ArchivedLogs:Won't You Be My Neighbor

Won't You Be My Neighbor
Dramatis Personae Dorian, Trib
In Absentia	2014-06-24 Welcome to the building.
Location <NYC> Sunrise Apartments - Third Floor - Clinton
The hallway here is as dingy as the lobby below. Threadbare carpeting, peeling wallpaper splotched with stains. The lights are dim and prone to sputtering out at the slightest provocation. The weather today has been an absolutely amazing, not too hot, not too cool, and not a cloud in the sky. As the sun sinks below the towering skyline, the falling night promises to be just as lovely. Of course, inside the dingy hallway of the Sunrise Apartments, the grime encrusted window at the end of the hall manages to make the setting sunlight seem sallow and weak. The sound of the wheezing air conditioning unit, which is failing to do much other than produce noise, almost covers the uncoordinated scrabbling of keys against a lock outside of apartment 306. One arm is looped around a brown paper grocery bag, though his grip is slipping on the bag as he struggles with a ring of keys, trying to find the right one. He is dressed casually in a pair of blue cargo shorts with a few spots that are starting to wear along the pockets, and a smattering of bleach flecks along the bottom of one leg. His shirt is a multi-colored tie-dye tank top that hangs loosely, doing nothing to hide the thick brown fur that marks him as a visible mutation, or the cris-crossing scars that line his chest and dot his back. His rumpled mess of brown curls do well to hide his inhuman ears, perked forward in attention as he struggles with the keys to his apartment. "Come on," the young otter-mutant mutters, scowling at the keys in his fumbling hands, "I don't have that many keys. S'gotta be one of the ones here, I mean, it was here when I locked up." His furry, dark brown tail twitches occasionally in agitation as he tries to flick through his small bundle of keys with less than dextrous fingers. He ocasionally shifts to get his groceries balanced on his hip, in order to keep it from escaping his grasp entirely and crashing to the floor. For now, anyway. The door to apartment 311 opens, suddenly, and Trib looms in the frame for a moment, looking up and down the hallway with a hard look. The boxer is dressed in a pair of possibly-too-short shorts in black, and a yellow tank top that hangs loosely on his massive torso. His eyes narrow as he spots the furry guy sorting through his keys, and there's a small chuffing inhalation as he leans in his doorway. He studies the smaller man for a long moment, tipping his head to take in all the obvious mutation and scarring before he speaks. "It's the square one," he grunts, narrowing his eyes. "If it's the same as mine. With the little squiggle on it." The sound of another door opening so close by startles Dorian, and the ring of keys drop from his hands with a clatter against the unpadded carpet, the paper bag crunching in his arms as he manages to not drop the bag. Looking up at his looming neighbor, the furry young man lets out a undignified, but thankfully quiet 'eep,' his dark eyes wide in surprise. He stoops briefly to scoop up his keys, squinting at them to sort through and find the little square key, marked with a neon blue daub of paint - likely a failed attempt at making it findable. The way he holds the key is a little bit awkward, like his fingers don't quite close around them properly as he jams the key into the lock, finally. "Thank you. For, um, for the help. I swear I tried that one. At least twice. Sorry if I was kinda making too much noise, didn't mean to disturb or, um, bother," the young man blathers on apologetically. "These locks are shit," Trib grunts, motioning behind him. "I figure the keys are really only fuckin' decoration when a good shove with a shoulder can force 'em open." He wrinkles his nose, and lifts an elbow to scratch under his arm lazily. The apology gets a snort, and Trib shakes his head. "You wasn't makin' noise," he grunts. "There's a guy on the next floor who makes some fuckin' noise." His eyes crinkle in sudden amusement, and he rolls a shoulder. "Or rather, he makes noise fuckin'." He looks up at the ceiling, then, his gaze thoughtful. "Ain't sure which apartment, but I figure it's close. Walls here are like fuckin' paper." He scratches his chin, and lowers his gaze back to the other man. "I'm Trib." "Yeah, I kinda noticed that," Dorian says, jiggling the key in the lock, resulting in the door creaking open with just a little bit of a push, "I'd be sort of worried, but not like there's anything worth taking." There's a defeated snort as the young man sets his bag of groceries into the doorway, nudging it further in with a sandaled foot. Trib's explanation of the mystery noise that ocassionally echoes in the night brings a wide eyed expression to Dorian's face, his cheeks coloring faintly at the realizing, "Oh. Oh that's what that sound is," Dorian says, rubbing at the fur of his upper arm and chuckling. "Oh, right. I'm Dorian. S'kinda new around here, though I guess that's kinda obvious. Nice to meet you, Trib," Dorian offers, with a cheery, friendly smile, and a little wave of a scarred hand. "Eh," Trib says, rolling his shoulder. "People always think that livin' in a shit hole means you're goin' to be robbed