ArchivedLogs:Cut Man

Cut Man
Dramatis Personae Arturo, Trib
In Absentia	2014-03-06 Trib meets a handsome new doctor -- and immediately offers him a job. Kind of.
Location <NYC> Common Ground Clinic - Clinton
A dingy waiting room with a line of rickety chairs, a small glass table with a set of permanently out-of-date magazines, a set of plastic holding racks with a number of informational pamphlets about STIs and partner abuse. This place is not, to be sure, the most cheerful on earth, but for many of its clientele it is the best they have. The Common Ground Clinic's staff provides free and low-cost medical care on a sliding scale to many of Manhattan's poorest residents, without checking for insurance, immigration status or many other things that bar entry for many of them to traditional medical care. There is counselling available, too, and once a week social workers to help people find resources for getting on their feet. The wait times are long, but the volunteer staff here is dedicated (if always overworked.) One of the convenient things about living in Clinton is the proximity to the Common Ground Clinic, ensuring that there's adequate medical care available without needing insurance. Which is probably why Trib is here. After a particularly long wait in the crowded lobby, the boxer was finally shown to an examination room with the promise that someone would be with him shortly. Now, forty-five mintues later, the boxer does not look happy as he sits on the paper-covered table. He's stripped to the waist, revealing a nasty-looking bruise coming up along his ribcage, and he has a cloth pressed to a spot over his swollen eye. His jaw is set in something of a sullen look, and he lazily kicks one booted toe at the wastebasket nearby, his kicks getting harder and harder as time drags on. The worst thing about the free clinic business is the wait - both for the patient and for the doctor. When the doctor finally gets in to see the patient, they're generally cranky from the long way. Arturo picks up the chart from the door to the examination room, takes a deep breath, then opens up the door. "Mister Jones. Sorry for the wait. I'm Doctor Ridley. What can I help you with today?" Trib looks at the door when it opens, his golden hawk-like stare taking in the doctor's appearance as he looks over the chart. "Call me Trib," he grunts, shifting his weight. His mouth presses tight at the question, and he rolls his shoulder with a wince. "Got clipped good by my sparrin' partner," he says, gesturing with his half-hand at his ribcage. "Mother fucker got me good in the kisser, too." He lowers the cloth to reveal a split in the skin above his eye. It's fresh-looking, or would have been a couple of hours prior. Now it's a mass of slowly-scabbing tissue weeping fluid gently. "Need to get patched up, so I can fight next week." "Well, that's refreshing. Normally the fight wounds I patch up are from back alley brawls, not ones sustained in a ring," When Arturo speaks, he does so by not moving his lips very much. His irises are a rather vibrant shade of green, ringed in black. He also appears to be wearing black nailpolish and his nails are a touch long for a man. Those quickly disappear into a pair of blue gloves. "Looks like you're going to need a couple of stitches." "Hah." Trib's laugh is without emotion, and he exhales heavily. "I ain't scrapped in the street since I was a kid. I'd rather get it out in the ring." He shifts again, lowering the cloth to rest it against the paper liner. He doesn't seem overly bothered by the nail polish or the weird eyes, although he does give them a good scrutiny before nodding and looking away towards the wall. "Figured I'd need stitches. Bled like a fuckin' pig on the subway." He grins a hard, razor-sharp grin. "Good news is I got to sit by myself for once." He knits his good brow, and tips his head at the other man. "You worked here long? I don't recognize you." "I'm a floater. I do fill-in shifts at a series of clinics across the city." Arturo picks up a swab and then reaches out to start cleaning his wound. "If you know I'm not usually here, that means you're a regular." Once he's cleaned the worst of the gore away, he gets the disinfectant. "This is going to sting, but not half as much as when you first got hit." "Live in the neighborhood," Trib explains, hunching forward to make his forehead more accessible. "'s handy for this kind of thing." The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-grin, and he shakes his head at the warning. "Doc, I ain't worried about a little pain," he says with a chuff of a laugh. "You'd fuckin' shit if I told you some of the shit I been through." "I'm sure I would," drawls Arturo. "I can just have a look at your chart to have an idea of how much punishment you can take." He has a steady, gentle hand. The stinging is minimal. "I tried boxing once." He purses his lips. "It was a bad idea. For a couple of reasons." Like the fact that he can break human noses too easily, and the part that wakes up his animal temper. Trib huffs another laugh, wincing a bit as he does so. "Not