ArchivedLogs:Octopuses Kind Of People

Octopuses Kind Of People
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Melinda
In Absentia	11 December, 2012 Grammarchists and Hippie Superheroes
Location Tompkins Square Park
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. The evening is growing rapidly darker, the world rapidly colder, and as such most of the park is populated only in a desultory fashion. A handful of people playing basketball on one of the courts, a couple walking their large fluffy white dog down a path; over near the park's center, though, a crowd has gathered under the trees and lampposts. Many are eating, many are /waiting/ to eat, forming a haphazard line around a few folding tables at which a small cluster of people -- mostly young, mostly pierced, many tattooed -- are dishing up hot food. Lentil soup, some confection of rice and black beans and kale and squash, rolls of bread. Coffee and tea, or boxes of juice. Behind one of these tables, Jax's vivid purple hair has been tucked away beneath a rainbow-striped knit cap, and his nails hidden underneath white gloves that crinkle slightly as he dishes up soup, exchanging easy conversation and a few laughs -- with his fellow servers and with those coming to eat, in equal measure. Melinda busily approaches the servers from behind, stripping off some of her thicker layers as she talks briefly with the evening's coordinator as she ties her hair back. Her fingers tuck in stray hairs under a close fitting hat and she slips on some hygienic supplies. She nods one more time to the coordinator before slipping over to the heart of food service, fingers tugging at her gloves to keep them in place. "Hi, I'm Mel," She announces to the group, making sure her gloves cover the ends her sweat shirt sleeves. "Sorry I'm late. I'm here to help. Where should I stand?" "Oh, hey, thanks! If you could help take over this --" Jackson is beginning to say, and then glances up to really look at Melinda. For a surprised moment his smile falters, and then flicks back into place just as warm and just as easy. "Oh. Hi! Um. I've kinda been doing double-duty on the soup and veggies but I sure wouldn't mind an extra pair'a hands." He gestures with an empty bowl towards the large pot of vegetables. "Mel. M'Jax. Nice to meet you -- better, I guess. Y'have a nice evening, now, sir!" This last he is chirruping not to Melinda but to the young man he is currently handing a bowl of soup. Melinda blinks readily at Jackson's face when recognition hits her as well. She nods solemnly and heads over to take the vegetable spoon and begins rationing out servings with a practiced hand. "Oh, hey. I did want to apologize to you, about yesterday," she begins, nodding and smiling at the person she loads up with veggies, distraction evident in the focus of her eyes. "You didn't seem at all comfortable and I ... I hope the cafe did okay by you." Her tone is hesitant, but she leaves the words to stand without other explanation. Even in the fading light, Jackson still wears his sunglasses, Melinda's blinking mirrored on their surface. "Yeah, hey, um, no worries. I mean, I should apologize too, I didn't mean to make a -- uncomfortable. Scene. I just felt like someone might -- need help?" The upward cadence of his tone sounds a little uncertain. He winces a little as he doles out another bowl. "I was alright, those situations can just be tricky. The cafe was -- probably not happy. Customers were getting spooked. But we didn't stay long after. He-ey, you got a haircut! That looks /rad/." He says this down towards a small child with a floppy bowl cut and a jacket that was probably once bright green and is now a dirtyish sort of muddy colour. The child grins up at him, reaching up for the bowl. "/And/ gloves," the kid says, wiggling purple-and-blue striped fingers up at the servers. Melinda doesn't know anyone yet, so doesn't make as much conversation. She is pleasant and smiles at everyone, offering a good evening to anyone who makes eye contact for a while. She does glance at Jackson from time to time and considers. "Oh, well, I guess I had to worry about the customers. Don't worry about the cafe. I was mostly worried about Tag." She wets her lips. "Then you didn't look comfortable at all with that guy that forgot to pay." "Oh, that guy --" Jackson frowns down at his soup, momentarily quiet. He fills another bowl, hands it out with a belated flash of smile. "I, um, yeah. I don't know. He seemed a little -- off." He shrugs a shoulder, picking up another bowl to ladle soup into that as well. "I mean, I guess I beelined for that guy, too, but he didn't want to say why. /Doctors/ being /too/ interested sets off my creepy-dar." "I couldn't really kick him out as he wasn't really... breaking any laws, I guess, but yeah." Melinda sighs and chews on her lip. She smiles a little easier at a small adorable kid and gives her an extra carrot before looking to her parents and dishes out more. "You beelined, but you paid first. I guess that was less creepy. Why'd you beeline anyway, if you don't mind me asking?" Jackson blushes, pink spreading up from his neck into his cheeks. "Well, I mean, he looked like --" His mouth pulls up in a crooked smile, his head dipping over the next bowl of soup. "Like he could use some help. He live with you?" he asks, uncertainly. "Yeah, the rest