ArchivedLogs:Bagels and Fucking Lox
| Bagels and Fucking Lox | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-04-13 An unlikely pair find common ground. Fishy wisdom is imparted, and a number of new eight-legged babies bestowed. Also who kissed Rasa ??? |
| Location
<NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem | |
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. The enthused might call a shop like this 'bohemian', but the prevalence of tight jeans, layered skirts, peasant blouses, rimmed glasses and well-groomed /mustaches/ translate it rather often to HIPSTER. Jim is having none of that, sitting in the far corner by the window, in a seat positioned between a small fig tree and a fern. They're not actually doing so well. He holds a cup of coffee just in front of and to the /side/ of his mouth, prepared at any time to caffeinate. For the moment, though, he's staring at a huddle of industrious, spandex-clad /bikers/ cycling past window with pithy bumperstickers stuck to their helmets. What. What indeed. Yet another person joins in staring at them, confusion clear on his face as he beelines his way along the sidewalk. But his stares don't stop there-- a second later and he's already focused on peering intently at something else! The door to Busboys and Poets. As if it was some alien creature. It is a staring Ivan, an absolutely /stuffed/ backpack on his back. And Ivan is not used to being /anywhere/ on his own. It shows. He enters the establishment as quietly as humanly possible, rounding the door in meticulously calculated movements. only to-- subsequently walk into a woman who seems in an awful rush to find her way out. She tsk tsk tsks him for it, but he does nothing but move out of the way and stiffen and look terribly out of place. Once he finally relaxes again and finds a table to sit at, adjacent to Jim's, he takes the backpack off and sets it down on a chair next to him. Only-- for the zipper to pop open of its own accord, letting textbooks spill their way across the floor. This is not Ivan's day. "Agh." Jim makes a sound of vague sympathy, pulling back a foot to keep it from STEPPING on Ivan's crap. Instead, he's just taking it. In that he's picking it up and setting it into an unflourished /mess/ of a pile. "Geez, how're you even carrying all this crap. You're like a buck-thirty soaking wet." There's a look of mild panic on Ivan's face when someone else touches /his books/. He rushes to sink to the floor and pick the rest of them up himself, expression changing to one of determination. Pick up ALL the books. No apology, no thank you for helping, nothing. Until-- that last sentence. He peers upward again, in confusion. "I... am a what?" Even with such a short sentence, his Russian accent is clearly /dripping/ off of his words. Also, a small but meaty looking spider lowers itself from his hair to sit on the side of his ear. That happens. Oh, crap, /foreign/. All the lines around Jim's eyes crunch up, "A buck -- uh, it means you don't look even a hundred and thirty pounds. One-thirty? A buck thirty? Get it - Oh jesus." This last is a rushed-out hiss when a spider appears on Ivan's ear. Because that HAPPENED. "Uh. Hang on. You got a, uh..." Veeeery slowly, he reaches out one of Ivan's books /towards/ his ear. To -- /shoo/ at the spider. Fan-fan-/wave/. He's totally on this. What-- whatwhat/what/. Ivan shrinks back in tiny little increments at the book-fanning, his look of confusion only having deepened as Jim continued to talk. The spider on his ear hangs on tight, pressing closer against the skin in an attempt to DISAPPEAR. Which it is not doing. The books Ivan has in his hands are pressed close to his chest, eyes left-right-left-right as they follow the book. What in the world. There may as well be a big, bright questionmark over Ivan's head right now, for how utterly lost he looks. "Like. Seriously." Jim doesn't /chase/ after Ivan when he withdraws, though his eyes stay lazer-locked on the kid's ear. "You got like-" He pauses, takes a SLURP of coffee. "Y'know something? Nevermind." He hands Ivan's book back to him with a kind of manic smile! Stare! "Where you /from/, kid?" The manic stare is met with a further widening of Ivan's eyes and a stare right back! Albeit a slightly unnerved one, alongside a brief smile of his own- or rather, a twitch of one before it's gone again. "Russia?" He's-- very confused that probably should have come out as an answer rather than a question. He reaches to right his backpack again, only to cause more books to tumble from it in the process. Along with... an oddly bulky wrist-watch looking thing. It promptly gets stuffed back in, along with the books he's got in his hands. The ones