ArchivedLogs:Beans and Boxing

Beans and Boxing
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Micah, Trib
In Absentia	2014-01-24 Mel, meet Trib.
Location <NYC> Montagues - SoHo
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. Evening comes about in the city early, taller buildings eclipsing the setting sun long before it disappears into the horizon. There is just the faintest hint of light in the west and deep shadows across the streets. The street lights are on, making it easy enough to get around outside, but few stay there because it is so. Cold. Montagues is busy as people stop by with coworkers after hours and snag a bite to eat before beginning their weekend. The line is moving fast, but there are not as many places to sit, as customers are lingering over hot beverages instead of facing the brutal chill outside. Melinda surfaces from the back where her office is and makes her way around the countertops, a stack of papers in hand, checking in with people before leaving the safe embrace of the service counters. Instead of her typical black and white, she's changing things up, wearing a large and comfy lavender sweater dress over leggings. The loose cable knit over her front shows a burgeoning swell of belly, her height making it a little less outward facing. She spends a little more time at the hot water taps, pouring herself a pot of hot water over a fragrant mix of berries and white tea. She replaces the top to let it steep. Micah is dressed very much like the outdoors could be the /arctic/. He has fleece wrap-around earmuffs on /under/ his Jayne hat, an oversized candy corn striped scarf wrapped from under his eyes down to his shoulders, an olive green puffy coat, and double-layered gloves. The khakis showing between coat and shoes seem somewhat inadequate in comparison. He is carrying a pair of neon orange forearm crutches with snow/ice attachments on their tips once he enters the establishment, though he moves first for the restroom. Snowy rush hour traffic means that sometimes you just have to bail to /pee/, seriously. When he returns his winter accessories have all been stuffed into the pockets of his coat, which in turn is slung over his arm. The crutches are holstered in a carrying sling, crosswise on his back over his TARDIS blue polo shirt. His auburn hair is a more spectacularly mussed mess than usual for having been under-hat. With the secondary objective of Hot Beverage now free for pursuit, he moves to the end of the line. Trib does not look like the type of person who belongs in Soho. He's too big, too rough-looking, and in no way fashion-savvy. But here he is, pushing through the doors to Montague's and frowning at the line before he steps forward. Dressed in jeans and a thick-looking flannel shirt under his army surplus flack jacket, with a knit cap shoved low on his head and black fingerless gloves on his hands, he looks like he could just be another cabbie on a break. The boxer makes a show of studying the menu boards as he slowly advances towards the end of the line, occasionally dropping his gaze to take in the other patrons. Patrons like Micah, who is just ahead of him. Trib's eyes narrow sharply, and the rumbling noise from his chest could be anything -- a grunt or a groan, it's hard to tell. "Fuckin' hell." While her tea steeps, Melinda turns and starts helping out, fetching things that the cashiers normally grab, like plating pastries and pouring regular cups of coffee. She is rather focused, for the moment, on getting the customers immediately at the register helped and doesn't quite notice Micah just yet. Trib does get a quick look when he swears, lips pursing in response. "Yes, your sandwich order can be picked up in a minute over at the sandwich counter. Thank you for coming," she responds to the older gentleman in front of her. The menu doesn't need much attention from Micah, having settled on his mocha order before he'd arrived. As such, the grumbling cursing behind him readily draws his gaze. He blinks for a moment. "Oh, Trib, hi." His cheeks colour faintly, soft pink about the cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. "Uh. Come t'think of it. Prob'ly I have some information for you. If y'want it. After I get m'hands free again." His fingertips drum against the fabric of his coat. "Also, as a point of interest. Not /right now/, but often enough. Shane works here. Mostly in the back, though. An' not right now. Just. Y'know. Forewarnin'." His attention is called away to place his simple coffee order as he reaches the front of the line. He does so and steps aside, his eyes catching Mel's form behind the counter as he moves. Said eyes settle on her stomach and widen slightly. Between his fluster at seeing Trib and then.../that/ being rather unexpected, he doesn't manage a greeting at first. Trib's expression is parked in its mildly-annoyed neutral state when Micah turns around, although color is creeping up into the boxer's ears. "Hey," he grunts, shifting his gaze off to one side and blinking a glare at an overly-curious patron. The mention of information gets a sharp swivel of the boxer's head, and his brow lowers. "What kind of information?" he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Hope it's fuckin' good news, at least." It's a sincere, if gruff, hope that brings a roll to his shoulders. "Speakin' of...congratulations, I fuckin' guess." He wrinkles his nose, stepping forward as the line does. "On gettin' hitched." The warning gets a deeper