ArchivedLogs:Dinner and a Show

Dinner and a Show
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Melinda, Shelby
In Absentia	New Year's Eve A little after-Broadway dinner finds the acting still continuing.
Location <NYC> Dogtown - Midtown
A small nook of a joint in Midtown, Dogtown is decorated with little thought to class or style. Cheerful, with black and white tiled flooring, bright red tables, bright yellow walls, menus plastered on peeling sheets over the counter, the walls are papered in an assortment of photographs -- smiling patrons who hold records for successfully eating six or more hot dogs in one one-hour sitting. The menu here is simple and solid -- hot dogs with a huge array of toppings, fries, slaw, chili. It's not haute cuisine but the dogs are good enough to draw large crowds, especially late at night. Melinda pushes the door open, the night air putting some pink in her cheeks despite the lack of truly freezing temperatures outside. It has stopped snowing, but the streets are still a bit sloshy. She enters the building with a taller, blond gentleman, talking excitedly on a subject. "Well, I wasn't entirely sure how I'd feel about changing the reporter's gender, on account of being a little bit in love with Bill Pullman in the movie version, but I guess it worked. I mean, it at least stream lined the the character list and made a female part a little more integral to the story. Oh, gosh, I am sorry. I'm not going to start on a feminist rant if you're not in the mood." She watches her companions face after this remark, tearing her attention away from the posted menu to gauge his reaction. "Rant away." Lucien is rubbing ungloved hands together absently, warming them back up after the winter night outside. "It was delightful. I feel I should go back, with my family. See if my sister grows as much of a crush on this Spot Conlon as on the original." He is dressed somewhat nicer than a hot dog joint might require, suit grey and subtly pinstriped, warm black peacoat overtop. "I admit it is nice to have a woman who is not simply a love interest." His green eyes are drifting away from Melinda, scanning the menu with absent thought. Guess who isn't going to a party tonight? Probably the ragamuffin at the counter, bundled up in a hodgepodge of mismatched winter gear. The hair that escapes her toque has the limp, oil-heavy look of someone ill-acquainted with the concept of showering but fortunately there's no cloud of stank hanging around her. That's probably a courtesy of all of the layers she's wearing. Shelby is currently counting out a mountain of change from an old woman's change-purse, face set in a rictus of shamed concentration that may or may not be intended to create patience in the heart of the college student manning the cash register. "Wait, wait, I think I got another quarter," she mumbles as she sifts through the purse with half-gloved fingers. Woe unto the pair who get into line behind her; this could take awhile. "Well, not /just/ another love interest," Melinda comments fingers stuffed deeply in her coat pockets. She glances at Shelby, but turns back to Lucien to be polite. "I mean, seriously, why couldn't she have just absorbed the male reporter's role without the love being a part of it? Instead, she was given a favored position of being Pulitzer's daughter, therefore completely free of the concern of losing her job. She could always support Jack because she didn't have to worry about paying her bills or letting someone down, unlike Bryan Denton who had to work for his front page and face losing everything for some kids he didn't know. Why couldn't they make Katherine Plumber a mother figure that did have something to lose, and just not give Jack a love interest?" Rant finished, she raises her brows at Lucien before looking back at the menu. "You're not going to hate me if I get the chilidog, are you?" "Because women characters aren't as compelling without ties to some man or other." Lucien says this deadpan, dry in tone though there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Are chili dogs a cause for hate? I was thinking mustard and sauerkraut, myself, but chili cheese fries on the side." He is watching Shelby thoughtfully as he slips up to the counter behind her, and his fingers tap absently against the crook of his arm while he waits. It is not a particularly impatient gesture -- at least not at first, more absent movement than anything else. But as she continues to rifle through the purse he slips his own wallet out of his pocket, frowning at the mountain of change and then gesturing to the girl. "Just add her to mine?" he asks the cashier. The manager is probably on duty, given the way the kid at the register looks over his shoulder before turning back to Shelby. "Look," he says as the pair in line continue their conversation, striving for patience, "if you don't got it, I can't sell you the dogs." He pauses, then adds with the sort of earnestness only young men are capable of, "There's a shelter two blocks down. They got soup, sandwiches. You could go there. But I gotta..." The cashier trails off, unmistakable relief on his face. And Shelby? Shelby looks up at Lucian, looks quickly around to spy Melinda-- not without some relief herself-- and then wastes no time in scooping the change back into the purse. Her expression is pinched but grateful. "Geez, thank you, mister, that's