still on the floor will come later. He seems intent on getting them back in /in order/. "Uh." Jim's not looking much /better/ grounded, watching the spider descend from this kid's ear with his eyes kind of popped while he -- settles slowly back into his seat. "Russian." He sips his coffee without seeming to even realize his body has gone off and resumed its casual activities without him. "Right. You uh." Crap, he's started a question, but he wasn't paying attention, now he has to /figure out/ something -- "Like it here?" SMOOTH. EYEBALL. More books get layered into the backpack-- Ivan seems to have trouble figuring out how he got all of them in there in the first place, and frowns. He turns to pick the last few of them up off the floor, giving a nod in the process. A sparse answer if there ever was one. When he turns to his backpack again, he digs a hand in there to remove the... bulky wrist watch thing again, placing it on the table, so as to more efficiently fit the books back in. Much better! About now, Jim is looking over Ivan with a touch more scrutiny, prolonged bafflement defaults to his suspicious-bastard status, so he's looking at the /spines/ of the books Ivan is cramming into his bag, their subject matter, the kid's choice in attire, and -- "What /is/ that." His eyes are /fixed/ on the -- bulky watch. There isn't much to Ivan's attire. Unremarkable jeans, converse sneakers, black wool coat. The books, too, are nothing of great interest-- English as a second language, some Russian fiction, Biology, something about The Ethics of Power-- "/Nothing/." Ivan's response is quick, louder than he means for it to be, and he freezes mid-bookstuffing. To stare again. Would /lunging/ for the item be suspicious? Yes, yes it would. Standing perfectly still, however, is fine. Yep. That'll resolve /everything/. "Yeah, looks like nothing." Jim agrees, and /so quickly/. "So what, you planting a bomb or something?" He roves his eyes past Ivan to the few people READING that glance up from their books at the raise in volume. Sadly, a grizzled scruffy-looking man in a corduroy jacket does not the most /reassuring/ figure make, and even if it was Ivan that shouted, he probably looks a little more legit. Jim's teeth click. Daaaaaamn. "It is not-- it's not a bomb." Ivan sputters, less loudly, but just as awkwardly as his protest from before. His eyes scan the room as well, but he seems to purposefully /avoid/ looking at Jim. "I came here to have /food/." He stuffs the last book in his backpack, fails to close it up again all the way despite it being one item lighter, and sits himself down in a chair. Stiffly, brow furrowing as he reaches for the 'wrist watch'. Attempting nonchalance, but just looking /slow/ in the process. For not having a bomb, he sure looks a little tense. The spider once dangling from his ear has, by now, found its way onto his shoulder. It crawls down the side of his sleeve contently, oblivious of the goings-on, before skittering its way onto Ivan's table. "Okay." Jim CAVES - and rather casually too. Like he's /used/ to just caving. "There is like, an actual spider." He points at Ivan's table. "Right the fuck there. And it has been all over you. And it is freaking me out." At once, the spider stands perfectly still. Ivan's hand curls around the websh-- device on the table and he draws it closer to himself to stuff into his pocket. When he puts his hands back on the table, attempting to look /casual/, the spider promptly makes its way into his sleeve. Ivan seems to pay it little mind, beyond a slight reddening of his face. He looks less like he might bomb the place now, and more like he may be fighting back an apology. But it never comes. Instead, a meekly mumbled, "Do you-- what is-- good here." Almost a sentence! Good job. Not-A-Wristwatch: hidden. Spider: hidden. Jim: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED, universe. If we're just pretending all of this is normal, he'll play. Why not. Just give him a chance to /stare/ for a minute. Then, abruptly: "/Bagels/." He says it /aggressively/. "Bagels and fucking." Pause, coffee-sip. "/Toppings/." Ivan /twitches/ at the aggression out of nowhere! If he had a tail, it'd be between his legs. He finally looks towards Jim again, still desperately lost, only for his line of sight to be blocked by- someone who works here oh thank god. Ivan relaxes, if only a little, and attempts a smile. He braces himself to look less fearful. Somewhat successfully. Unfortunately, any illusion anyone might have that he is not entirely out of his depth is quickly whisked away by the subsequent, "Hello-- can I have... a bagel-- and toppings?" "-lox and cream cheese." Jim butts in, scrubbing his face