crease of the boxer's forehead, and he looks over the counter towards the kitchen. "Yeah, that figures," he says, as if this is no big surprise at all. "I don't usually fuckin' come in here. This ain't my neighborhood." He sniffs. "So it shouldn't be a problem. Wouldn't be, nohow." Melinda turns around to find Micah at the counter and smiles warmly, setting down the last person's cup of coffee before her hands are free to wave. "Hey, Micah." She keeps it simple, as the other person next to him seems to be talking to him. "What can I get you guys?" she prompts as the line behind them is technically still waiting. She touches the arm of the cashier, whose name tag reads 'Jolene' and tells her, "I'm going to say hi in a minute." There's a nod in Micah's direction. "You think you can handle it for a bit?" "Sure thing, Boss," Jolene replies, smiling in a perky yet sarcastic fashion. Her fingers wait at the ready to take Micah and Trib's orders. Melinda turns back to her tea to put it on a tray with a cup and her stack of papers and turns to get out from behind the counter. "Just the...money thing. That I'd talked t'you about a long time ago. /Finally/ got sorted. There's a lawyer handlin' it. I should give you her contact information," Micah answers Trib softly. His blush ramps from pale pinks to slightly brighter reds at the congratulations. "Um...thanks." At Melinda's greeting, he manages to stop what was on the borderline of becoming /staring/ at her. "Oh! Hi, Mel! It...really has been entirely too long since we talked." There is a slightly odd cadence to this statement. He nods to Jolene. "Just the tall mocha. Splash of almond milk if y'have it. Soy if not. No...food things or anythin'." Trib's eyes crinkle at the corners when Micah explains the information, and he jerks his chin towards his chest sharply. "'Sgood. Should come in handy." He shifts his weight, glancing down at his boots thoughtfully as he stamps them gently. He shakes his head when Micah thanks him, his mouth pulling into a tight line. When Melinda addresses them, he lifts his chin, furrowing his brow in her direction. "You're the chick from the shelter," he declares in lieu of ordering. "Didn't know you worked here." Which seems to be all the greeting he'll be offering, as he shifts to actual ordering. "Coffee. Strongest an' biggest you got. An' two of them bagel sandwich things with the lox an' roasted peppers." "Okie dokie, One tall mocha with almond milk, one very big dark roast, and two bagel'n'lox sandwiches with roasted red pepper." Jolene replies. "Together or separate?" she asks, smiling expectantly at the pair. Melinda is busily making her way around the counter, setting down her clipboard and tray as she moves over to give Micah a hug, trying not to distract him too much from paying. "It hasn't been that long, has it? I was practically living with you a month and a half ago." She slows down her speech when the words sink in, her brows rising. "How are you? News seems favorable for you guys for once." Trib is eyed, her spine straightening with his declaration. "Yeah. Have to make a living some how. They can't really pay me at the shelter. I'm Mel." And you are? "Yeah, I hope so. For all the folks as were...there. It ended up bein' a fair decent amount." Micah's fingers fidget at the fabric of his coat. "Separate, please, Miss," he requests with a slight nod of his head. He slips a few bills onto the counter before returning Melinda's hug with a tight squeeze. "Feel like it's always too long. Kinda...holed up with the whole...terrorist mess." He chews at his lip briefly, the worrying interrupted by a bright smile at the mention of favourable news. "Oh/gosh/. I can't...tell you. How much happier things've been. Since Jax an' Dusk an' Flicker came home. S'like somebody turned the /sun/ back on. It's...been. Good. Needed some good." His head tilts as he looks back at her. "How're you doin' these days?" "Yeah. Separate," Trib confirms Micah's instruction, reaching for his back pocket. "'Sgood it was a lot. Lots of people got fucked in that shit. Think my friend Sloan lost her fuckin' gym. Phone's disconnected." He wrinkles his nose, and licks his thumb to begin searching for money to pay while Mel and Micah talk. When Micah mentions the family's most recent problem, the boxer snorts. "That was a bunch of horseshit. Fuckin' cops're dirty all the fuckin' way up." He's actually offering Jolene a wide, certain smile as he says this, plunking his money on the counter. When Melinda addresses him, he grunts a laugh-like noise, and nods. "Yeah, I know somethin' about workin' for a non-profit," he says sympathetically. "'m Trib." "I believe surprised and overwhelmed kind of covers it. Moving past the freaked out stage a little at a time." Once the two have paid and received their initial drinks, she sort of nudges them away from the counter, finding a table rather easily - as the busboy waited to clear it until he saw she was ready. She puts her tea down and takes a seat, looking up at Micah and Trib to see if they'll join her. "I'm glad things are starting to settle out. I wanted to come by, but I was really feeling up to much health wise for a while." She pours herself a cup of tea, delicious strawberry scents wafting through the air. "Nice to meet you, Trib." She doesn't say much about the cops. "Oh, sor--that's a shame." Micah switches statements mid-stream to avoid Forbidden Word, his eyebrows dipping toward each other. "People went through enough without