awful nice. I just needed a quarter but that's so awesome, thank you so much," she gushes before quickly ordering, "Three dogs, everything on them and a chili cheese fries with a large Coke please." "Hey, hey, hey..." Melinda speaks up, eyes narrowing in annoyance at the person behind the register. "If a customer has money, let them buy food. Don't go dismissing them like that." The young woman's lips purse, her weight shifting backwards to allow Lucien the forefront. When things are a little more quiet, Mel admints, "Chili some times has a miserable affect on the breath. If I was going to keep shoveling feminist doctrine down your unwilling throat, I was going to be polite about the scent of it. However, if you're getting it too, I don't need to worry." "It seems like chili all around." Lucien's lips twitch upwards at the girl's large order, amusement warming his expression as he leans a hand against the counter. "Chili cheese fries," is is own order, delivered quiet and polite in softly francophone-accented syllables, "A hot dog with mustard and kraut, and a root beer. Please. And for my companion --" He flicks a hand to Melinda, questioning for her order even as he slips open his wallet to slip a pair of twenties out of the sheaf of bills inside. "The sandwiches down there are not near so good as your dogs," he tells the cashier, matter-of-fact as though he is speaking more out of experience than casual flattery. "Save your change. Quarters are valuable currency, anyway." The cashier knows better than to argue with Melinda and eyes her warily, even while his lips thin as Shelby's order increases exponentially with the promise of someone else paying. But money is money, and his is not to question why. With a grateful, "Yes sir," he waits for Melinda's order and then turns to begin building everything that's been asked for. Shelby is left-- after a flickering glance at Lucien's wallet-- to turn widened and guileless eyes on the couple. It's a little much but she's young and peaked enough to pull it off. For now. "I wanted to save it but you gotta, like, eat. Y'know? You're like, life savers. Not the candy but real life savers. Like on boats. Except, uh. Nicer. Dressed. And not made out of plastic." Yeah. "I promise I'll getcha back one day. I'm Shelby and I swear, I'll pay it back. Or forward. Like in that movie, y'know?" "Chili dog, regular fries, orange soda." Melinda rattles off her order after a moment's consideration. "Thanks, Lucien." She smiles briefly at him before her attention is pulled forcefully back to Shelby by her similes. "Oh. Well, I'm glad we cleared up the resemblance issue. I'd hate to think that I had taken on some kind of plasticine shine. That movie was rather depressing, all things said and done. Feel free to not die, okay?" Lucien's wallet confirms what his well-tailored clothing and the expensive glint of watch at his wrist suggests; picking up the tab for a few hot dogs is probably not hurting his budget much. He slips his change back in, once he has it, and tucks the wallet away into the inside flap of his coat. "Some people find plastic appealing," he murmurs, quietly amused as he steps to one side to allow people behind them to order. "Forward, if you will. I have no doubt in future you will run into /someone/ less fortunate than you are." Even if maybe the wry note in his tone suggests it might take a little while. "Yes. You have to eat. -- Shelby, was it? Lucien. And Melinda," with a tilt of his head towards his companion. "I would not mind a comparison to the candy, either," he decides as an afterthought. "I enjoy the green ones." "Oh geez, no. I don't get messed up with any of that. Guns, drugs. That sorta stuff. I'm gonna live forever, y'know? Healthy lifestyle and all that stuff. I'm totally straight edge." Shelby's face lights with a grin that makes her look a good two years younger than seventeen or eighteen she is. The gap between her front teeth helps. She sidles along to clear the register, keeping an eye on the status of "their" order. "Lucien and Melinda, awesome! So are you two like on a date or something? Big party tonight? I bet it's a fancy one, you're all like whoa, looking sharp. Is there gonna be one of those...what are they, the live music guys? With the big fat violins that stand up on end. Man, you're so lucky. Why are you eating here if you're gonna, like, be drinking champagne soon and stuff?" "Date? No." Melinda's face screws up in surprise as she considers Shelby's words, likewise moving to the receiving end of the counter, waiting on their food. "We're friends. Went out to see a show and ... I don't know, is this the only stop on our antitheater bender, or are we going to find some ice cream to eat with wooden spoons?" She raises her brows and looks toward Lucien. "I do enjoy the symphony. But we saw a musical. Champagne --" Lucien's lips press together thinly, his eyes tipping towards Melinda and then away. "Was not on the docket. If I do not get home before midnight, my clothing turns back to rags and my coach to a pumpkin. Ice cream, though, could certainly be in order." If he is listening to Shelby's chatter, now, it does not show in his distracted expression, watching behind the counter in idle scan for their order, too. But he must be, because eventually his mouth quirks up. "Is that all it takes to live forever? You should tell the world