ArchivedLogs:Thank You Come Again

Thank You Come Again
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Masque
In Absentia	2013-02-22 '
Location <NYC> December Wines & Spirits - Lower East Side
Somewhere on the border of the Lower East Side and East Village, December Wine & Spirits has quite a decent selection, given their small size. Racks of wines are nearest the door, with shelves of liquor farther back; along the back wall there is beer, on shelves and in the refrigerators. The proprietor here is quite knowledgeable about the alcohol she stocks and conscientious about who she sells it to, though the other cashiers who work here can often be far more lax about checking IDs. Friday night is fast approaching in this somewhat gloomier side of town, the fading light drawing yet deeper shadows as time passes. And with the night comes a different clientele- not worse, not bad per se, but definitely different. Unfortunately the next person to enter the store seems like he's all the possible bad aspects of the night crew combined into one. The door /slams/ open to make way for an older man in a slightly oversized, dark red, filthy coat. A hood is pulled halfway over his face, and though he pays no attention to either the rest of the store or the cashier when he enters, his presence causes the cashier behind the counter to stiffen. She's only been working here for a few weeks, but clearly she's familiar with the man. A magazine she was reading is clutched hurriedly in her hands, and she turns her attention back to it somewhat uncomfortably. No greeting. Masque moves forward, surveying his options carefully as he moves past the wine and to the liquor, hand trembling ever so slightly as he trails a finger past bottle labels. Hmm. There's already a young man there, frowning intently at the shelves of liquor. Jax is a bright splash of colour in the liquor store; deep red jeans tucked into high black boots, brightly coloured mismatched arm warmers, a fishnet shirt that goes down to his elbows layered beneath a red one reading ALL MY HEROES HAVE FBI FILES. His hair is black, today, streaked in bright red, and the glittery makeup over his eyes is silvery. Well, over one eye. The other's covered by an eyepatch, a bright purple star in its center. He glances up at the slam of door, blue eye flicking over Masque for a moment, an easy smile quick to touch his lips. There's a bottle in his hand already, vodka, 80 proof, though he's frowning at it. "Evenin', sir," is warm and chipper, heavily coated with a thick Southern drawl that is decidedly Not New York. "I swear they had 100 proof last I was in here but it's hiding from me tonight." There's a distinct, laboured breath that escapes Masque upon being greeted - is it a cough that never quite happens? A sigh? A noise of irritation? It's hard to tell. That is, until he's close enough to Jackson that the lower half of his face is visible. and apparently Jackson is extra lucky today, because it's the ugly half, too! Half formed muscles around the man's mouth twitch with annoyance, and the hand trailing labels wraps around a bottle of his own. Golden yellow liquid sloshes within. Whisky. The proper stuff. It's only then that he cocks his head sideways to catch a glance of the stranger next to him, and the rest of his face joins in with his mouth, displeasure virtually /dripping/ from his very face. Then, in very much the gritty voice of a local, he answers, "If I was something you were gonna take home, I'd be hiding too." Jackson exhales a quick quiet breath; it might be a laugh, maybe, but it's quiet and short. He puts the vodka back on the shelf, nudging a few bottles aside to peek behind them. He flicks a glance up, afterwards, looking over what he can see of Masque's face. "M'sorry, sir, I didn't mean to offend." It doesn't sound any /less/ warm than before, though it's a quieter sort of tone now. "Just making conversation's all." "/Mmh./" Masque simply answers, his eyes focused on Jackson's. Or the one, anyway. If anything is clear as his expression contorts into one of disgust, it is that he /did/ mean to offend. Though it doesn't look like it brought him any satisfaction, and so his attention moves elsewhere. The bottle of liquor he sought out before is stuck under an arm, and two more of a different brand are grabbed with long fingers and enough carelessness to nearly knock four more bottles off the shelves in the process. That'll be all, it seems, but something is off. He throws a glance toward the cashier, but after pulling somewhat violently away from the shelves as though they'd wronged him, he simply moves back toward the door. The cashier draws in a deep breath, pulling the magazine closer while her shoulders prop up. She seems devoid of any intention to stop the man casually shoplifting with the items plainly in his grip, though she's clearly not unaware of his presence; pent up emotions manifest in a shiver of horror before she forces two words from a tightened throat, voice shaky, "C-come again." On his way past, Masque scowls without looking her direction. "Always." Jackson has, evidently, found the vodka he was looking for, nestled in the back of the shelf, the last of its type. He snags it with a good deal more care than the other man, neatly readjusting the displaced bottles afterwards, both his and Masque's. He's approaching the counter as Masque does, and the cashier's reaction gets a definite frown, looking at the woman with some concern. "-- Um, you gonna pay for that, sir?" His path angles itself, rather than to the counter, to shift a bit past Masque and get between him and the door. "It's- okay!" The cashier tries timidly, folding her magazine between sweaty hands. Her words still tremble. "It's-- he's..." But she's got nothing. Masque, meanwhile, seems puzzled as to why anyone would block his path regardless of reason, his pace slowing hesitantly enough that he ends up standing qite a bit closer to Jackson than many, personal-bubble-respecting men would. "No." He answers plainly, teeth bared and eyes steely. "Are you gonna get outta my way?" "He's what? Bullying people into letting him steal?" Jackson's tone hasn't raised, at all, quiet but firm. Maybe a little genuinely curious. He