all that after." He nods agreement with Trib's colourful assessment. "It's...I'm just glad some good came of it, an' we got our folks back home. The people runnin' the labs startin' t'be held t'task for the horrors they committed." He stops at Mel's table to place his coat over the back of a chair, freeing up his hands to pull a business card from his back pocket (one of his own, for Gorilla AT) and scribble Claire Basil's name and contact information on the back. He doesn't sit, rather handing this card to Trib. "This is the lawyer who can settle up with you. Hope...it helps some." Moving beside Mel's seat, he dips slightly to give her another little hug. "Oh, honey, I hope you're feelin' better. I hate t'hear that... I'd really love t'stay an' chat but Jax'n the boys are waitin' on me. I really just ran in t'use the facilities an' grab somethin' warm for the rest of the drive home." Standing, he retrieves his coat and dons his layers and layers of winter gear in preparation for heading back outside. "Please give me a call soon, though. Oh, or come over! That'd be even better. Jax wants t'see /everybody/." Once he's completely swaddled in cloth he gives a little wave. "Good luck, Trib. An' love, Mel...see y'soon, I hope!" And with that he's back out the door. "Lots of people lost shit," Trib says to Micah, lifting a shoulder as he reaches for his cup of coffee. "Hell, I had to live in a fuckin' motel for two or three weeks." He grunts agreement with Micah's further assessment of matters, moving to follow Melinda absently. When she clearly invites them to sit, his brow drops further, and he looks like he might decline the invitation. But then Micah is handing him a card and making /his/ exit, so the boxer seems a bit flummoxed as to what to do, exactly. He can only nod at Micah as he re-wraps himself, vaguely lifting a hand after the redhead as he disappears. He turns a surprised expression on Melinda then, eyes crinkling at the corner. "Figure he's had too much coffee already?" he drawls, and moves into the seat across from the woman. "'Course, he's been like that every fuckin' time I've seen him, so that could be fuckin' /neutral/ for him." "He's just like that," Melinda offers, quietly, her hands wrapping around her mug, feeling the heat seep in from the porcelain to her skin. She blows lightly on the surface but doesn't drink just yet. "In my line of work, we can spot someone who is a little more caffeinated than they should be -- not that we really cut them off. It's not alcohol." She gives a shrug and sets the mug down when it gets a little too hot. The insides of her hands are pinked by the experience. "I've known Micah for a while now. He's a good guy," she adds, looking up at Trib. "How about you?" "Seven or eight months," Trib says, rolling his shoulders. "Met him last year after a thing. Good guy." He nods firmly, and reaches for the sugar, adding a large amount to his cup. "He's helpin' me with a thing..." he wrinkles his nose, replacing the sugar dispenser and shaking his head. "It's kind of complicated." His look is almost apologetic when he looks back at Melinda, and there's a twitch at one corner of his mouth. "But what fuckin' ain't, these days?" "Oh, he finds the most complicated things to get involved in. I've helped him with my fair share, too." Melinda folds her hands on the table top between herself and her mug, smiling pleasantly at Trib. "But yes, the world is complicated and strange these days. Full of terrors and hopefully happy days as well." She wets her lips. "I'm not asking about all your secrets, but why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" She pauses looking over her shoulder, "I think your sandwiches are done though." "Yeah. I don't think he's goin' to be askin' for my help, but he'd get it if he wanted it," Trib says, stirring his coffee and setting the spoon on a napkin before lifting it in a salute. "Here's to happy days, yeah?" He takes a sip without blowing on it, licking his lips after he swallows. "Mmm. 'sgood." When Melinda points out his food's ready, he holds up a finger as he slides from his chair. A moment later, he's back with his plate, a spear of pickle hanging from his mouth. He bites through it as he re-seats himself, chewing quickly to clear his mouth. "'m a boxer," he says, swallowing a second time. "Tryin' to be, at least. Workin' for Cage in the meantime, doin' this an' that." He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. "Moved here from Jersey. You?" "Ah, Luke Cage. Kind of a softie, isn't he?" Melinda draws in a deep breath and tries her tea again, taking only a tiny sip to get the flavor on her tongue without burning it. "I'm from Ohio, originally, but I've been here a fair stretch." She gives him a polite smile and nods to his food as an invitation to just eat. "Tried for theater for a while, but found my calling in coffee and volunteer work. That's the short version." "Cage is a fuckin' bleedin' heart," Trib agrees, eyes crinkling. "But he's tryin' to do the right thing, so it's hard to not fuckin' like the guy." Which /might/ be cheery, coming from the boxer. His rumble is certainly lighter as he delivers this statement. At Melinda's nod, he picks up one of the sandwiches, sniffing at it before taking a large bite. He chews quietly as Melinda talks, reaching for a napkin to wipe half-heartedly at his face before he swallows. "Ohio. I been there, once. Before my mom took off. I think her folks lived there." He lifts his eyebrows, and