your secrets. You would be rich in no time. In the meantime, I suppose, I will indulge all the vices that you forgo. Tonight is not a night for sobriety." With the line rebuilding, the boy behind the counter works as quickly as he can to assemble the three orders. Drinks are slid onto the counter near the trip, followed by dogs and then the fries. Shelby scores hers first, reaching through and around to score her three paper half-boxes in one hand, with the fries on top, and the drink in the other. "Oh geez, you can't have New Years without a -date-. Who're you gonna kiss at midnight? That's like, tradition and all. You don't get all dressed up and wasted on ice cream and whatever if you're not gonna at least make out, right?" Clearly she has no shame, whether it's in scoring free meals or encouraging bacchanals among those who claim friend status. "Man, I wish I was rich. You guys are just, like, wasting it," she teases. "Hey, now. I'm not rich," Melinda puts the breaks on the topic at hand. "I work behind a counter like that poor slob over there," she gestures to the young guy manning the register before grabbing her drink and taking a sip. "I just happen to be able to dress up and see a show every once in a while." She shrugs and finds a way to fit the rest of her order in her other hand. "The whole kiss at midnight thing is kind of overrated. It usually ends up being a quick lip smooshing and then someone else taps you on your shoulder for another - and you're cheering or singing at the same time, so it's all very discombobulated -- more so, if you're drunk." "There are more things to life than kissing," Lucien adds in tangential agreement with Melinda, amused as he snags his food, swiping a wayward drip of cheese off the side of the fries' container before it can drip down onto his jacket sleeve. "And I shall have perfectly wonderful company at midnight. No kissing involved." He scans the small room quickly, nodding towards the others before beelining towards a free booth nearby. He sheds his coat before sliding in, folding it neatly to tuck it into the corner of the bench. "What would you do, then? If you had the funds?" "You just haven't been kissed right then," Shelby opines, appearing certain of her knowledge of All Things and How They Should be. She assumes the nod to be an invitation for herself as much as Melinda and carries her prizes to the same table, sliding in across from Lucien. She shoves over enough to leave room for the other woman in case she opts to not sit beside her friend, but there ends any semblance of manners. What follows is a rapid shoveling of alternating bites, hot dogs and fries, with her tongue sweeping from her mouth to act as a napkin. "Mmph...I'd like...um, totally get like the biggest penthouse in the fanciest hotel and I'd like invite -everyone-. Just whoever wants to show up, y'know? And there'd be like different rooms with a different band in each room and the lights would all be different and...oh, yeah, and a huge balcony. That's where I'd go so I could see the fireworks." Being mostly sleeveless, Melinda keeps her coat on as she slides onto the bench seat next to Shelby and opposite Lucien and sets her food down in front of her. She starts in on her fries first. "Oh, and you wouldn't be overlooking the ball drop in Times Square?" Mel queries, scooping a little of the chili off her 'dog and pops it into her mouth. Lucien breathes out a quiet laugh, studying Shelby with frank consideration at her certainty. "I have been kissed often enough," he answers, quiet and mild as he twists open his root beer. "Fireworks are lovely, though the crowds are not for me. There were some in the Village not long back, though," he muses. "I am uncertain the occasion. Watching them without a million other people jostling for space was pleasant. I was at Times Square through the ball dropping, some years back." He sips at his soda, and then picks up his hot dog carefully. "I would not advise it as a general rule. I suppose it would be far more acceptable from a private balcony." "I'd just get squished. Big crowds like that, they get rowdy, y'know? It'd be like trying to swim through the bottom of a waterfall except it'd be drunk guys instead of rocks you're dodging. I'd want the balcony. And room service," Shelby declares. Her eyes skirt away from anything resembling frank regard, settling on Melinda as soon as Lucien gets with the staring and flicking back to him afterwards. Most of her meal is demolished, leaving her to suck at the straw of her Coke and consider what to say next. "So, like...maybe you could spot me a little for a hotel room, since you're not gonna do the fun stuff? It doesn't even have to be the penthouse." "Hotel room, eh?" Melinda blinks, her chili dog hanging out a couple inches from her mouth, forgotten in the other individual's quest for lodging. "Last minute, in New York City, on New Years Eve?" Her brows climb as she turns to stare down her meal, lips pursing. "I haven't ever tried before, but -- wouldn't this be one of the worst nights imaginable to try and find a room?" She glances toward Lucien for confirmation. "You are unlikely to find a room," Lucien affirms, after a few quick bites of hot dog, "in Manhattan. In the other boroughs," with an almost dismissive tone: clearly they are Not The Real City, "you might have better luck." He is pulling a phone out of his