ArchivedLogs:DIY

DIY
Dramatis Personae Regan, Trib
In Absentia	2013-07-16 Trib meets a strange lady in the DIY section.
Location <NYC> Strand Books - East Village
The Strand manages to pack a whole lot of character into one bookstore, but they have a lot of space to fit it in. They advertise themselves as having eighteen miles of books, and whether or not that is true, it certainly is true that they have an enormous number of shelves packed into their rows and rows and rows of books. A book-lover's haven, this East Village landmark boasts an enormous collection of volumes of all types among their stacks, crammed into the narrow aisles. Well-known for their rare and out-of-print collection, they have many hard to find volumes tucked away in their labyrinth of shelves as well. It's oh so hot in New York, today. With no clouds to shield the sun and no wind to carry the cooler air of the ocean inland, the temperature is hovering around the century mark, broiling those residents foolish enough to linger outside on the hot pavement. And, while restaurants, bars, and movie theaters are experiencing booming business, it's really not a day for idle shopping. As a result most retail places are fairly empty, save those braving the weather or (more likely) escaping it. Strand Books is no different. While there are a few diehard bibliophiles among the shelves, and a couple of people taking advantage of the cooled air, the store is mostly empty of casual shoppers. And that makes Trib's presence stand out all that much more. Dressed in cargo shorts and a blue tank top, along with a pair of battered sneakers, the big(!) man is browsing the rows of books in the Do It Yourself section, tracing the fingers of his right hand along the spine of a book entitled 'DECORATING ON A BUDGET'. It's in line with a couple of books already in his left hand. Regan, like many in this heat, has pared down her outfit to the bare essentials as well. Gauzy-light green skirt, strappy white tank top, white sandals. An oversized purse. She is drifting through the aisles with a slight frown, fingers tapping lightly along the spines of the books in turn. Looking through ones on home repairs. Plumbing. Wiring. Taptaptap. She pauses a short distance from Trib, distracted from books to glance way up towards the bigger man. From him to the book he looks at, curiously, then to the ones in his hand. Trib doesn't note the woman as she approaches or, if he does, he doesn't make any sign of it. Instead, he seems very focused on the book, his brow lowering as he studies it. He taps his index finger on it twice before pulling it out and looking at the cover. There's the slightest tip of his chin in the direction of the woman, and he speaks without looking up, his Jerseyfied words rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. "Somethin' I can answer for you?" "Answer?" Regan's low contralto sounds a touch surprised by this question. She glances from books to Trib, and then back to the shelf of tomes she was perusing. "Ah -- about decorating?" Her eyebrows quirk upwards faintly. "You looked like you had a question," Trib grunts, finally looking up and leveling his golden gaze on the woman. "Though if it's about decoratin', I probably ain't the guy to ask." He holds up the book, and pops his eyebrows. "As you can see." He lifts a shoulder. "Anythin' else you got a question on is fair game, though." "Do you work here?" Regan asks, half to the books as she looks one over. Pulls one of the wiring books down off the shelf to page through it with a smal frown. "'Anything' is --" Her lips curl upwards at the corners. "Broad." Trib barks a laugh at the question, and shakes his head. "Nah, I don't work here," he rumbles, his eyes crinkling. "I'm just a customer, like you." He braces his chosen book in the crook of his left elbow, and pulls it open to thumb (finger?) through the pages. "I'm a broad kind of guy," he says in response to the statement, his lips curling into a grin. "Although, you'd probably do better stickin' to subjects like boxin', or places in Jersey that ain't complete shitholes...that kind of thing." "Hhh," it's not quite a laugh, but it almost is. Just a soft-quiet breath, low and dry,, at the 'broad' statement, and Regan's half-smile contrastingly dims a touch. "I don't," she muses, replacing the book to choose another, "/oftne/ find myself in need of information on the better parts of Jersey. Or on boxing, for that matter. I guess if I ever find a need I'll be sure to keep you in mind, Mr. --?" "Well, if you ever need that info, I'm definitely your guy," Trib rumbles, wrinkling his nose at an illustration of a /very/ hippie-like apartment. "Jones," he grunts at the question, flipping the book closed so that he can extend his half-hand politely. "You can call me Trib, though." There's a small curl of his lip at one corner. "I hate it when people call me Mister Jones. And you're -- ?" Regan takes the hand, her own pressing into it for a brief gentle moment. "-- Looking to do some home improvement," she finishes the question lightly, amusement curling through her tone as she squeezes his hand in her smaller one and drops it away. "As are you, it looks like. I'll make sure not to call you Mister Jones. Does it really need books --?" Her eyes flick to the decorating book. "I always just took what I liked and put it on a wall." Trib's fingers close around the woman's for that brief moment, withdrawing immediately when her pressure eases. The response gets a small crinkle of his eyes. