ArchivedLogs:Arms Race

Arms Race
Dramatis Personae Eric, Regan
In Absentia	2013-06-15 A discussion about war over grease and beer
Location <NYC> Green Carnation Pub - Gramercy Park
The Green Carnation Pub is a pub that has one very special rule that differentiates it from its competition - and, indeed, from any other bar of any sort. At this pub, drinks cost you half price... if, and only if, you buy them for someone else at the bar who you didn't come with. As such, the drinks at the Green Carnation Pub tend to be more expensive than they are everywhere else, but you get more free booze. Their food is quite tasty, for a pub, if not exactly haute cuisine. The interior is decorated with light colored wood, and a long, polished wooden bar table lined with stools. There are booths and tables for guests who would rather not sit or eat at the bar, as well as couches to rest on, but all are arranged to give as wide as possible a view of the rest of the restaurant. In many ways, the Green Carnation Pub is one of the least private bars you are ever likely to visit. As the afternoon wears on, the Green Carnation, unlike many bars, is already beginning to fill up with people. The atmosphere of the place causes many people to come for food itself, and the presence of food that you don't need to be drunk to like fills it quickly, despite (or because of?) the strange pricing structure. Sitting near the end of the bar is Eric, dressed in a black pair of jeans and a blue shirt that clings tight to him. He, for once, does not appear to be looking around the bar for people to flirt with, nor chatting up some nice man or woman. Instead, he is staring off into the distance, nursing a single beer, as his mind slowly works its way through whatever thoughts it is choking on. Coming here alone and with tables filling up quickly, Regan opts for a seat at the bar, when offered, for the simple expediency of ordering food quickly. The woman slides into a seat beside Eric, setting down her large black-and-pink purse alongside her stool. She's dressed a little more sharply than Eric - grey slacks, a summer-light pink button-down blouse. Business casual. For a moment she busies herself looking over the menu, but then flicks her gaze up to the bartender. Then over to Eric. "That," she says lightly, "seems like the weightiest beer here." Eric does not immediately respond to Regan, but after a few moments, the address seeps its way through his busily braining grey matter. He shakes his head once, quickly, and turns to Regan to smile at her. "Oh, heya," he says, voice pleasant and accented. "Just thinkin', is all." He places down his beer on the counter and looks over his new companion, smile settling firmer down onto his lips. "It takes a lot out of me," he teases, self-deprecatingly. "Ain't do much else when I'm thinkin'. Drinkin' and thinkin' is hard enough without spillin' this beer all over me." "Does the beer help with the thinking?" Eric's response puts a quick smile on Regan's face, warm and amused. The next look she gives Eric is longer, before turning back to her menu. "You could do it in shifts. Two minutes hard thinking, then stop long enough to take a sip. Less danger of spilled beer." "The beer helps me with the sitting and staying still. Too much danger of me wanderin' off if I'm not careful," The police officer says, a laugh in his voice, as he picks up his glass and takes a sip - almost as if demonstrating. See? Beer! He looks down at her menu, peering slightly over her shoulder. "The food here's not bad. Ain't great - Zagat's ain't comin' here for the food - but ain't bad." A pause. "Let me buy'ya a drink, and you can do the same for me. We'll both be richer for it, too." "Fried pickles," Regan says in answer, "you can't really go wrong with fried pickles. And buffalo wings." She sets the menu down, hands folding over it. "Beer as a cure for ADD? It'd make elementary schools a lot more interesting. -- Goose Island stout. What's your poison?" "I'm feelin' like a Dogfish IPA. And, I think, a burger. But that I'll order, yeah?" Eric says, smile curling brightly on his lips as he lifts a hand to flag down the bartender. Despite the growing crowd, it takes only a few moments for the bartender to wander down the length of the bar and take their orders. "Can I get a burger with the aioli-" This, he pronounces 'oily', "- and a Goose Island stout for the lovely lady?" "Fried pickles and buffalo wings, please," Regan orders with a quick smile, "and a Dogfish IPA for this charming gentleman here." She turns the menu back over to the bartender. Her elbow rests on the bar, knuckles only loosely curled to rest her chin against the backs of her fingers. "Your next two minutes are almost up. Made any progress?" "None in the least," Eric says, eyes twinkling as the bartender wanders off to put in their orders. "But at least it's time to drink again," he says, picking up his glass and draining it dry with a long, continuous gulping sip. It was, to be fair, only half full, but. Placing the empty glass down, his eyes twinkle and he winks at Regan. "At least now I've got a couple minutes where I ain't need to coordinate." "Better knuckle down, then," Regan advises. "You need to have some /results/ by the time the next round is up. There's a drop-off point somewhere after which putting in more thinking won't really /help/ all that much. Downside of beer as a thinking tool." "It's a ways away, yet." Eric says, laughter in his voice. "Upside of using beer as a