shifts back when Masque gets Too Close For Comfort, though he's still decidedly in the other man's path. "I'm sorry, miss, is this legitimate? Does he do this a lot?" As Jackson shifts toward, Masque joins him there. He is /going/ for that door, and Jackson is, apparently, only delaying things. He doesn't even say anything while he stares, this time, lifting one of the bottle-laden hands to jiggle it as though to gesture for the other man to step aside. The cashier visibly struggles to come up with an answer to that question, lacking a simple one to give. She sputters out a few half-formed words before eventually responding with, "It's not that, just- just let him go, he's- it's fine." There's desperation to her voice, and she too joins in the staring, though for reasons that seem far further from threatening and much, much closer to pleading. Jackson is utterly ignoring Masque. The jiggling doesn't even seem to register in his attention, looking only to the cashier. His lips press together, for a long moment, considering the woman's expression, and at length he steps aside -- still not looking at Masque -- to move out of the man's way and to the counter to pay for his own order. Masque makes no attempt to move aside, refusing to budge as Jackson reveals, once more, a clear path out. It was clearly not a matter of needing to get out of there in a hurry, because he stays long enough to lower the bottle and watch Jackson move back to the counter, eyes staying on the other man's movements even after all he can see is the back of a head. A discontent and ugly grimace is followed by the shoplifter finally leaving the scene, leaving the door to /smack/ into a shelf on his way out. Even after Masque leaves her sight, the cashier's chest seems tight, her hands pressed on the counter as if she thinks it might fly off if she doesn't. But when Jackson nears, a weak smile flashes across the lower half of her face. In the smallest and most rehearsed of voices, she then asks stiffly, "Did you find what you were looking for, sir?" "I found things fine," Jackson says, slipping his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out enough cash for the vodka. He offers the cash out, setting the bottle down on the counter. "Are you okay, miss? Cuz you don't look okay." The cash is accepted in a practised motion, though with unpractised jitters. But she makes quick work of retrieving change from the register, and slides it across the counter toward her customer. "Yes. I'm fine, It's..." She forces her smile even wider, and for a moment it looks like she'll leave that sentence hanging again. But a look around the otherwise store seems to rejuvenate her slightly, and she takes a deep breath before leaning slightly closer and saying in a hushed voice, "Can you keep a secret?" The voice of a woman who has had to keep one for far longer than she's liked. Jax glances towards the door where Masque left. It takes a moment before he looks back to the cashier, taking the change with a nod of thanks. "Yes, miss," he says, after a moment, "though if someone's been doing something to you you might could want to call the police." "I know, I /know/." The woman replies without pause, drawing back once more to fold her arms over her stomach. "But he might not come back, if I do that. And if he doesn't come back-" She stops again, frustration clear on her features as her brain makes rapid twists and turns to try and explain the situation in a coherent manner. "I'm the /third cashier/ this year, I had no idea when I applied for the job but apparently I'm the /third/. I don't even know what happened to the other ones, but he promised that once I quit, he'll undo-- what he did." Her arms lower slightly to the hem of her shirt, and after an uncertain glance upward at Jackson's face, pulls one side of the shirt up to her ribcage. That's... not right. Her hip bone doesn't end where it should, curling a bony but skin-covered curve up unnaturally along her stomach, surrounded by ragged but perfectly healthy-looking flesh that seems to have been clawed at, pulled and mangled, grabbed and warped, though there are no wounds or lacerations. A second later, she's pulled the shirt down again. She still sounds uncertain, but there is an urgency to her tone now, as though Jackson will know better. "Do you think he will?" Jax's lips thin further. He looks at the mangled flesh, and looks back at the door. "I think he'll let you think he will, so long as you keep doing what he wants," he says, slowly. "But no. I don't think someone that'd do something like that is particularly /reliable/. How often does he come here?" "I don't /know/." The cashier answers, her focus divided between Jackson and a nearby window. She swallows, and anxiety makes place for contained frustration and anger. "I'm not here every day, but I see him about once every week? I'd have quit long ago if I didn't need the money because this shit's insane, bu-- /sorry/." Immediately, she retreats again, attention back on Jackson with a wince of sudden vulnerability and doubt. Maybe she should have stayed quiet after all. "It's okay, miss," Jackson says, softly. "I mean, that's gotta be a real terrifying situation for you. It's possible I might could get him to fix what he done but it'd take some -- time. I mean, people like that -- I don't want to get you in any more trouble, you know? But I'd like to see if I can help." Something about Jackson's offer calms the woman somewhat, though a look of doubt remains. She just looks at him for a moment, focusing on his eyes in particular, then... nods. Alright. "If... you think you can help." She notes, picking up the magazine she shut earlier to move it behind and under the counter somewhere, keeping herself busy. "Just... be careful, alright? I got enough to worry about without some stranger risking I don't even know what for just a few hundre--" Hff. She breathes in, slowly, then simply says, "Thank you. I should say thank you." "You can hold off on the thanks till I actually get something done," Jackson says, wryly. "I'll be careful, though. I don't work far so I can check in on -- well. Thanks. G'night, miss." He takes his vodka off the counter, and his smile to the woman is wan.