of the apartment said he was good people." Mel smiles a bit easier at that, continuing to dish. "He's a bit funny though. Squirrely or rabbity. I can't really blame him, but I'm not serving him caffeine again if I can help it." She glances sideways at Jax and takes a short pause. "You're the helping type, too, aren't you?" It probably goes without saying, given their situation. "Met some kids the other day, one of whom tried to convince me I was a super hero for doing stuff like this. Can you imagine that?" "Well, if it was them you was helping, I don't hardly blame them for feeling it. It's the best kind of superpowers," Jackson says with a laugh. "What good are superpowers, anyway, if not to improve the world with? An' seems to me helping folks is the best way to do /that/. Y'do stuff like this a lot, then?" "I guess." Mel shrugs and serves. "I'm generally down at Helping Hands, but have been meaning to help out Food Not Bombs for a long time now. I don't have a ton of time, what with the cafe, but I do give at least one day. It's important, you know." She laughs a little. "Ah, but that time was more about contraband tacos than anything life saving." "Oh! They have the shelter, right? I know those folks. They're -- you're? -- good folks." With the line dwindling, Jackson rests his ladle down, leaning a hand against the table and turning to look at Mel. "Contraband tacos?" His mouth curls up into a smile, amusement colouring his thick drawl. "What, uh, do I want to /know/ what was in those tacos?" "Fish and hot sauce. Don't worry too much, I don't really give out illegal substances. I'd lose my prudish street cred." Melinda takes a deep breath and switches her spooning hand. "You know about Helping Hands? Great. I'm glad. I always worry that there isn't enough word out, but at the same time, we don't really want to /compete/ with other shelters because there's always more people who need help and they don't really need to line up at the door." Her words flow sweetly when she gets excited, her smile warming significantly. She just stirs the pot until someone else approaches for food. "Why was fish and hot sauce contraband?" Jax asks, absently tipping his pot towards himself to look into it. He frowns, scraping the ladle against the bottom. "Yeah, I mean, I'm out here every week. Folks talk about the places that are better or worse to turn. Some shelters are just kinda hellholes, y'know?" His head shakes slightly. "So we try to keep lists of which places -- shelters, kitchens, food banks, clinics, whichever -- are good so we know where we can send people if they need some help. Everywhere's always so /full/, though. 'Specially the nice ones." Melinda doesn't answer the taco question, leaving it to die in the darkening evening. "Yeah, hellholes or full up. That's kind of the way it goes. I hate the rules we have to keep the place running, but they are sadly necessary. Oh, By the way," she pauses and looks at him, "I recently had Harlem Community Health Center recommended to me. Do you know anything about that place? Is it on the up and up, or is it sketchy?" "Mmm," Jackson considers this thoughtfully, turning his gaze upwards. "I've heard good things. They'll take anyone and aren't fussed about payment. Or, uh, aren't fussed about if you're trans or a junkie or have webbed fingers. Those are all positive things. I've never been, though." He scrapes his pot clean of food, tipping its last contents off into a bowl which he sets down on the edge of the table for lack of any further takers. "Y'here to help with cleanup, too?" He sounds hopeful on this count. "Of course," Melinda laughs, "I know that it's the least loved part of the job, but I'm mentally prepared and ready to go." Her expression tones a little serious. "You're staying too, right?" PEER PRESSURE. Mel puts out two servings of vegetables and lifts her empty pot to follow Jackson's lead. "Glad to hear about the clinic. The guy I was talking to about it couldn't quite decide if eels spoke or not. Maybe he had fish-pathy, if that's a thing." "Oh, yeah, I'm stayin'. But s'usually just one or two of us." There is a crate of used dishes beside the table, and Jackson collects this to put in the bottom of a large grocrey cart. He stacks his pot on top, gesturing Melinda to do the same. "Fishpathy's totally a thing," he admits, laughing. "Though from what my kid tells me, it's not really a /useful/ thing. I guess fish don't got nothin' interesting to say, really. He's hoping on octopuses being better in conversation." "OH," There's a moment of revelation as Melinda sets the pot down on the car next to Jackson's, her head turning to one side as she looks the other person up and down. "So you're an 'octopuses' kind of guy?" She purses her lips and nods to herself. "I see, I see." She tries to hide her smile for a while as she gathers up more dishes. "I can't imagine fishpathy would be useful. Even if you could convince fish to do stuff for you, what would you get them to do? Fetch Timmy from the well? He'd probably drown in the process." "Oh, me? I don't know. Tentacles kinda squick me, be honest with you. I guess not if they're on someone /nice/. Octopuses look menacing. But the boys like 'em. Mostly to eat," Jackson admits, with a slight wrinkle of his nose. "I don't really eat meat -- uhm." He gathers the leftover food into