ArchivedLogs:The Human Condition

The Human Condition
And flights of fancy.
Dramatis Personae Chloe, Trib
In Absentia	2014-03-25 '
Location <NYC> Clothescycle - Garment District
Selling clothing both new and used -- but mostly used -- this store often has something for those fashion-conscious but on a budget. There is a distinct alternative bent to many of the clothes (and many of the dyed-haired, pierced clientele that often show up) but for those willing to take the time to look through their racks and racks of clothing, there are gems to be found both in their newer and vintage sections. In their basement, for the adventurous, their dollar-a-pound section offers just what the name suggests: they sell clothing for a dollar per pound. The pickings are often unusual, to be sure, but for those handy with needle and thread, sometimes the heaps of fabric can be turned to creative use. The calendar says it's Spring, but you wouldn't know it by the weather. Near-freezing temperatures and overcast skies during the day have given way to at-freezing temperatures as the sun's light has faded. Luckily, the threat of snow that hangs in the air has yet to materialize, so the sidewalks are still dry. Which makes it (not) a great night for getting some shopping done, even if it is for used clothing. Trib stalks the aisles of Clothescycle like a restless cat, his golden gaze lingering on a table of long-sleeved henleys in various colors. They're not unlike the green henley he's got on over his jeans and under his faded army flak jacket. Which is probably why he stops, bending slightly to examine the sizes in the collars, setting aside a blue one that seems like it might fit him before checking the rest. In contrast, there is nothing stalking about Chloe's hip-sway saunter through the store, an easy confidence of motion that carries her steps not so much with purpose of /destination/ but with a sense that she's already where she wants to be. Which is -- apparently at a rack full of vintage jackets nearby Trib's table. Already dressed in slim black jeans, high scrunchy tan boots, a slouchy deep-green sweater, she has a large leather purse draped over her shoulder and has stopped to pluck a deep red-brown fringed leather jacket off the circular rack, holding it up against her torso with a low pleased chuckle. She holds an arm of the jacket out, watching the line of fringes dangle downwards. "It's almost like someone thought they could take wing and fly," she comments, warm-bright. Trib glances in the woman's direction when she starts going through the rack of jackets, but he doesn't otherwise react, other than to move a rust-colored henley to rest atop the blue one. When she speaks to him, the boxer looks up through his hair, and furrows his brow. "Beg pardon?" he rumbles, reaching up with his half-hand to push said hair out of his face. "Was you talkin' to me?" "Nope," Chloe answers cheerfully, shaking her head as she unslings her bag and shrugs into the jacket -- a rather good fit, once it's belted around her. "Just talking. Thinking aloud. Daydreaming aloud. It happens sometimes, you know? Though, maybe," she allows with a small curl of smile, a tip of her head towards the piles of near-identical different-colored henleys, "those don't tend to inspire flights of fancy." Trib's eyes narrow as he considers this, and he eventually lifts a shoulder, and exhales in something like a laugh. "Yeah, well, I ain't exactly famous for my fuckin' imagination," he rumbles, peering back over the shirts and choosing a mustard-colored one to inspect the label. "But don't knock the shirts. They're fuckin' comfortable as hell." He pauses, jutting out his lower lip as a memory flickers across his expression. "My pa had all the fuckin' imagination in our family. He did that talkin' out loud to himself a lot, too." Chloe's head tips slightly to one side, her dark eyes flickering over Trib as a mischievous smile pulls at her lips. "What are you famous for, then?" She leaves the jacket on, nudging her purse along the floor to move around the rack with her. "I've found it makes the world /just/ that much brighter." "I ain't famous," Trib grunts, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly. "Yet." He scratches at his chin, placing the mustard shirt back in its spot and picking up a pale blue one to examine critically. "The world could use a little brighter," he agrees, deeming the new shirt to be worthy and dropping it on his pile. Then he scoops the lot up, and slings them over his shoulder. "As long as you ain't shinin' yourself on about how shitty it really is out there." The 'yet' earns a chuckle, low and amused, though the rest of Trib's words just get a blank look. "-- As long as I'm what?" Chloe shakes her head with a bob of her mass of curls, fingers trailing along the rows of clothes. The fringe of her jacket sways slightly. "You're a cheery one, aren't you? /I/ happen to enjoy the world /quite/ a lot." "I'm fuckin' realistic," Trib says with no judgement in his tone as he moves to the rack Chloe's working, looking through them half-heartedly. Like he doesn't expect to find anything /there/ in his size. "World's fine, for some folk. It's shitty for others. That's just a fact." His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts a shoulder. "Guess it all depends on where you're standin' when you're lookin' at it." Chloe looks at the younger man with decided amusement sparkling in her gaze. "This is New York, honey-child. We all know the world gets shitty. We're all standing /right/ the hell here. What it depends on is what you decide to /do/ with the crap life slings at you." Trib barks a soft laugh at the appellation, and he squints at the older woman. "Did you just fuckin' call me 'honey-child'?" he asks, amusement coloring his tone. "That's a new one." He shakes his head, and twitches a jacket on the rack, frowning at the brown suede and dismissing it. "I got my plan for what gets thrown at me," he assures Chloe, pushing hair back out of his face. "Fuck knows I've had plenty of practice at it." He lifts his chin, regarding the woman carefully. "What about you? What do you do with the crap gets flung at you?" Chloe looks down at herself. Back up at Trib. The amusement doesn't leave her eyes. She turns aside to look back at the jackets. "Fling it right back, of course." Trib snorts, his eyes crinkling. "My kind of lady." Chloe's eyes crinkle a little more as her smile spreads wider. She stoops to scoop her bag back up off the floor, slinging it back over her shoulder. "Chloe," she introduces herself. "And I'd think most anyone still /standing/ in New York this year'd have to have learned at least a /little/ crap-slinging skills of their own. This place tends to /teach/ that." "Trib," the boxer grunts in reply, jerking a hand at his chest. "An' some of us don't need to sling no crap to endure it." He shrugs. "I save all of that shit for the ring." He narrows his eyes. "Don't get me wrong. I do what I gotta do. But I ain't the guy practicin' his aim, if you get my meanin'." "If that's so," Chloe answers Trib light and laughter-laced, "you're the /only/ damn saint on this whole planet who doesn't have some poor motherfucker you shit on to get where you are. Just kinda the state of the world. It's not malice. It's the human condition." Trib's brow lowers, and his jaw juts forward just a bit as he straightens. "I just said I do what I gotta do," he rumbles. "But I don't go out /lookin'/ to fuck with no one. 'Cause I don't want no one fuckin' with me, yeah?" He inhales through his nose, studying the older woman with a small crook of one eyebrow. "I sure as fuck ain't no /saint/." "Fair enough." Chloe bobs her head in acceptance of this answer, curls bob-swaying merrily with the motion. "I haven't met many saints. World doesn't really tend to /breed/ them these days, does it? Maybe they're an endangered species. Then again, I suppose they always were." She curls her long fingers towards Trib in a friendly wave. "I think I hear the boots calling to me." "They're pretty rare," Trib agrees, bobbing his head. "But there's some that get fuckin' close." He nods as Chloe waves off, and lifts his own half-hand in return. "Good meetin' you," he grunts, his chest jerking with a random huff. "Keep your head down." He drops his hand, and moves in the opposite direction, towards a table laden with jeans. He pauses once, to look over his shoulder after her for a long moment, then continues on. "Keep yours up," Chloe tosses back in chipper-bright reply, turning to weave her way through the aisles of clothes and disappear off towards the distant siren call of shoes.