ArchivedLogs:Care Bears

Care Bears
/And/ Care Bear Cousins
Dramatis Personae Micah, Trib
In Absentia	11 July 2013 Talks over dinerfood. Deliberately!
Location <NYC> Home - Greenwich Village
Nestled into the heart of the Village, Home is an unobtrusive place, with an unobtrusive name to match. A nondescript storefront opens up into an equally nondescript cafe, plain tiled floors, an assortment of veneered tables with plain wooden chairs or booths with cracking vinyl benches. What it /does/ have to recommend it is the food, hearty solid breakfast and brunch served twenty-four hours a day. Known to locals and little frequented by tourists, its friendly serving staff tend to remember their regulars, giving the place a warm feel that lives up to its name. It has been another warm, muggy day in the city. The clouds occasionally /spit/ down at the streets, but never quite decided to give the full respite of a rain. So the little, homey diner seems a bit more inviting for its air conditioning today. Micah has already wedged himself right into the corner of a booth with a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee, since he was already on his way to the restaurant before he texted Trib an invite to /food/. He is still dressed in work clothes, a TARDIS blue polo shirt over khakis. An odd crosshatching pattern in hunter green runs up his left forearm, seemingly at random. His gaze is focused downward at a phone in his hand, swiping periodically at its screen. Trib is not far behind Micah in his arrival, so he must have been close. Dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a grey t-shirt with a vintage Rocky logo across the front, his shaggy hair is damp and pushed back behind his ears. In his hand, he's got a gym bag that he tucks up under the table before he slides into the booth, waiting until he lands before he grunts a greeting. This close, he smells of soap and minty shampoo. "So, now you're officially the worst stalker," he rumbles, crinkling his eyes. "I mean, what stalker goes around textin' their stalkees?" Micah shuts off the screen to his phone, tucking it away in a pants pocket immediately once there is an /in person/ person present! “Evenin' t'you, too, Sunshine,” he greets with a bright smile. “What can I say? I'm too impatient t'wait for people to end up in places where I can be at random without lookin' too /suspicious/.” He pulls a laminated menu from its storage spot between a napkin dispenser and a bottle of ketchup, sliding it in front of Trib. “Food here's actually pretty good. If you like brunchy foods. I had a terrible craving for hash browns.” Trib chuckles. "You should have just stuck around outside," he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "You woulda gotten lucky. I was just down the street at the gym." He takes the menu when it's offered, skimming his eyes over the placard. "I love breakfast food," he rumbles. "Eggs are a big part of my diet, an' I ain't met a plate of fried potatoes that I didn't like." His smile tips sideways, and he wrinkles his nose, deciding quickly, and dropping the menu to look at the smaller man more closely. "What's that on your arm?" he wonders, leaning forward to peer at it. "Looks like you leaned against paint or some shit." Micah actually doesn't make the obvious joke at Trib's word choice! But he is ridiculously easy to read, one eyebrow lifted slightly before he feels the need to look down at his orange juice. Deciding to drink from the glass isn't much of a cover. “Hm, I guess I picked well, then. I figure I'm /really/ just cravin' salt because of all the sweaty weather.” Trib's comment causes him to lift up his own arm for inspection. “Oh, that! It's dye. From a fibreglass cast. Hazard of the trade. It's how I take moulds to make orthoses from. But I'm usually putting them on wiggly kid feet that don't /want/ 'em put on in the first place. Kickin' happens while they're still dryin' sometimes,” he explains, rubbing a finger over the marks. “It doesn't go away until the top layer of skin comes off, though.” Trib putting down the menu serves as the universal server summoning gesture. A middle aged woman with glasses and ash blonde hair moseys over slowly to take orders, without writing anything down. Micah settles on banana blueberry pancakes with a side of hashbrowns, please, before nodding to Trib. "Maybe you got good instincts," Trib rumbles, his lopsided grin sliding wider. "Or I'm just a predictable kind of guy. Which could be true." He chuckles and leans back, rolling his neck. "Yeah, I worked up a good sweat durin' my workout, but showerin' after wasn't much of a help, once I stepped outside." He cocks his head at the explanation for the markings, and his eyebrows hitch upwards. "Oh, wow. That's cool," he grunts. "So it's kind of like a temporary tattoo or somethin'. But don't it itch, bein' fiberglass?" Trib breaks off when the server appears, and offers her a wide smile. "Six eggs, over medium, six pieces of bacon extra crispy, and whole wheat toast dry. An' some of them fried potatoes with onions an' garlic." He offers another