ArchivedLogs:Think Of England

Think Of England
Just lie back...
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Rasheed, Shelby
In Absentia	2013-02-05 Shelby gets her stitches out
Location <NYC> Common Ground Clinic - Clinton
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) "...it wouldn't be that hard," Shelby is saying as she gives the door a shove to open it. She moves with familiarity into the clinic's waiting room, holding the door for Melinda and then proceeding on towards the counter. As with her last visit, she doesn't bother herself with looking around much--but she isn't bleeding on the floor, either, so that's a nice change. "Just grab and yank, right? S'all he's gonna do," she goes on as she unwinds the scarf from her head and face. Exposed, her cheeks are pink with cold...and decorated with blue and gold art deco dragonflies. There's a third on her forehead, its wings shivering occasionally. Why? Because, that's why. The mittens follow the scarf, everything shoved into her pocket as she leans over to peek at the counter worker. "Hey, I got some stitches Doctor Toure said I needed out." "I don't really care," Melinda insists, arms crossed over her chest in a most imposing fashion. She's using every inch of her height to will the younger woman to do what she is actually currently doing. "You're not allowed to cancel on my open mic again. If you yank and something gets stuck or torn, and your hand gets infected and you have to bail on me, then I..." There's a few seconds in which she frowns and concentrates, possibly not having anything to threaten her with. When all seems lost, she perks up and offers, "Then I'll have to talk to Jim again. You don't want that to happen." She is decked out in a red peacoat with black beanie beret, scarf and mittens. She removes the mittens first, but keeps them in her left hand as she continues to stand guard over the seemingly willing patient. "You've got a thing. You know you've got a thing?" This comes from a skinny shaggy-haired kid sitting on one of the waiting room chairs, flicking fingers towards Shelby's face. He has a thing, too, a skull tattooed on his cheek, a few tears dropping down from one of its hollow eyes. "How you make it move? S'freaky." "We don't call people freaky here, Scott," the receptionist is saying, absently, as she looks up at Shelby and then down at her computer. "Doctor Toure did those for you. Do you have an appointment?" she asks, with a quick and professional smile even as she's reaching for a clipboard. "Damn, girl, you play /mean/," Shelby says with apparent admiration. "You know he's decided he's like my dad or something? It's...uh. /Dude/." The teenager trails off to stare at Scott. Her eyes widen. She raises a finger and rubs it in demonstration beneath her nose, saying helpfully, "You got a...little something...just...you might wanna get that, s'seriously green. Right there." Having committed this petty act--the forehead dragonfly giving a defiant flick of its wings before settling--she rounds on the receptionist. "Oh man, did I need an appointment? He just said come in. I wasn't gonna but Mel said I had to." "She's threatening to take them out with her teeth," Melinda admits, drawing in a deep breath and lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "I can maybe stave off the urge with one of those plastic cone collars for a couple hours, but if she can be seen soon, it'd probably be better." She gives a little smile and pokes Shelby when she teases the other kid. "Be nice." "No, you don't need an appointment. There'll just be a bit of a wait, though," the receptionist answers. On his chair, Scott's eyes are widening. He rubs his hand against his face. Scrubscrubscrub. "We don't keep any of those plastic collars in stock, unfortunately," she adds to Melinda. "Though you could try the veterinary clinic two streets over. How about you fill this out and I'll have someone with you as soon as we can?" She slides the clipboard across the counter. It is pretty standard clinic fare. Name and sex and birthdate and a long checklist of Medical History. "I could totally rock one of those collars, so don't even think about it," Shelby claims, nose set in a disgruntled wrinkle as she takes the clipboard. She's bluffing. The nose says so. A softer mumble of, "He started it," precedes her march to a chair. It just happens to be near Scott's--but that's probably just coincidence. The chain on the attached pen rattles as she slips it free and looks over the form. "...you think they'd buy it if I put down that I was like, forty?" "Thank you for the information," Melinda tells the receptionist politely then follows Shelby over to sit down. She considers for a half second sitting between Shelby and the boy, but opts to stay out of the line of fire. "Ha. And I was just going to ask you what surname you were going to put down on that form. I don't think you've ever told me. And no. Not forty. You can barely pull off twenty, and that's because half of the teen tv shows out today are starring young people in their early twenties." The receptionist turns back to her computer once Shelby is seating herself, attention split between it and her frequently-ringing desk phone. Scott just /stares/ at