Finn was on a mission.

A small mission, but a mission nonetheless. He was new to New York City, having moved from small town Louisiana. It was all so different for him.

But still, the poet loved it. He had never seen buildings as tall as the ones in New York. Never seen so many people, neither. It was spring, 1951. He had argued with his ma and pa for years, yearning for the city that could change it all. Broadway had been his dream since he had first heard of it. Theatre never happened in his bible town, so he had to leave. And now he was in the greatest city in the world. Had a job at a diner on Broadway, surrounded by other actors and musicians and poets and artists and people he had never ever even known could exist.

And Finn was a fish out of water, but boy did he love it nonetheless.

He glided off the subway, climbing the stairs two at a time before weaving through the bustle of people and running down Broadway avenue, past the theatres he dreamt of preforming in one day, down to the diner he had barely gotten a job in, a waiter but only because he was cute and talented.

When Finn had applied, he had no clue it was a singing diner. He had no clue those even existed. When they had asked him to sing, he had stared dumbfounded, before belting out a song from Oklahoma that he had memorized from an old radio broadcast he would sneak at night.

They had hired him on the spot.

And when he got into the diner, ripping off his jacket and hanging it on the hook, moving quick like he used to when he was late for morning chores on the farm, Dottie, the older waitress with a deep laugh and a grandmotherly look to her, watched him.

"Two minutes late, Oklahoma."

"I'm from Louisiana."

It was pointless, he said it every time, she still called him Oklahoma. David, the line cook who also painted the most beautiful things Finn had ever seen, ringed the bell and served a plate of food. Finn took it before Dottie could. He was a naive farm boy with a too big dream, but he was cute and worked hard and boy, could he sing.