wide smile with teeth as he tucks the menu back in its makeshift holder. "An' can I get a big glass of orange juice? Thanks." Once the woman has moved away, he offers an apologetic wrinkle of his nose to Micah. "I kind of worked up an appetite." Micah's own grin readily answers Trib's, never far from showing itself at any given time. “Yeah, I wish it would just /rain/ already an' cut through some of the /humid/,” he agrees with a headshake. “Kinda, only less temporary an' less deliberate. Does itch some. Less'n you'd think, since it's mostly the dye that sticks an' not as much of the fibreglass itself, though.” He giggles at bit at Trib's explanation of his order. “Needed a little protein after the workout, I take it?” His hand switches from juice glass to mug, delivering coffee to his mouth this time. Because caffeine is good! Trib wrinkles his nose, and nods. "Yeah, I'm sick of feelin' like I'm swimmin' every time I go to the subway," he rumbles. "An' this spittin' rain is just fuckin' cocktease." He rolls his neck again, and chuckles at the assessment. "Yeah," he grunts. "I was workin' the weights and the bags pretty good with this guy I met at the gym. He kept up pretty well." Trib is honestly impressed by this fact, and the corners of his mouth pull down briefly. The server swings by, then, dropping off Trib's orange juice and a glass of ice water before disappearing again. So Trib has something to sip at while he watches the older man. "So what have you been up to, other'n getting smacked around by kids in wet casts?" “Oh, did you meet another boxer? Must be good t'be able t'get back to a regular kinda practice.” Micah smiles at the thought of Trib getting into the swing of things again. “I really don't know how you go about...startin' boxin' things. At all,” he admits with a helpless sort of shrug. “Ain't like somethin' y'can type up resumes an' go on interviews for, don't seem, anyhow.” He runs a finger idly along the curve of his mug's handle. “Mostly the usual for me. Work, home, friends stuff. Bit of a Fourth of July cookout thing for the apartment building I'm in.” "Nah, he wasn't no boxer," Trib says, setting his glass back on the table. "Just some guy I guess lives in the neighborhood. Seemed kind of high-class. Good guy, though. Might be able to put me in touch with some of the right people." He grins, and lifts a shoulder. "Most boxers get scouted to a gym," he says. "A proper training gym, I mean. Working for an owner, under contract." He lifts his hand and wobbles it in the air. "So it's just a matter of getting in some non-contract bouts in front of the right people." He listens as Micah answers his question, head tilting to one side. "I stayed in for the Fourth," he says. "I thought about goin' up to the roof of my buildin' to watch the fireworks, but in my neighborhood, you can't be sure if it's fireworks or guns that're poppin' off." “High-class punchin' of things. Very fancy,” Micah assesses with a smirk curling his lips. “Nice t'have somebody t'keep pace with you, though.” He stops playing with the mug long enough to take another swallow from it. “That all sounds...complicated. How d'you get the non-contract stuff started?” The guns worry receives a nod in reply. “Yeah, that's not exactly safe. Whether it's celebratory shootin' up at nothin' or the other kind, either way... Speakin' of your buildin', though, how is the new place comin' along?” "Hey," Trib protests, wrinkling his nose. "Boxin' is called 'the gentleman's sport' for a reason." He doesn't seem overly offended by the tease, dropping back against the seat and lifting his shoulder. "It's not easy," he admits. "Gettin' seen. I'm gonna have to go to some open fights, where you just sign up whether you got a manager or not." He frowns. "I'd still need a trainer, though," he says slowly. "Someone sittin' in my corner, to patch me up an' shit." He lifts his shoulder again, and shakes his head. "I'll get it figured, though." The question of his new place gets a wide smile, and the big man rolls his neck with an audible cracking. "Oh, it's comin'," he says. "It ain't got much furniture, though. Just that card table and a couple of chairs, one of which is from my old room at my dad's house." He rolls his eyes. "I gotta find a sheet to cover it with, though. It's got /cowboys/ all over it." He says this as if the cowboys were made of flesh-eating bacteria. Micah just grins back at the somewhat-offense at the somewhat-tease, letting it sit where it is. “Best of luck with that. I'm less than no help on that front. Don't even know people who know people.” He sits up a bit straighter as the server returns with a tray full of plates, setting them down one at a time in front of the appropriate patrons. “Thanks, hon,” Micah interrupts himself to send a smile the woman's way before returning to the conversation. “S'a good start. But cowboys? Really?” He seems /tickled/ by the idea. “That is just too precious.” Though it is apparently not precious enough for even a beat of pause before applying his fork to the fruit decorating his pancakes. A blueberry