Shelby, wide-eyed. Watching the dragonflies with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Also, he's still intermittently scrubbing his face. There's a wait, as promised. It takes half an hour or so, other patients going in and coming out, before the door to the back opens and a nurse in plain green scrubs emerges, clipboard in hand. "Mary Jane?" Shelby, who had withheld the clipboard from Melinda under the excuse of it "being a surprise", has spent the last several minutes seeing how slowly she could adjust the skull on Scott's face. Small and subtle shifts are the key, made while making small sassy talk with her companion, and leaving the tattoo noticeably skewed by the time the nurse appears. "That's me!" she chirps when "her" name is called. Forward she goes, trying to gesture for Melinda to follow quickly--if only to keep her from noticing the havoc she's wreaked on that poor boy's face. "She's coming in case I faint, is that okay?" Melinda gets up and follows, smiling briefly. Her coat is now slung over one arm as the waiting room is a good twenty degrees warmer than outside. "Yes, it's perfectly alright. Although I don't think there's likely to be any fainting going on. How are you doing today?" The nurse is a professional SmallTalkMaker. She leads Shelby and Melinda back to an examination room, gesturing Shelby to the chair in the middle. "You can sit there," she adds to Melinda, pointing out a chair at one side of the room. "I'm just going to get a set of vitals off you, alright?" Because, clinic. Apparently nothing can be done without temperature and blood pressure. "If I faint, I'm gonna scam free coffee out of her after," Shelby asides to the nurse, her voice theatrically low. She sidles over to the chair and begins to squirm free of her jacket and sweater. One of the dragonflies skates down the side of her neck to observe the vitals taking, in much the same way Shelby herself turns her head to watch. "Scamming doesn't work if you announce it ahead of time." Melinda draws in a deep breath and shakes her head. She's relatively quiet to SmallTalkMaker. "You be a good girl and play nice with the medical team and I'll get you a coffee as a reward. No good behavior, no coffee." EVER AGAIN. She may not say the words out loud, but there is something final in her tone. There's a brief lift of the nurse's eyebrows at the shifting dragonfly, but it doesn't dim her easy smile. "Wow, that's quite a talent you've got, there. Pretty dragonflies, too. Everything looks in order; I'l have Doctor Toure in with you shortly. There's coffee in the waiting room if you want some," she adds in a similarly low voice, "but you'll get much better coffee if you get it somewhere else." She offers the women another smile, and then heads out. It's not long before the door opens again. Rasheed does not have scrubs, just a dress shirt and slacks and labcoat, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. "Oh, hello! How're the hands healing?" Shelby shoots a grin in Melinda's direction. "What, you say that like I'm gonna /bite/ her or something. God." Cue a teenage eyeroll before she settles down to accept both a blood pressure cuff and compliments. "Thanks! I got 'em off a movie poster, they're pretty sweet, huh?" There is much smug preening before the nurse departs. "I think she liked me...and I can buy the coffees this time, I was just messing around. Got a whole bunch've...oh, hey doc!" Her left hand is lifted and flexed at him. Carefully, because the skin at the base of her thumb is pulling at the stitches. "You did good work." Melinda nods sadly in agreement with the nurse as she leaves, "yeah, I could tell by the smell." She folds her hands over her knee and sits back, watching quietly. She is polite when Rasheed enters, giving him a nod of greeting, but allowing his patient to take up his full attention. "Hello," Rasheed adds, to Melinda, though he is already stepping in closer to examine Shelby's left hand. "Good, good. That looks like it's right on schedule." His lips quirk upwards at the compliment. "Well, I'm no rock star but we all have our skills. -- Those are new tattoos, right? I can't be that oblivious." He moves to the wall, squirting sanitizer on his hands and rubbing them together before opening drawers to pull out Tools, each in a sterile autoclave packet. A small pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers. Antiseptic wipes, bandaging. "How have you been?" For all that she's been la la la casual since arriving, Shelby gives the arriving Tools much the same attention she'd given the process of taking vitals. She is watching. Closely. Casual is maintained as a facade by hooking her feet around the legs of the chair and slumping a little. "Kinda," she says on the issue of the tattoos, grinning easily. The dragonflies work their way down her shoulder and arm to circle her wrist--showing off a little? Sure. "I've been good. Mel got me another open mic slot Thursday," the teen goes on with a headtilt towards the other woman. "So she said I have to get these out normal. I'll be able to play, right?" "Only if Dr. Toure says so, hun." Melinda stumbles verbally, almost giving the girl's name, but catches herself. She wets her lips. "Oh, and you have to