Jude does not live glamorously; his standard of living took a decided downgrade with his venture. That is probably the biggest difference between him and a startup CEO. Where others might get ahead of themselves spending investment cash, Jude holes up in an extended-stay motel, the kind with the crappy eighties furniture, an orange felt chair crammed up against a flimsy wooden desk, carpet with a confetti pattern that would be just as happy at home in a bowling alley, placement along a busy commercial corridor that hosts drunk vagrants at odd hours. He could probably upgrade himself to a Motel 6, maybe a La Quinta, but Jude prefers to have money to spare in case he needs to buy a plane ticket on demand, get out now, run fast and far if Juliet and company show up in town once more.
Like the other holy fools that have preceded him, Jude does not take much interest in his day-to-day material life. Save for when one of his patrons insists on taking him out to dinner, he eats blandly but in a healthy way: steaming vegetables in the microwave, Cheerios for breakfast, a dollar fifty McDonald's sundae as the occasional treat. Along with talking to strangers, he has had to pick up innumerable life skills that other people usually learn a little at a time. The result is that many of his choices are boring, because the amount of effort introspection and personal taste would require is beyond him. He tends to buy outfits off the mannequin. It is what he has done before and after staring at Near from a distance.
Outside, the telltale humidity of the coming storm envelopes him. Out of habit, Jude scans the parking lot, everyone going to and from the mall. His eyes dart, rabbit-like, from person to person -- a woman with dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, two plastic bags each in the crooks of her elbows; a blond man pushing a stroller while his partner mans a cart an Instant Pot and a Ninja blender precariously balanced. A distant rumble of thunder echoes.
"Let me get my backpack." He steps out into the parking lot in front of Near, wanders across the asphalt to a beat-up Subaru Forester, its navy blue paint peeling in places. It has an Oregon license plate. The backpack, an olive green L.L. Bean, is retrieved from the passenger seat. Probably contains Jude's wizard materials, for whatever tricks he'll pull next.
Like the other holy fools that have preceded him, Jude does not take much interest in his day-to-day material life. Save for when one of his patrons insists on taking him out to dinner, he eats blandly but in a healthy way: steaming vegetables in the microwave, Cheerios for breakfast, a dollar fifty McDonald's sundae as the occasional treat. Along with talking to strangers, he has had to pick up innumerable life skills that other people usually learn a little at a time. The result is that many of his choices are boring, because the amount of effort introspection and personal taste would require is beyond him. He tends to buy outfits off the mannequin. It is what he has done before and after staring at Near from a distance.
Outside, the telltale humidity of the coming storm envelopes him. Out of habit, Jude scans the parking lot, everyone going to and from the mall. His eyes dart, rabbit-like, from person to person -- a woman with dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, two plastic bags each in the crooks of her elbows; a blond man pushing a stroller while his partner mans a cart an Instant Pot and a Ninja blender precariously balanced. A distant rumble of thunder echoes.
"Let me get my backpack." He steps out into the parking lot in front of Near, wanders across the asphalt to a beat-up Subaru Forester, its navy blue paint peeling in places. It has an Oregon license plate. The backpack, an olive green L.L. Bean, is retrieved from the passenger seat. Probably contains Jude's wizard materials, for whatever tricks he'll pull next.