a second cart, tucking away the juice boxes and remaining bread. "I'd convince them to get into big schools and draw shapes and spell out words. To confuse National Geographic photographers." Melinda laughs at Jackson's nefarious plans for fish. "Well, I was mostly commenting. Some people, they say 'octopodes,' others pronounce that 'oc-to-po-des,'" She drawls out the world to make it more clear. "OTher people, well, they are octopi people. Don't worry. I'm kind of an 'octopuses' person myself, all things considered." Mel continues to help, picking up dirty utensils and putting all the remaining food in one place for Jax's gathering. Jackson gathers the rest of the things into the carts, and then just leans against one, absently waiting for the last two or three stragglers to finish their meal and return their dishes. "Oh," he says with sudden recognition, laughing quiet, "oh, yeah. I used to be octopi all the way but I outgrew it. Some kinda misplaced teenage snobbery, I guess, when I don't even think that's technically /correct/ --er. Correcter?" His nose crinkles up sheepishly. "Oh, gosh, maybe what I actually outgrew was grammar. I don't think I've met many octopodes people. They feel like they'd look down on me." Melinda giggles a little and leans as well, but leans forward to stretch her back out. "I wouldn't want to tangle with octopodes people either. They're pretty tough. Think we're all little bugs beneath them or something. And who cares about grammar? English is a living language that we should be able to steer freely into each new age. Rules are for dead languages." She straightens up and stretches her arms over head. "Unless you're an Oxford comma person?" "I'm pretty lazy about my commas," Jackson admits, scuffing a toe against the ground. "Hey, thanks! G'night, sir --s." This is to the last two people, returning a plate and bowl and their silverware. Jackson tucks it in beneath the pots in the dishes-cart. The tables he folds up last, down to plastic squares, and tucks one beneath each cart. "Y'wanna grab the other one? We don't got far to go. Jus' across the street an' a block down." He nods towards the food-cart as he grabs the dishes one, starting to push it carefully. "And I probably use semicolons way too much. -- Uh. So you're like a grammar anarchist? Grammarchist." "Anyone who has studied the Bard can't help but be a little grammarchisty." Melinda gives her affirmative by moving over to the other cart and starting to push it after Jax. "But really, I'm probably more lazy than a rebel with a cause." She darts over to grab her coat as she passes it and continues moving. "So, tell me more about your kids? They still really young?" "Teenagers," Jax says with a hint of amusement (although he doesn't look much past his teens /himself/.) "Two of them, anyway. Third's younger. They're a handful. They're /several/ handfuls." Dishes rattle quietly as he pushes the cart along. "S'that what you studied? Er, if you studied, I don't mean to assume nothin'." "Teenagers? Huh." Melinda's a little floored by this, but takes it in stride. "Yeah, I had the same dream all the theater kids do, coming out to New York, getting a degree in stage, moving on to broadway, singing my heart out on a daily basis," she sighs wistfully and smiles at Jackson. "It didn't work out, but I like what I do so much more than all those ridiculous lines for auditions and cold readings. Went to NYU. How about you?" "I'm studying at Cooper Union right now. Art. It's probably about as silly a dream," Jackson admits with a small smile towards Melinda. He heads out of the park and down the sidewalk, at a little bit of a brisk pace in the chilly dark evening. "M'glad you like what you do now, though. Being happy's the important thing, right? Um. I mean, okay, I also like being able to eat sometimes, but, you take what you can get." "Yeah, I got that from Tag, but then again, with my loans and all, I'm really just one bad month from being where everyone out there was. It's a humbling thought." Melinda follows, eyes scanning the cart for any loose dish ready to make its suicidal escape onto the sidewalk. "So, Cooper Union? What do you do there?" "Paint, mostly. Draw. Be a hippie," Jackson says, laughing. "Prepare for a future of poverty. Most of America's just a paycheck or two away from it," he adds (alarmingly /cheerful/ about this information, though it's a cheer that comes through bared teeth), "so you're in good company." He pulls the carts up in front of a brick apartment building, digging keys out of a jean pocket to unlock the door. He holds it open for Melinda with one foot while he unlocks the second. "Oh, hey. I had tacos with your neighbors here." Melinda notes as she recognizes where they are. "Contraband tacos." She flops her coat over her shoulder a little more securely and takes the door when she can. "In the lobby. You take your hippie-nature pretty seriously, getting a degree in it and all. I have to hand it to you. That's dedication." "I'm a pretty dedicated hippie, yeah. But you were right out there Good Samaritan-ing along with me, so you've got some hippie cred, too. My neighbors?" Jackson asks, with passing interest. And then keener interest. "-- Contraband fish tacos?" His eyebrows hike up. He stops, for a second, examining Melinda with interest. And then continuing on towards the