be able to play well, or you don't get the open mic slot either." Someone's a little feisty today. "You'll be able to play, yes. I'll be putting more bandaging on when the stitches are out, but they don't have to stay long." Rasheed turns back around to set out his tools, and pauses, watching the dragonflies move with interest. "-- Goodness, most tattoos don't do /that/. That is delightful." Even as he moves to pull on a pair of gloves, he's eying Shelby's wrists curiously. "Being a rock star is just one of your talents, then." Play well? Shelby's eyebrows knit together and she gives her thumb a test wiggle while the doctor continues his prep. Distracted as she is, the makeshift tattoos stop their fluttering and become a simple bracelet of color. "I'm gonna need to practice from like, now until then. Like, /now/ now and my guitar's at the doc's," she complains. But ultimately, she sighs in acceptance. "I guess...it's just pictures. Is it gonna be bandages or just a band-aid?" "Okay, I just meant uninhibited. I meant if your hand was too stiff or needed more time to heal that you shouldn't push it and make it hurt which would lead to bad music." Melinda tries to explain herself, lips pulling back in a wince. "I'm sorry. Just... take it easy on your hand." "Mmm. Your friend isn't wrong," Rasheed says, nodding to Melinda. "If it hurts you should take it easy. But your body is generally pretty good at figuring out what's too much for it. If it feels fine, you should be fine. Here, let's clean it off." He's opening one antiseptic wipe, holding his gloved hand out for Shelby's. "Bandages, but you can take them off before you play. Just keep the skin clean." "One night's not gonna kill me," Shelby says with another test flex, before she gives her hand over for Rasheed's attentions. "I mean, what if some music dude is in the audience this Thursday and I /miss/ him." Her jaw sets. She is determined. "Besides, it doesn't hurt or anything. I bet I don't even have any scars after," she asides to Melinda. "You should've seen the nurse's face when I came in, it was great." "Oh, I'm sure," Melinda reassures Shelby. "Just don't over practice in the next two days. You need your genuine, fresh talent - not nerves and a sore hand." She glances over at Rasheed and then falls silent. Rasheed wipes the skin clean, carefully gentle over the stitches, and then sets Shelby's hand down on the paper-lined tray. "This will pinch a little," he warns lightly, "but only a little. Where is your open mic, again? Am I still invited?" He is getting started, gently pulling the first stitch up with the tweezers and snipping it with the scissors before pulling it out of the skin. "Well, we do have a lot of interesting tattoos come through here but most of them don't move. That is, I think, a first. What are you doing there, exactly?" Compliments help--they always help. Shelby's soon grinning again, first bathing Melinda in the light of approval before transferring that focus to Rasheed. "Hear that? Genuine, fresh talent. She seriously needs to be my agent. Ow!" Even warned, she twitches and has to turn her face away from the removal process. That pasty face grows pastier. "Oh god...if I do pass out, Mel, I'm totally not faking it...um? Doing? You mean with the pictures? S'just what I do. Like the guy on your brochure is the way he is. I make things move." "Deep breathes, love, and think of England." Melinda encourages the girl. "Think of --" Rasheed starts to repeat this, his brow furrowing slightly, but then thinks better of it. "Make things move. That's fascinating," Rasheed says, though his light-casual tone suggests more banter to get Shelby's mind off the stitches than any real fascination. "All things, or just tattoos?" The next stitch receives the same treatment. Then the next. Snip, snip. "What the hell does England have to do with anything?" Shelby sounds aggrieved and scrunches her eyes shut. Probably /not/ thinking of England. The dragonflies begin to move again, zipping around in aimless jerks over her arm every time she twitches or makes a sound of complaint. "...any kinda picture, really. Doesn't matter what, so long as it's like...what do you call it. 2D. I got these off a poster for that movie Leonardo DiCaprio's in right now." "Which one? Django or The Great Gatsby?" Melinda queries, brows rising. "Or is it something else? Have you decided what you're going to play Thursday?" She glances at Rasheed and considers. "I'll tell you what thinking of England means when no one has scissors near your skin." This draws a smile out of Rasheed, small and brief. More light tugging. More snipping. "It's not a comparison people usually draw, with getting stitches," he says to Melinda wryly. "-- There's a Great Gatsby movie out now? I should keep up with these things better." Shelby dares a quick peek at her hand then thinks better of it and goes back to steadfastly Refusing To Look. "That's the one. The Gatsby one." A breath is taken and she's able to crack an eye open again--this time to peer at Melinda. A thoughtful expression doesn't translate well, with her face all twisted that way but Mel can be certain she'll /have/ to tell her what this England reference means now. "It's not out yet, but they had a