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Miss Looking To Do Some Home Improvement." His grin slips a bit mischeviously, and he tips his head in an overly idle musing expression. "I bet that makes signin' checks a bitch. Unless you do one of them...whatayacallit...anagrams." The question gets a snort, and the big man shakes his head, shaggy hair bouncing. "I just wanted some ideas," he admits. "My place looks like a squatter lives there." "I have very small handwriting." Regan's smile curls neatly back into place. "Did you find ideas? My apartment -- well. Alright. Admittedly it doesn't look like very much past student. Usually a lot of papers. Books. Sometimes I find art I like, though. Why don't you just --" She shrugs a shoulder. "Find a few new cushions, throw on a splash of paint, the place can look remarkably different without /too/ much work." "That's handy," Trib grunts about the woman's handwriting. "Although, probably not for the people who gotta read it." He seems amused, slightly, by the sidestepping of an actual name, but he doesn't press the issue. "My place ain't got no furniture," he says. "I guess the first thing I ought to do is get somethin' to put a damned cushion /on/." He grins, a bit, and lifts his eyebrows. "But there are a few good ideas in these books. Like makin' bookshelves out of odd crap, an' shit." He wrinkles his ruined nose thoughtfully. "I got some art," he notes slowly, as if considering his words. "Mostly magazine pictures, an' stuff. But I like it." That's followed by the smallest of thoughtful frowns that fades almost immediately. "You havin' electrical problems?" he asks, then, inclining his head in the direction of the held book. "If you like it, that's the most important thing, isn't it?" Regan's brows quirk upwards. She glances down to the book in her hand, head shaking once. "Oh -- problems, I wouldn't say -- no. Just an old place that needs fixing up," she says with a quick smile. "Quite a bit of it, actually. Though this book," she tucks it back onto the shelf, "isn't quite as beginner-friendly as I'd hoped. I might just --" She shakes her head, turning aside from she shelves entirely. "I guess," Trib says, rolling his shoulder. "Since I'm the one that's got to look at it all the time." He quirks a grin, and his brow knits for just a moment as the woman explains before they lift sympathetically. "That sucks," he rumbles. "Some of them old houses are just a damned fire hazard." He skims his gaze over the shelves, and wrinkles his nose. "There's a better book," he says. "I thought it might could be here, but it ain't. I used it when I had to do some shit at my dad's place." His brow furrows as he sifts his memory. "It was one of them 'Idiot's Guides,'" he remembers with a snap, and then looks immediately contrite, ducking his head. "It was really helpful. At least for puttin' in a dimmer switch an' timer." "My home is at best 'eclectic', at worst," Regan says with a laugh, "a complete freaking mess. But /I/ feel comfortable there, so I think it does the trick." Her lips purse, finger tapping against the bag at her hip. "I think I have a little more extensive work to be doing than that. More complete rewiring. But I'll look into it if I see one, their plumbing guide was once helpful, at least." Trib winces sympathetically when the level of work needed is mentioned, and he makes a low whistle. "That /really/ fuckin' sucks," he says. "If I was you, I'd totally cut my losses an' start datin' an electrician." His crinkled eyes and the odd lilt to his voice indicates that this is meant as a tease, and he rumbles a chuckle to confirm that fact. "But I hope it turns out okay, however you get it fixed." Regan's next laugh is quieter, her head dipping with a small spill of blonde hair down against the side of her face. "Oh, I don't know, I rather enjoy the work. I spend so much time in academia there's something refreshing about getting hands-on now and then. Sometimes you just need to get your hands dirty." She tucks a stray wisp of hair neatly behind her ear, purses her lip, and ultimately picks out the first book she was looking at after all. "Good luck with your decorating, Mr. -- Trib." Trib grunts. "Yeah," he says. "Sometimes, it's just better to get it done yourself. At least that way, if you fuck up, you ain't got no one else to blame." He tips his head. "'Course, that's also the downside, I guess." He nods at the well-wishing, and lifts a hand to wave at her chosen book. "Good luck with your wiring, Miss Improvement," he returns amiably. "Here's hopin' you don't burn the place down." Regan just flashes a quick twitch of smile at this. She lifts the book in farewell, slipping off with it towards the counter.