elevator. "Er. Were they, uh -- blue." "Then you do know them. I thought you might. One doesn't really live in the same building with people people and completely not notice." Melinda mentions this easily and rubs at her nose as she guides her cart to the elevator. "Up or down?" She waits, hovering near the keys. "Also, you seemed good with Tag, so I figured you wouldn't be adverse to having blue neighbors, otherwise, I would have really played off the whole story entirely. They are nice kids, if you haven't spoken with them. Nothing to worry about." Jackson blushes, slipping his cart into the elevator as well. "Three," he says, leaning back against the wall. For a moment his smile warms. He lifts a hand to rub his fingers underneath his knit rainbow cap, and adjusts his sunglasses. "You think they're nice kids?" he says, light and amused. "I think they're great. They're mine. I mean. Uh. Not like I own them just --" He blushes, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "Shane mentioned the tacos. I'm glad you were nice to them. Thanks. Lots of folks -- ain't." "Yeah? They're yours?" Melinda whistles low and shakes her head. "Yeah, there's no way you could own those bundles of energy, but I could see you loving them." She presses the 3 and relaxes, waiting the short trip up. "Shane was a perfect gentleman for the most part, even went out of his way to reassure me that his teeth were just for fishes." She pulls off her hat and stuffs it in a coat pocket, then resettles the coat on her shoulder. "Bastian was the other one's name? I am just trying to make sure I have it right in case I run into them again." "'bastian, yeah. Sebastian. He's shyer. Shane's --" Jackson's smile quirks, crooked, amused, "More of a handful." He pushes the cart out when the elevator dings on the third floor, dragging it downt he hallway to apartment 303 and unlocking it. He holds the door with an elbow, and toes one shoe off with the other foot. Inside, a small one-eyed beagle is frisking towards the door, tail thwapping eagerly. "Loving them's the easy part. Looking after a couple'a mutant teenagers, well." Jackson is still smiling, for sure, but it might be a liiiiittle more tired. 303 - Holland Apartment This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. The farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. "I can only imagine. Not, that I have teenagers, but some of my roommates -- they are kind of hippie teenagers sometimes." Melinda pushes her cart in and then pauses to remove her shoes as well, following Jax's example. "Oh, a dog." She blinks and smiles and forgets her cart to kneel down and look at the beagle. "Nice place you have here." She may be still looking at the dog. "Yeah, that's Maybe-Obie. He's dumb as rocks but he's the sweetest, he'll slobber you to death though." Which Obie seems to be attempting to do, when Melinda kneels, his entire hindquarters wriggling with the enthusiasm of his wagging and his sloppy tongue lavishing attention on Melinda's hand. "And if you think the twins got energy, jus' wait till you meet --" As if on cue, there is a bright carol of, "Pa!" before a tiny child with a light dusting of freckles and a mop of light brown hair bursts into the room and skitter-skids across the wood floor in socked feet. "/Spence/," is groaned from the bedroom that the boy came from, but Jackson opens his arms for a hug. "Hey. Spence, this is Mel. She was helpin' serve food. Y'get and finish your homework, aright? We're jus' gonna wash up in here, then I'll come see you." He is saying this lightly over a backdrop of chatter: "-- Was it /cold/ did you serve a /lot/ of people can I come next time who's this is this your friend?" Melinda spends a few minutes scritching the Obie in every place the squirming dog allows, avoiding his tongue for the most part. She smiles and slowly gets to her feet, waving at Spence. She doesn't seem to care about not getting a word in, and instead starts pushing the carts toward the kitchen. She starts to carry dishes to the sink for washing without a word to Jax either. There's a minute more that Jackson spends in the hallway, mostly quiet through a steady torrent of eager rambling, but eventually he prises himself away, shooing Spencer back to his bedroom (where a tall dark-haired man with twining vines tattooed down an arm is waiting, amused, with a notebook in one hand. For Study Enforcement. "Thanks for helpin' out," Jackson says, shedding his jacket on the way and rolling up his sleeves to turn on the faucet. "Y'mind grabbin' a dishtowel? I'll wash, you dry?" He nods towards the fridge door, where a pair of towels hang strung through the handle. "Well, that's, uh, all my brood. Except the cat. She's around here somewhere. Antisocially. You a dog person?" Melinda grabs a towel and moves over to stand next to the sink, on the other side from the dirty dishes. "I'm rather a 'cute things' person. I am okay with all adorableness that requests affection and I don't have to support. I like dogs, cats, pet snakes, you name it. I kind of draw the line at insects, but I'm sure someone will find one out there somewhere that will cause me to change my mind." Mel chats easily with Jackson as she dries dishes, keeping topics light and airy for the most part and inviting him out for tea at her shop again before she leaves for the night.