with a look up at the server, "He wants a bagel with lox and cream cheese. Maybe some capers. Y'got that? Awesome." The server will likely look at Ivan at least for a token confirmation, though she looks kind of confused and harried and /put on the spot/, so she might flee if he /doesn't/ respond back. At which point, Jim just moves over to Ivan's table. Hi. He leans forward to say bluntly, "Kid. Whatever your deal is? You're like, the most suspicious looking person in the room. /Relax/, huh? Who are you?" He is eyeing Ivan's sleeves because -- there /was/ a spider. And it hasn't come out again. That's Not Normal. "-- ... Okay." Is the boy's only response back, however indifferent at whatever this /lox/ thing might be, but at least it's a confirmation! Enough to send the server back, fortunately. What's left of his smile sticks on his face a little awkwardly and forced when Jim joins his table. He puffs out his chest with a deeep inhale, and promptly replies, flatly, "Ivan." His eyes rest once more on Jim's face. Unwavering now, because looking at people when you talk to them is the opposite of suspicious! Although the question is returned to the stranger now sitting at his table, there is a narrowing of his eyes as his head angles curiously. The spider is, indeed, still in there somewhere. Out of sight. But what's that? Two more tiny little eight-legged specks move in and out of the boy's hairline just above an eyebrow. "Ivan." Jim says it like he's been handed something that he has been /due/. "A'right. I'm Jim. What's with the /spiders/, Ivan. You're like freaking -- what's his name. From Charlie Brown. Pigpen." References that /probably/ aren't helping. "You're /teeming/. Where you climbing around in some bushes or something?" "Maybe I took too many." Ivan mumbles, under his breath. Despite the continued eye contact, the words don't really seem to be aimed Jim very much. His head gives a shake, and for a moment, it sort of looks like he's about to leave it at that. But then he braces himself for... more words! Meekly. "I do not know a Charlie Brown. Also what is lox? And capers?" No spiders in sight, this time. Actually-- just the one. The spider that disappeared into his sleeve before re-emerges from his collar to crawl along his neck and back into his hair. Again, The boy pays it absolutely no attention, like it didn't even happen. Jim is scratching his lower lip, which is hung open to /mouth-breathe/; his eye contact is direct, faded-denim blue and professionally hard. But it's not cruel, and he exhales, holding up either dry-flaky hand to show off large palms that are just as rough-textured, "It's a comic. Lox is /fish/, man. Salmon. Uh, should have asked I guess if you /ate/ fish," he is the /worst/ friend-of-vegans ever, "Capers are little... salty-...vinegar... pea...dealies." He has never actually wondered what a caper was, and he looks /disgruntled/ by it. His phone goes 'wrrrr!' in his pocket, and he fishes it out, looking down at a text. "Pff," he mashes a few buttons, kind of slowly; he is not a speedy texter.
Ivan listens quietly, gradually calming down to more acceptable levels of awkward. Though a response to Jim's concerns is sorely lacking, he seems pretty happy with the news that he has apparently ordered fish. Mm. A smile slowly returns to his face, and his hands slide into his lap. He just /stares/ at Jim, now, as the man manhandles his phone in order to text. Sort of like a dog might look to its owner; oblivious, or just content? Or both. It is hard to tell. "Thank you." There are a few texts sent back and forth, during which time Jim sips his coffee, glances up to /eye/ Ivan, like he expects him to make a break for it while he's distracted, and then waggles the empty cup hopefully at the server when she arrives with Ivan's bagel. It's /heaped/ with meaty fishflesh. "Uuuhyeah?" What do you say when people /thank/ you? "Sure, kid." And then more importantly, "You know /Shelby/? Loud-mouth ginger? Freckles?"
Ivan's nod comes in the middle of an experimental but rather large bite into his bagel, without thought. Bagel APPROVED. But then... wait. He nearly chokes, confusion once more taking hold of his expression entirely. He lifts a hand to push a wrist to in front of his mouth as he chews, as though afraid it may otherwise just come spilling out, and he /stares/ again. A little more intently, this time. Maybe a bit demanding. "Whh--" Chew chew chew. "... Whh?" Eloquent.
Jim stares at Ivan over the top of his phone. And slowly, in disbelief, begins /shaking/ his head, "I have no idea what you just said with your face, kiddo." He leans further over the table, voice dropping, "You really hooking up with that kid /Rasa/?"