poster up in this store I went to...umm." Another breath. "I'm thinking maybe some Muse, and some Dar Williams...you almost done, Doc?" "OH, ... Muse. That one always stumps me on SongPop. It's pretty terrible." Melinda shakes her head. "I know the lyrics are different from song to song, but for some reason, the clips they play are never very useful." She looks over to Rasheed and shrugs. "It makes sense to me. Hope you don't think I'm making any references to you or your work. Just... her situation." "Last one," Rasheed assures Shelby, cutting open the last of the stitches and pulling it out, too. He draws out another wipe, gently cleaning the skin and patting it dry before putting a steri-strip over the injury. "You should be all set. Just take it easy for a couple days, but you should be fine to, ah --" He glances to Melinda, then back to Shelby. "Show off your genuine, fresh talent on Thursday night. I'd say break a leg, but honestly I'd prefer you not end up back here. -- And, ah. No. It was amusing, though," he adds, with a quick twitch of smile to Melinda. "Thank /god/. What situation? Oh c'mon, look, he's done, no scissors. You gotta tell me!" Shelby bounces back quickly--the color might be slow in returning to her cheeks but she sits up straighter in the chair and after inspecting her hand, looks from Mel to the doctor. She is bright, she is interested. "If I tell you where I'm playing, will you share?" she asks Rasheed, gap-toothed grin reappearing with a swiftness. "Sure, sure. I'll tell you what it means, if you tell me what you're playing. Please, thank the doctor first and let's get out of his hair. He's a very busy man and you didn't quite reinvite him to the open mic." Mel's tone doesn't really rub salt in the wound, but rather gives Shelby another chance to invite him, if she wants. Melinda stands up and starts to slip her coat back on. "I'm sure your friend will tell you," Rasheed says with a quick smile. "But you could tell me anyway. I can't promise I will be there, but I can try. It will be nice to say I liked you before you were famous." Maybe Rasheed is just practicing being a hipster. "God, Mel. You'n Jim, I swear." Shelby doesn't elaborate but she doesn't need to, does she? With much huffing and puffing, she shrugs into her outer clothing and zips up. "Thaaaank you, Doctor Toure," she singsongs once she's settled, her hand extended towards him for a mannerly shake. "It's gonna be at Montagues. That's the name, right Mel? After like, 8 or so. I think." "Montagues in Soho at eight pm. Come earlier if you want a seat." Melinda draws in a deep breath and holds the door open. "We pay at reception?" "Montagues. SoHo. Eight PM," Rasheed repeats, nodding. "You check out at reception, yes." He tosses the paper with its used wipes and removed stitches before taking his gloves off and accepting the handshake firm. "Take care, now. Hopefully next time I see you it'll be under better circumstances. No scissors involved." For a brief moment, Shelby looks tempted by mischief--a dragonfly appears under the cuff of her jacket, aimed at Rasheed's hand. But through a heroic impulse, she resists. The handshake is as normal as she can make it. "No needles either," she warns him with a grin before disengaging to follow after Melinda. She's rummaging in her pockets as she goes. "I got...twelve bucks, they better not ask for much." "I hope not either." Melinda leads the way out of the office and back toward reception, letting Shelby do her own checking out. "Also, the phrase 'lay back and think of England' is all about being in marriages that one isn't exactly happy about, but going forward with the baby making with the guy you aren't hot for so that your country can prosper. England needs more soldiers, after all." She wets her lips and looks innocent, yet informative. Rasheed is just pinching at the bridge of his nose, back in the examination room, as this explanation drifts back to him. He smiles. Then winces. Then goes about his cleaning-up. "That's just fucking /wrong/, Mel," Shelby declares. And yet still she sounds delighted to have a new phrase for her library of coarseness. To the counter! "Hey, I'm homeless, can I get this one on free?" "It's all about sitting still and taking it like an adult, so... it worked." Melinda stands by her off color yet prim and proper phrase. The receptionist does not seem surprised by this request. Judging by the shabby-grungy layered attire of half the waiting room, Shelby is not likely to be the only person making it. "You're all set, hon," is all she says, looking over the girl with, admittedly, a faintly puzzled look for her lack of face-dragonflies. She blinks. Then just nods to Shelby. "Have a nice day." "If I'd known that's what it meant, I'd have done more sound effects," Shelby confides to Mel before brightening at the receptionist. "Sweet! Thanks! When I'm famous and stuff, I'll totally make a donation. Or something." This promise is both sincere and truthy. Then she sweeps towards the door to hold it for Melinda--making those same sound effects she'd just mentioned. "Oh /dooooctor/!" "How about not giving the guy reason to dread you coming back, eh?" Melinda applies hands to Shelby's shoulders and pushes her from the clinic.