lately for socially acceptable escape. It would not do to run away from Granny at that point anyways. “Hello kids.” Their giggling stifled into disdainful looks at her. But well she found out soon enough: The best Café around was one only a few steps away. Maybe two minutes with her walking speed. On the other side of the building to her right. It was a glass-and-steel construction glittering in the sun. “So, are you engaged?” The question was shot at Gemma with the same polite tone the others had been. Because, you know, Old People really don't care much about manners. When it concerns their own.

Thank you all so much! Granny would leave you the next best thing to hugs: A batch of cookies.

Both of those look great! I really like the English feel of the second one. And sorry Ophelia, while your signature is beautiful I cannot take it. Helen Mirren does Commercials for Anti-aging creams. Granny is far past that stage I think.