And there it is again. Just as Ivan was starting to get comfortable, he's sinking back into Baffled Central. None of this is making any sense to him, and his face shows as much. The bagel is put down as if he's just been told off from eating it, and his hands drop off the table again. Expression helpless. What is going on. Maybe he should be asking Jim that question, but it fails to surface. What does, however, is "... Yes?" Probably? He assumes? Then, a beat later and more inquisitive, "Am I in trouble?" "/What/?" Jim mashes a number more buttons, looking up as if he has no idea what Ivan is ON about, eyes squinted and lips idle pulled back to make a 'what' face? "No. Uh," he jiggles the phone with zero enthusiasm, "S'actually Shelby I'm texting with. You're from /that/ school, huh." Oo, his fresh coffee has arrived; he stops talking while his cup is filled up, watching the server move away, then turns back to Ivan. "I, uh, been out there a few times."
Ivan's nose wrinkles, and he looks a little skeptical at first as his eyes dart from Jim's face, to the phone, to Jim's face again. "I know New York City is very big." He mumbles quietly in Jim's direction, before clearing his throat and reaching somewhat hesitantly for the bagel again, "But some times it feels very, very small." And back to eating again. Hopefully this time without nearly choking on it. That skeptical look gets a /frown/ back, and Jim suddenly furiously punches buttons silently with an increased speed. A moment later, a picture text arrives - and Jim claps a hand against the side of his face. SMACK. "Uh, I asked her to send me a pic' to prove it." He turns the phone towards Ivan - and all that's visible is a girl's left hand, /flipping/ off the cellphone camera. "Whatever."
"A picture to prove what?" Ivan perks up between bites, still vaguely wary of all of this /coincidence/ happening, but quickly cracking a timid little grin at the picture. "That-- is very Shelby." A moment later, his own phone is brought out and onto the table. Ivan's phone-handling is not much more skilful, the twitchy fingermoves of someone who does not DO this devices thing very often.
It's a sort of sad picture; man and boy, in a Hipster-Bohemian setting loaded with cutting edge style and controversial bookshelves, both struggling /badly/ to navigate their phones. Jim is probably wearing some sort of green argyle sweatervest under his jacket. "So's spiders your thing?" He asks, not looking up. Texting takes /concentration/. Hunt-peck. Hunt-- peck.
There is a little wave of sound, then. A rustle of cloth. From Ivan's sleeves, a multitude of teeny tiny little spiders spews out, ranging in size from the head of a pin to pinky nail. They gather in a puddle of black and brown legs and abdomens and teensy heads, around his hands. There seems to be no /end/ to them. How is that for an answer? Ivan is /focused/ on his phone. Not so much to type, but to read a text that comes back at him. Three guesses who may be causing him to /squint/ to understand.
Ivan's eyes stay dutifully on his phone, save for a very short glance toward that impending poke. He sends three more lines of text, unwieldy and wooden. And looks a little concerned, doing it. The spiders... eh. They sit still. Flatly, eyes still on the phone, their ex-ride asks, "Did you kiss Rasa." And there they go. The spiders MOVE, climbing over and piling atop one another and latching onto whatever they can find in order to scramble toward that poking finger, meaning to climb right aboard.