all of the shit I get is in a fuckin' file, Doc," he rumbles, his good eye crinkling a bit. "But that's a good place to start, I guess." He inhales a bit at the cool touch of the swab, but he doesn't seem to be in any discomfort from it. When Arturo mentions his attempt at boxing, the big man's eyebrows raise a fraction before he remembers what's happening and lowers them again. "No shit? Yeah, I can see that," he says. "You'd probably be a monster in the welterweights." He inhales through his nose, considering that a long moment. "Why was it a bad idea?" "Mhmm. I'm a pretty cool-headed guy, but I can lose my temper sometimes. And when I lose my temper, I lose focus. Then I'm not participating in a sport - I'm just beating the shit out of a guy." Arturo finishes swabbing the wound, then applies a numbing agent before going for needle and stitch. "Shouldn't be too many to close the wound up. You can lie down or stay sitting up. Your choice." "You had a shit trainer, then," Trib declares, answering the question of how he'll get the stitches by laying back on the table. He rolls his neck, and stares at the ceiling. "Boxin' is about /keepin'/ control. Any fuck can beat the shit out of any other fuck. It's a fuckin' /art/ to not kill 'em." He purses his lips. "But, I guess there are some guys who just can't get that. First time their vision goes all red an' blurry, they're fuckin' maniacs." He grins a hard smile at the ceiling. "'Course, them fuckers is easier'n shit to beat." He turns his head to watch Arturo for a moment. "If you wanted to take it up again, I could maybe hook you up with a guy." "Wasn't my trainer's fault. He tried everything. I'd do well, up to a point. Couple rounds, whole fights sometimes. But then things would get heated, and I'd...well, I'd see red, as you say." Arturo starts to stitch. Speaking of arts. The stitches are quick and precise, with as little pain as can be expected under the circumstance. "And then I'd be one of those fuckers who was easy to beat up. Or I'd keep punching after the bell rang." He finishes off the stitches, then reaches for butterfly bandages to knit up the edges. "I think I'm better off sticking with aikido. But thanks." Trib takes the stitching and the explanation without much visible reaction. "Some guys is like that," he rumbles thoughtfully, lacing his fingers loosely over his stomach. At the mentioned alternative, he snorts, and wrinkles his nose. "Eh. That fuckin' Japanese stuff leaves me cold," he says. "All that hoppin' around an' screamin'...I just don't get it." He frowns, suddenly, before pursing his lips. "My boyfriend's Japanese," he offers in way of explanation. "But he don't do that kind of stuff. He's one of them scrapper types." "Aikido is about the transfer of energy. An aikido master could take down a boxer, because he'd use his own energy against him." Arturo grins. He grins a bit too wide unconsciously, showing the edges of unusual teeth. "Mhmm. I can tell you haven't been in a fight with a martial artist. If so, you'd understand what all the hopping around is for." If 'boyfriend' gives him any pause at all, he doesn't show it. "I fought one of them MMA fighters, once or twice," Trib says, furrowing his brow. "She was a dirty fuckin' fighter, but I don't know if she was what you'd call a martial artist. You mean like Bruce Lee an' shit, right?" he verifies, lifting his head to look at the doctor. The grin gets a small narrowing of the big man's eyes, but he doesn't remark on it, instead pushing up into a sitting position. "Yeah. I don't know if she was that...whatayacallit. Disciplined." "MMA...has the trappings of martial arts without the spiritual discipline. I feel like it's one of those situations where it's more than the sum of its parts. When you chop up different disciplines and only take the parts you like, you lose the integrity of it." Arturo shrugs. "But hey, who am I to judge? I'm not even that great at aikido." He nods towards Trib's side. "You want me to look at that too?" "Hah." Trib's grunt /almost/ sounds like a laugh. "You're one of them purists. I can respect that." He sounds like he means it, too, nodding firmly. "If you like it, fuck whether you're good or not. Unless you want to fuckin' compete." He regards Arturo once more, sweeping his gaze from floor to hairline. "Which I get the feelin' you ain't keen on doin'." There's a jerk of a nod at Arturo's offer, the boxer easing his arm back to make the area more accessible. "Think I just banged 'em up," he says. "Don't feel like nothin's broken in there. Just sore." He falls silent for a moment before speaking again. "You from New York?" "Nope. I haven't lost my temper during aikido, which is why I keep doing it. Plus it's more about saving your own ass than being offensive." Arturo examines the bruised area with light touches. "There's some swelling, and it's going to be a hell of a bruise, but I don't think you did any serious damage." He rocks back and snaps off the gloves. Then he reaches for a pen to make a note on the chart. "Maine. But I've been here the last five years or so." "I guess I