thinking tool on the regular." he drawls, running a hand through his hair and grinning at Regan. "Well, you know I'm here for the thinkin'. What are you here for, tonight?" Regan's lips curl into an amused smile. "We're still solidly in afternoon. You /sure/ it's a ways away?" The amusement is in her voice, as well. Her fingers uncurl, forefinger absently winding strands of blonde hair around itself. "The fried pickles. Sometimes, you just kind of need a good dose of grease. Anything in particular on your mind?" "Yeah, I'm sure as shootin'." Eric says, eyes tracking the movement of her fingers for a moment before he continues. "Been a long week. Takes some time to process when you're all out of it, ya know?" Eric says, smile slipping slightly on his lips. "But, I came here, so I ain't sure I wanted to think 'bout it too much, ya know? If I did, I'd be at home." He stretches, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippling and letting out tiny cracks of complaint. "Maybe I was came here t'a find a new friend." He tips his head at Regan, smile back in full force. "Eric." He sticks out his hand for her to shake. "Long week." Regan echoes this with a faint widening of her smile, though her tone slants dryer. "I've been hearing that an awful lot this week." She turns slightly on her stool, lifting her head off her knuckles so that she can extend the hand, take Eric's handshake with a small squeeze. "Regan. This place /does/ seem geared to facilitate that." Eric's chuckle is somehow devoid of actual amusement of pleasure; it is an almost sad, sardonic sound. "From all over." His smile seems warm enough, though, as he squeezes Regan's hand firmly. "S'what it's for." Eric says, glancing around the bar with a pleased expression. "And it seems to do its job quite well, yeah?" He does not release her hand for a hair longer than what is necessary for politeness. "What's made your week so long?" "I didn't say mine had been," Regan points out, with a small twitch of amusement, gently pulling her hand back to rest it on the counter. "But it does seem to be going around." She turns, glancing back over towards the pub's front door. "And seems like it might keep going around a while more, from the looks of things out there." "Quite possibly." Eric says, eyes following her towards the city beyond the pub doors. "But, you never know. Maybe we will be able to restore some sanity to this city." He does not sound over-hopeful about this, despite the smile on his face. "Against all odds." "We?" Regan's eyebrows lift; she turns back forward as their beers arrive, curling her hand around her bottle. She doesn't drink yet, though; she drags the bottle closer, nails clicking in slow roll against its side. "I don't think the world's been sane a while. /That/ would be an uphill climb. What do you imagine it'd take to get it to sanity?" Eric laughs and points a finger at Regan, waggling it for a moment. "Ya got me there, honey." he says, shaking his head and dropping his hand back to the bartop. "More sane. And... what I think it'll take to get /more/ sane is for us not to be fightin' 'gainst the mutants so much. It's gon' be war, if we both keep doin' what we're doin'." This prompts a laugh. It's short and quiet and Regan's head shakes through it. "War," she echoes, "Yeah. I guess it will be." Now she /does/ drink, a looong deep swalllow from her beer. "But who do you think will stop first? It's easy to call to lay down arms when you're not the one being shot at." "I am the one gettin' shot at," Eric says, a bemused expression as he watches his companion drink, picking up his own but not yet drinking from it. "Well, shot at is probably not the right word. Attacked." A pause. "I'm an officer in Central Park. So, you can imagine, it's been a long week." he says, smile tinged with sadness. "No. But as soon as one side tells the other to stop fighting, there's just one group getting beaten while the other does the beating." Regan's voice still carries a lilt of amusement, even if her smile has mostly faded. It returns when /food/ arrives -- because yum, greasy fried things! She helps herself to a /few/ napkins before picking up her first wing. Eric's revelation only receives a lift of eyebrows, a quiet 'huh' of breath. "So don't keep doing what you're doing." "That's the problem," Eric says, picking up his burger and taking a bite out of it. Chew, chew. "I got ta' enforce the law, but once I put on my uniform, it don't matter if I beat people or I don't - I'm a target. And, I'm sure, they're sure of the same thin', and think they're just defendin' themselves. It's an arms race. Nobody wants to stand down f'fear of it gettin' taken advantage of. And so," he spreads his hands out in a shrug. "We end up here." "As I said." Regan's smile fades, her attention turning to her wings, dipping the first on into its sauce and then tearing meat from bone with her front teeth. "Easy to say the other person should stand down and get shot at." "Yup. And it's worse, since their ain't nobody in charge, neither." Eric shakes his head and shrugs. "So, all we can do is hope, I guess, and watch ourselves." He chuckles and leans forward, taking another large bite out of the burger. "Mmm." He looks over Regan's face, then nudges her gently with an elbow. "How's'at for somethin' weighty t'a think about?" Regan's eyes slant sideways to Eric, a small smile reappearing on her face. "I have fried food," she tells him lightly, "I could handle just about anything, right now."