"What." Jim's eyes snap up from the table to Ivan's face, "Jesus tits, kid, she's young enough to be my daughterrrraaaagh." He doesn't actually yell it; he /states/ 'aaaagh' in a very brusque and /frank/ manner and then presses tight his mouth and sucks in a slow breath through his nose. Spiders. Crap spiders. "This," he says through lips that are barely moving, teeth tight, "is pretty much my college days. Nngaaagh." Defensively, his arm turns hard and rough and delightfully /tree/ like the further up the spiders crawl. Like invading a nice mammal-warm tree, the bark grooved and flaky with channels to march up. The spiders that make it up to the arm seem right at home! They don't go up very far, barely halfway up Jim's forearm, and spread out to find the nicest of little crevices and cracks to pile into. Scratchy and tiny and mostly innocent! No bites. A little writhing. Ivan finishes another tiny little text message before slipping the phone back into his pocket and looking back up, face devoid of any clear, readable expression this time. No response to the noises of discomfort. He's used to his spiders causing some of those, maybe. Then, another smile. Forced. The bagel is once more torn into, as stray spiders who didn't make the Jimtrain pitterpatter their way back toward the boy. Jim pushes air out his teeth, his expression staying hard and smiling because like hell is he going to squirm for some punk kid. "You got a little /fire/ in you then, huh. Jealousy's an ugly thing, kid." He keeps his non-tree hand hovering nearby, to generally limit the line of sight to spiders and plant activity in one. "No fire. Only spiders." Ivan notes between bites, seeming all of a sudden a lot calmer. He seems less fussed with the public display of two mutant abilities all at once, but the spiders do begin to, very slowly, drop off of Jim's arm. One by one they tumble off, some landing on the table the wrong way around before forming teeny little spider rivers back to the other side of the table. A few seem hesitant to leave the deepest cracks in Jim's arm. /Comfy/. "I like your arm. And lox, also." At last, he manages to both sound and look casual. Of all times to do so. "I can see that." Jim turns over his arm to look into the treebark crevices where sweet little spiders are roosting. "They're not gonna lay eggs in me are they?" He sounds -- actually /curious/, too. It overcomes even the horror, one eye kind of squinting up from the bottom and leaning down closer. "They are only babies." Ivan is quick to answer, a third of the way through working another bite down. Most of the spiders have made their way back into his sleeves. There are also those who fell down and have opted for a trouser leg instead. But a few of the spiders linger still, on that barkskin, mostly the larger ones of the bunch. Their legs tucked beneath them. "They like your arm. Do you want to keep them?" With that, he stuffs the last bite in his mouth, and starts patting down his coat, trying to find something or another. "Uh, I put the bark away when I'm-," Jim is having this conversation, and he looks /baffled/ at how it happened. But he's DOING IT, "-going around outside." Is he NOT saying no? Why is he NOT saying no? His eyebrows are crumpled together, looking into the deeper crevices of his treebark at the cute little bundles of legs hidden in their depths. They're probably warmer, the deeper in the spiders go. "What do they /eat/?" Ivan fumbles a little while longer, hands digging into pockets of both his coat and his jeans, now. He retrieves and stuffs back - in order - a receipt for a book, a phone, a key, three pens, half a dozen centipedes curled around an eraser, and a pencil. "Mosquitoes. Silverfish. Small flies. Other spiders." His answer is a little absent minded, in the midst of this itemhunt. He turns to his backpack instead, starting to zip open compartments on its side and front in his continued search. Having something to /focus/ on has at least distracted him from the awkward nervousness from before, it seems. "Uh, I don't really carry those around with me," Jim lowers his arm back to the table, /ignoring/ the spiders living in it if Ivan doesn't seem concerned. He tips his head to one side, reading the receipt for no other reason than NOSINESS, studying the centipedes. And once Ivan starts going for the /backpack/, he just opts to lean back in his chair to sip his coffee. "You have them at home." Ivan adds quietly, zipping open the side of the backpack to-- AHA. A few crumpled up bits of green. Money! "Everyone does." Fact. He doesn't really care where Jim lives. He also doesn't really seem very certain as to-- what one should do with money, now. So he just sort of stands there with a fist full of way too many green bills for the amount of money it actually /is/, considering their value. Uh. It just sort of-- gets left in a crumpled pile on the table in front of him. "Do you want to keep them?" He repeats, once more. The spiders seem unwilling to move. Snuggly up against Jim's barky skin, which is much better than the seems of Ivan's coat. They love the arm so. How the hell does Jim get into these positions? He looks down at his arm a last time, tapping his fingers while he slowly winds in the treebark -- of his hands, the knuckles growing fleshier while they layered sheets of bark fade to flaky psoriasis-like roughness. The the rest of his arm, is left bark-ish and rough. SIGH."Why not." He fishes inside his jacket for his own wallet. The happy little spiders remain happy. Ivan's been travelling and spiders? They sleep too! Which is what they appear to be doing for now. Ivan seems content with Jim's answer, giving a nod in return. Good, good. He turns, then, and after slinging the book-laden backpack onto his back again, walks off toward the door without so much as a good bye. Foods: acquired. Knowledge: had. Spiders: adopted. Day out alone: success! Jim sits back with his coffee. And, new passengers stowed, resumes people watching out the window. Because people. WEIRD. | |