ain't right for aki, then," Trib says, grinning sharply. "'Cause I can be offensive as /fuck/." He falls silent as his side is prodded, his teeth grinding lightly at a particularly sore place. "That's kind of what I figured," he says with a nod of his head. "I'm pretty fuckin' durable, but I've had enough busted ribs to know when I've got 'em." His eyebrows hike a tetch when Arturo reveals his origins, and he looks mildly impressed. "Maine? No wonder you ain't got no temper for boxin'. Maine's full of hot headed fuckers." This is a statement of fact, clearly, given the dispassionate way Trib renders this stereotype. "Worst fight I had was with a guy from Maine. Damned near kicked my ass." Arturo laughs. It makes him laugh enough that he forgets to keep his lips closed. Pointed canines are briefly visible. "Well, I'm not going to argue." He rocks back to scoop up a prescription pad. "You don't need anything prescription, but make sure to pick up some bactine. And some extra-strength ibuprofen. Come back in about a week to have your stitches removed. Keep the wound clean." Trib smirks as Arturo laughs, and hops off the table to stand and stretch gingerly. He leans to glance into the polished metal of the cabinet and regard the doctor's handiwork. He runs the fingers of his half-hand along the stitched area (so much for Bactine), and grunts approvingly. "Can't do aspirin or shit like that," he rumbles, moving to pluck up a green button-down shirt and wrestle into it. "Don't do nothin' for me. I'll be all right." He nods at the time frame. "Good. They'll be out before my bout next week." He smirks, and pauses in buttoning his shirt to look at Arturo thoughtfully. "You ever thought about doin' cut work?" "I can give you something stronger. Something to take the edge off. But it'd be a small prescription. They're pretty strict about not giving out large quantities of the good stuff without good reason in this neighbourhood." Arturo rips off the prescription and hands it over to Trib. "What, you mean like patching up people ringside? Haven't thought of it, no. Sort of goes against my training as a doctor to patch people up so they can keep taking punishment." "Nah," Trib says, shaking his head at the offer. "None of that shit works on me, unless it's strong as shit." He finishes buttoning up his shirt, then undoes his jeans, shoving them open to start tucking his shirt tails inside. He takes the prescription, though, poking it into a breast pocket with a small, almost apologetic smile. "That's too bad," he says as he finishes tucking and buttons up his jeans again. "I could use a good cut man in my corner next week. The ring provides me with one, but I'd fuckin' rather have someone I've at least fuckin' met doin' that kind of shit." "You could take the one assigned to you out for coffee," says Arturo in an even tone of voice and a little tug up at the corner of his lips. "Is this a paying gig? I can't imagine you've got much to spare if this is your clinic of choice." "I guess so," Trib says, wrinkling his nose as he reaches for his jacket. "But those guys are usually fuckin' rummies, an' ain't much for conversin'. /An'/ they stink." His eyes (eye) crinkle at this assessment, and then he's snorting a bit. "Fuck yeah, it pays," he says. "I ain't askin' for no /favors/. I got money, an' if I win, I'll have /more/ fuckin' money." He jerks a thumb towards the lobby. "Just 'cause I come here instead of goin' to some hospital where they ask a lot of fuckin' questions don't mean I'm some dirtbag freeloader." He huffs a bit as he works his jacket on. "Payin' gig," he grunts (mostly to himself) in disbelief. "Fuck yeah, it pays. Two hundred dollars, an' five percent of the purse, if I win. I call /that/ a fuckin' payin' gig." Arturo considers. He taps his pen against his hand. "I didn't mean to offend," he murmurs, tone as mellow as ever. "But you do understand that most people don't come here by choice. The long waits are a pain in the ass, for one." His tone turns wry. "Look. I'm not a huge fan of patching people up just so they can /technically/ keep fighting. But I'm not too proud to admit that I need the money. These clinics don't pay much." "I know people here got it bad," Trib says, wrinkling his nose. "I didn't mean they was all freeloadin'. But fuck, Doc. I wouldn't offer you no /non/-payin' thing. It ain't like we're fuckin' besties or whatever." He spreads his hands and makes a 'it is what it is' sort of expression. "It's a fuckin' serious offer," he says, reaching up to tap at his stitches. "You do good work. An' if you need the money...." He shrugs, and lifts his eyebrows as he heads for the door. "I'm goin' to go settle up an' get out of here," he says. "You got my number on file, there. Call me if you're fuckin' interested, an' we'll have /coffee/." He huffs a laugh, and raises his hand. "See you 'round, Doc." "Don't forget the Bactine! If you end up with an infection, well, I can't help you if you've got pus dribbling down your face." Arturo shakes his head and chuckles. He makes a few notes on Trib's chart. "I'll think about it!"