is stabbed against a banana slice before the pair disappears into his mouth. Almost as an afterthought, he picks up the little ceramic container of blueberry syrup to pour over the pancakes. Trib grins. "That's okay," he grunts. "I was gettin' a name for myself before I got popped, so there's a good chance that people might remember me, once I get back in the ring." He also has a smile for the server, waiting until she's walked away before he reaches for the pepper, shaking it liberally over his eggs. "I hate that chair," he confesses. "Mostly on account of them cowboys. I ain't even goin' to try an' tell you what it was like, growin' up with my dad." He grins, and reaches for the bottle of Cholula that in the condiment caddy. "Hopefully, the office will open back up soon, an' I'll be able to afford some actual furniture." He dips his head to the side with a small, amused tug of his mouth. "Or I'll wait 'till the first of the month, an' see what gets put out on the curb." Micah's fork moves on to pick at his little side plate of hashbrowns. “Cowboy'n Western everythin', I take it?” he ventures a guess between bites. “What conditions is your boss waitin' on for openin'? Or would he close up altogether if anti-mutant sentiments keep bein' as high as they are? 'Cause it seems like a new /incident/ is just ready t'step on in every time things cool off even a /breath/.” His lips press together tightly, clearly not pleased with his own analysis. A bit of the frustration spills into cutting bites of pancake with the side of his fork, which he does a shade forcefully. Sprinkling Cholula on his eggs, Trib shrugs. "I ain't exactly sure," he admits. "I ain't really talked to him since he closed up, so I ain't sure what he's waitin' on. But." He cuts into his eggs, finally, allowing yolk to ooze onto the plate and mix with the hot sauce. "I don't think he's the kind to just pack it in that easy. He might be kind of a lightnin' rod, but he's a good guy." He grunts, shoveling a big bite of egg into his mouth, licking a bit of yolk from his lip. "He ain't the type to give up so quick, no matter what crazy shit is goin' down." He waves the tines of his fork at his temple. "Between you an' me, I don't think he's really a big thinker. But his heart's in the right place." He picks up a piece of bacon, then, and crunches into it, shattering it so that he has to catch the pieces. "But you got a point. The city could use a fuckin' breather. Some honest-to-God good news, an' shit." Micah busies himself with creating a little stack of pancake, banana, and blueberry on his fork. “Might not be a bad idea t'check in on 'im. An' ask that question. Y'got a right t'know when you're likely t'have work again. Even if the answer's a little abstract, it's a better idea than 'prob'ly sometime',” he suggests before munching on the little pile of sweetness. “Trouble is that don't everybody agree on what would constitute /good/ news, far as all this is concerned.” He dabs at a bit of stray syrup at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. "I was goin' to call him on Monday," Trib says, shifting his fork to his fried potatoes, spearing several on his fork and lifting them to his mouth. They do not make it inside, though. Trib's fork pauses in front of his lips, and he actually looks a bit green as he puts the potatoes back on the plate, tapping his fork solidly to remove them. "This city could use a epidemic of common sense an' insight," he grunts, going back to his eggs, grabbing a triangle of toast to push a yolky bite onto his fork. "/That/ would be some good fuckin' news. If people just understood each other." “S'a good idea,” Micah reiterates, still working on his own plates. “Man, wouldn't /that/ be the day? I feel like it would take summonin' a whole /troupe/ of Care Bears to pull off that feat.” His expression is torn somewhere between tired and amused at this idea. “Can't even get people to /talk/ anymore. Folks is just too jumpy on account of all the crazy.” Trib laughs. "Man, you'd need all the Care Bears /an'/ the Care Bear Cousins to pull that shit off," he says, eyes twinkling in amusement. Then he wags his fork at the smaller man. "Bet you didn't know I watched Care Bears as a kid," he says. "Before she took off, my mom kind of insisted that I watch more'n the Lone Ranger an' Roy Rogers." He wrinkles his nose, and ducks his head, shoveling more egg onto his fork. This seems like a happier topic to follow, and he jerks his chin upwards. "I should tell you about the Halloween I went out dressed as some weird hybrid of Peter Pan an' Gene Autry, 'cause they couldn't agree on what I was gonna wear." He snorts a laugh. "See, /I/ wanted to go as fuckin' Captain /Hook/, but Pop was set on me bein' a singing cowboy...." And he proceeds to tell that story, acting out the more outrageous bits with fork pantomime. It's not a long story, but it leads into others, from both of them, and that takes them neatly through the end of the meal. The city might be lacking a dose of happy, but there's plenty to spare in this corner booth. At least for now.