pocket, slim and black that he swipes unlocked quickly with a brief pattern traced across its screen with his thumb. Tap. Tap tap. "Do your people have any room?" He is asking this to Melinda, absently as he apparently gets engrossed in his phone. "How old are you, Shelby?" It is a distracted question as well, Lucien frowning at his screen. "Oh." The way Shelby's expression crumples is better suited for the big screen than the scuffed bench of a hot dog diner. Freckles shift, eyes drop and her mouth curls in on itself. But there is hope yet, or so she seems to express by peeking up at first Lucien and then Melinda. "It doesn't have to be Manhattan, I guess...even a YWCA if you know where one is..." So sad. So pathetic. So suddenly silent when asked her age. Ice rattles in the cup as she sucks hard on the straw, answering only after an annoyingly long moment. "I'm twenty." "Oh, I'm pretty sure I could get her a room with 'my people'," There is almost an air quote quality to the way Melinda states those words, drawing in a breath. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a shelter?" She turns to Shelby with the question, looking a bit sheepish. The proclamation of Shelby being twenty passes with a deadpan expression on her face. Not so with Lucien: at least, his expression is deadpan and his tone dry but his words do not let this /pass/. "How old are you, really?" Shelby toys with the plastic cup, turning it round and round and round in her hands. Her head hangs at having been caught. "Eighteen," she mumbles before her eyes slide reluctantly to Melinda. "Last time I stayed at a shelter, I got lice." This is said bluntly and with a self-conscious lifting of her hand to push oily hair back under her hoodie's hood. "But hey, it's okay. I mean...it's not like a big deal or anything." "Well, I don't think anyone there has lice right now, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibilities." Melinda frowns and takes a largish bite of her food. She glances over at Lucien as her expanded cheeks compress the bite into something chewable. She swallows it hard and frowns at Shelby. "Look, I don't care how old you are. I can pretty much get you the same deals, but yeah, the truth is more helpful. Keeps problems from cropping up unforeseen." "Given how most shelters are, if that is all you got you should count yourself lucky." Lucien says this dry and with lips pressed together, his brow creasing at Shelby's answer. He is through tapping at his phone, now, and instead pulls out his wallet to extract a business card. It does not say much, on it; Lucien Tessier, and a phone number beneath, though he turns it over immediately to begin writing on its reverse side in small spiky-neat handwriting. An address in Brooklyn, and a confirmation number. He slides the card over to Shelby. "Manhattan proved fruitless. You have a room for two nights. But Melinda is likely a far more helpful person to talk to than I. She knows the system from the side that is not trying to game it." "I'm eighteen!" Shelby maintains. Her hand twitches as if she were debating crossing her heart but in the end she opts just to shake the cup, making the ice rattle again. "And I'm not a problem," she adds, in something closer to a typical teenager's grudging tone, heedless of the good that is being done for her. Of course, that changes in the twinkling of an eye when Lucien provides the card. "Oh my god!" she crows, sweeping up the card, "you're like a super hero or something! Oh man, I'd so totally kiss you right now if you weren't all ew, kiss cooties. Thank you." Sure he's recommended Melinda, but she's being all...adult. "I should, like, run and go check in and stuff but you're awesome. I won't forget this, okay? You're both cool in my book." "I didn't say /you/ were a problem. The government creates the problems for teens." Melinda sighs and sets down her hot dog, looking up at Lucien and studies him for a moment before turning back to her fries. She rummages in one of her pockets and produces a business card as well, but it only has the name of the Helping Hands Homeless Coalition on it, not hers. "You can come here and ask for me. Even if I'm not there, they'll know to treat you right, okay?" Lucien merely nods his head in quiet acknowledgment of Shelby's thanks. "Be safe." It is all he says, accompanied by a tip of head in farewell and a brief-small flash of smile. It looks a little tired. He returns to his hot dog, flicking his eyes sideways to Melinda. "A super hero," he says, quietly amused. "So. Ice cream, after?" The second card is added to the first, stuffed into a deep pocket before Shelby begins to squirm towards the bench's edge. This will mean Melinda has to give over but patience has no claim on a teen given the treat of a free two day stay in a hotel. There could be room service! "I totally will! I'm so gonna be looking out for you guys, you don't even know," she gushes. Whether that is a threat is left up to them. With a hop, skip and a jump, Shelby is gone with her bounty of promised shelter, and a full stomach. Melinda does get up and get out of the way for Shelby, frowning a little as she watches the younger woman go. She settles back into her seat and picks at her fries, gnawing at her lip instead of the food stuffs. "Yes. Please. With a cherry on top. Literally." She gives a small smile and pops some potato in her mouth.