regular." He wrinkles his nose. "I'll let you in on a secret. Most bastards ain't goin' to the poor buildings lookin' for shit to steal. They're goin' to better neighborhoods. Unless they're fuckin' crackheads. Then you got to watch your shit." There's a small smirk for the guy's reaction to the source of the regular noise, but Trib doesn't make him suffer for it. He merely bobs his head in confirmation. "Dorian," he repeats when the guy introduces himself, and his golden gaze sweeps over the smaller man, noting the scars again in cool assessment. "Cool. You work around here, or are you one of them starvin' artist types. lookin' for that 'Rent' experience?" "Kinda good to know that holds true here. I mean, it was like that when I was a kid. Everyone in that town was poor as dirt - hell, I don't think my parents /had/ a lock on the door," Dorian says with a laugh, scratching at a silver tag in one of his rounded, fuzzy ears. Dorian looks relieved that there is no further discussion about the regular sound polution, bobbing his head in agreement when Trib repeats his name. "Sorta getting on my feet, um, for the first time, and this place was afordable. Ish. I'm kinda doing odd jobs and stuff, and finding out where I fit, I guess," he admits sheepishly, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips, "Decidedly not an artist. Kinda bad at art. Though I apparently managed to do decently as a house painter last week." Dorian looks down at his hands, wiggling them slightly, the cultural reference is lost on him, apparently, "Though this is sort of a rent experience, since, well, apartment and all." "I'd still lock my door," Trib rumbles, crinkling his eyes at the corners. "There's enough crackheads still wander in that you'll want /somethin'/ slowin' 'em down." There's a small curl of his lips that indicate that at least part of that might have been a joke. It's hard to tell for sure, though. He nods at the explanation, and chuffs a noise at the idea of house painting. "It's good work in the warm weather," he says, rolling a shoulder. "I did it once, in high school. Turns to shit when it gets cold, though. Unless you hook up with a fuckin' contractor for a regular gig." He quirks his lips as the other man misses the reference, and lifts a shoulder. "Well, welcome to the building," he says, lifting his chin. "You need somethin', you can give me a shout." He pauses, furrowing his brow as he considers that offer, then clarifies. "Like help with your door an' shit. That kind of stuff. I ain't social services." "Oh, yeah. I mean, I still do that. I mean, it seems to be pretty good at keeping me out, and I've got a /key/" Dorian says with a chuckle, shaking his head. "I kinda like painting, especially outside. I just like getting to work outside. Friend is trying to get me hooked up with a construction group - but, well, the whole," he gestures at himself, "Kinda can make finding regular work kinda hard." There's a lopsided but cheery grin at the thought of the cold, "Eh, cold never bothered me anyway. S'kinda what I'm built for, really - summer's not so much my thing." Indeed - his outfit leaves bare the thick pelt of his shoulders, arms, and at least some peeking from beneath the cuffs of his shorts. "Though this is my first summer actually, um, being allowed outside in a long time. S'kinda a lot warmer than I really remember it being, I guess, though it isn't that bad," he admits sheepishly, though the clarification of the help earns an emphatic head shake. "Thanks. I appreciate the offer. And I understand. I'm on my own. So I'm gonna make it on my own, dangit," the young mutant says, chest puffing slightly in determined pride, though it does not do much to make his lanky, lean frame any more impressive. Trib's mouth purses at the thought of Dorian having trouble finding work, and he sniffs sharply. "Humans fuckin' suck, sometimes," he grunts, his brow lowering thoughtfully. "Shouldn't fuckin' matter what you look like, if you can do the goddamned job." He grinds his teeth audibly, and pushes himself off the door frame. "I'll keep my ears open," he says, jerking his head over his shoulder towards his apartment. "My boss is a fuckin' soft touch about helpin' people out, an' I bet he knows someone who'd fuckin' hire you." He holds up a hand, palm out. "If you need it." He doesn't inquire about the comments about it being Dorian's first summer that he's been allowed out, but there's a touch of sympathy in his eyes as he looks over the visible fur and scars. "You can hit me up if you just want to hang out," he says, then, lifting his eyebrows before turning to head back into his apartment. "It was good meetin' you, Dorian." "Yeah. Can't say I've exactly had too many good humans 'round me," Dorian mutters, tugging at his damaged ear, "Seem to be doing okay. Getting by so far. Which, well, it's something." He nods again grinning warmly, "Thank you for the offer of help. I always appreciate getting pointed at jobs and stuff - I'm getting to be decently handy with stuff." Leaning against his unlocked door, Dorian offers a wave and a smile, "Thanks, Trib. S'good to finally know someone in the building. Was good meetin' you. See you 'round!" And with that, he bounces into his apartment, the door locking behind him with a vaguely solid click. Just to be safe.