probes his cheek with his tongue as he regards Melinda thoughtuflly. "You own this place?" he asks, tipping his head towards the room. "No, I am just the head manager. The owner is enjoying her retirement as best she can and is actually down south for the winter." Mel takes another sip, a longer one this time. "She took off pretty quickly when things started going south this fall." She smiles as she sips and sets down the cup, looking up a moment later. "He's trying at least. He fumbles a good deal of the time. If good intentions were the only thing that mattered, he'd be in line for the key to the whole of Manhattan." She scritches at the back of her neck, fingers working up into her hair. "What exactly do you do for him?" "Good for her," Trib says of the owner. "Wish I'd thought of that, rather than holin' up in my place." He smirks a bit at that, leaning forward to take another large bite of his sandwich. He nods at Melinda's assessment of Cage's intentions, and huffs a laugh-like noise. "He'd fuckin' deserve 'em, too," he says, swallowing audibly before taking up his coffee and washing the rest down. "Don't fuckin' get me wrong -- he's a soft bastard, but he's probably my best fuckin' friend in the world." The question gets another shrug, and the boxer leans on the table heavily. "I do all kinds of stuff," he says. "Bodyguardin', mostly. When someone hires us for that. Otherwise, I just do whatever him or Janice tell me to do." He exhales, wiping at his face with the napkin again. "It ain't exactly resume material, but I ain't lookin' to get a regular nine to five, you know?" "Well, you had to do it at the right moment and that moment was before the zombies really started being noticeable... and well, you kind of had to be a little old lady who doesn't want to catch the flu." Melinda shrugs a little. "By the time anyone really knew what was happening, we were all under quarantine - and quite frankly, it's better to be holed up in your apartment than dodging bullets." She listens to his description of his work and nods slowly. "Yeah, That makes sense. You have to train a lot to get anywhere in boxing, no?" "Well, timin' ain't never been my thing," Trib rumbles in amusement, polishing off his sandwich with a final bite and dusting his finger together over the plate. "But I did my fair share of dodging bullets /an'/ zombies. Glad that shit is done." He picks up his other sandwich, using it as a makeshift pointer as he answers the question. "Trainin's a lot of it," he says. "Gettin' noticed is important, too. Findin' the right bouts an' stuff to find the right contract." He takes another bite of sandwich, making a pleased sort of noise as he chews into it. "Got a friend who might can help me with that, though. Thinks he knows some folks. All I need is a ring an' ten rounds." He jerks his chin upward, then, indicating Melinda. "You gonna buy this place when the old lady cashes her ticket in?" "Eh. Don't know if I'll last that long. I have other ideas, getting out of customer service and into the actual bean product," Melinda concedes, lifting her cup to finish off the tea inside. "And I don't exactly make bank working here. For what it's worth, I'd have to have a good deal more money to even make a deposit on it." She pours a half cup from her pot and lets it cool off a bit. "Well, I wish you all the luck with the boxing. Maybe some day, I'll see you on Pay Per View - or at least the announcement about Pay Per View, as I don't really go into watching that "You mean like growin' an' roastin' your own?" Trib asks, eyebrows lifting. "Shit, that's pretty fuckin' impressive." He sounds it, and the corners of his mouth tug downward in new appraisal. "Good luck to you." He takes another couple of bites of sandwich, chewing quickly between each. Then he smiles around his third bite at Melinda's well-wishing. "Watchin' boxin' on TV is okay, if you're into the technical side of it. Which most people are. But you should come an' see a live bout. It's a totally different kind of thing." He quirks a grin, and closes one eye. "If I get a bout, I'll get you a couple of seats." "Growing, no. That also requires a huge investment as well. No. I just want to roast and sell wholesale." Melinda takes up her cup and finishes off the tea. "It's a bit of a pipe dream, but we'll see how things play out." She starts to put her things together. "As for the tickets, I'm sorry. I can't. I appreciate the concept of boxing and understand the exhilaration of being at a sporting event - it is always better than watching it on tv, but I just ... really have no interest. Forgive me." She starts to stand. "Also, unfortunately, my break is up and I need to get back to work. I hope you have a good night." "Still. It's pretty fuckin' impressive," Trib reiterates, polishing off his sandwich and glancing at his watch. "Shit. I didn't realize it was this fuckin' late." When Melinda begs off the tickets, he shrugs, dusting his fingers together. "Hey, it's no sweat," he says. "It ain't for everyone. Me, I find baseball to be borin' as hell, so I get it." He stands at the same time as Melinda, nodding tightly. "Thanks for keepin' me company," he rumbles. "Good luck with." The wave of his hand encompasses a small circle that ends with a negligent wave towards Melinda's midsection. "Everything." He digs in his front pocket, fishing out a couple of singles and dropping them on the table before he lifts a hand and heads for the door, leaving Melinda to her work.