ArchivedLogs:De-Isolation

De-Isolation
Dramatis Personae Clint, Dusk, Isra
In Absentia	2015-12-21 "Keeping busy is not really enough, no."
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. Much of the city has yet to reopen, yet to recover -- but here and there there are businesses that have pulled through, somehow, that are scrounging up some sort of normalcy from the aftermath of the chaos. Inside Busboys tonight things seem practically festive, tiny twinkling strings of white lights strung around the windows, pine roping at the molding on the ceiling. And a definitive lack of /hush/ in the room. Most notably at the section near the back, where a thick gathering of folks is sharing drinks and food. Kind of noisily with a fair amount of laughter and snippets of vocalization audible in between all the signing back and forth. The tables have been pushed out of their usual configuration, spread wider to allow better lines of sight -- from one table to another, from the tables to the couches at the edges of the room, from the seating up to the front of the area where a small stage area sits under a light. The young man currently up front is telling of his time in one of the city shelters, making it sound kind of like his time at camp as a child; there's a somewhat comedic bent to the story-poem though -- also, not. The bland food and monotonous board games, the stereotypical personalities of the people who ran the units, the crushing isolation of so many people he could not communicate with. Though this segment of the room is /quite/ packed -- pretty much near capacity -- there's /one/ corner of poetry night that still has room. Dusk has draped himself into a corner of a couch with a beer and a bowl of harira. He is dressed blandly in corduroys and a blue long-sleeved tee, one leg thrown casually over Isra's lap. His wings fold awkwardly behind him, one draped off the arm of the couch to fall down towards the floor -- they're rather striking in a red burnout velvet paisley patterned over a metallic gold background, his long sharp talons glinting in gold as well. His sharp fangs are prominent, wide and appreciative as his smile is as he watches the young man at the front of the room -- albeit with an occasional wince. Perched on the couch beside Dusk, Isra looks as formal as he does casual. She sits up straight and tall, long digitigrade legs folded sideways to allow her tail room to curl out and around Dusk's leg. She wears a black velvet dress with lacy bell sleeves and a handkerchief hemline, setting off her rich green skin and the striking metallic gold of her horns and talons. She has one wing wrapped around Dusk, the other folded down capelike over her own shoulders, the vast membrane brilliantly decorated with gold filigree over a glimmering snow-white back-ground. Before her is bottle of cider and a mostly-empty plate, only a few fries and slivers of lettuce remaining. She watches the performance without any evident emotion on her face, though her long, pointed ears press back against her hairless skull now and then. There is a man picking his way slowly through the crowd, maneuvering around and through conversations with beer in hand, searching for a seat and finding none. He's dressed plainly: a light gray corduroy jacket over a purple v-neck shirt and blue jeans, black sling pack across his back. Finally, he makes it to Dusk and Isra's corner. 'Do you mind?' he signs, eyebrows lifting slightly as he nods at the unoccupied end of the couch. Dusk's eyes shift briefly from stage to audience, flicking over the newcomer in a quick sweep. 'Feel free,' he offers in cheerful invitation, the fangy warmth of his smile undimmed. He even shifts his leg just a little bit higher on Isra's to get it -- at least a couple inches out of the way of the rest of the couch cushion. He tips the neck of his bottle over towards the performer, nodding to Clint before he puts the bottle down. 'Been here before? He's brilliant. The last time there was this piece about his first dog that I swear-to-god had everyone dead of laughter.' Isra does not really pay the new arrival much mind until he addresses them. She nods her assent when Dusk replies, and curls the phalanges of her wing more tightly around herself--presumably to keep them from poking at the man when he sits beside her, but the movement of the long, bony appendages probably looks rather unsettling to the uninitiated. 'Many excellent storytellers here,' she agrees. 'Good that they are starting back up now. Good that so many showed up.' 'Thanks.' Clint stares at Isra's wing as it flexes, and looks for a moment as if he might reconsider. But he sits down anyway, taking a long swig of his Yuengling before setting it down on the table to free his hands. 'I come here sometimes, past.' Once out of common platitude territory, his signing is precise but mechanical, not at all fluent. 'Not since summer, so missed dog story.' He watches the presenter for a moment, then, looking back at the two winged people. 'It's nice. But, always crowded.' Dusk tips his head slightly upward as Clint stares, rolling it back down a moment later to settle against Isra's shoulder. He watches Clint speak with a thoughtful purse of lips; when /he/ signs again it comes with no less ease than his previous words, but he signs more slowly, a greater care in his motions. 'Always crowded,' he agrees. 'Maybe I think now even /more/ than before. I worried it'd be dead. But I think people are really wanting community now more than ever.' One gilded thumbclaw flicks to the current signer, wrapping up his poem now -- Dusk pauses long enough to lift his hands in enthusiastic applause. 'Catastrophe gets isolating. I'd say people are glad to be celebrating but I think everyone's just glad to -- be. Back. Together.' If Isra notices Clint's hesitation, she gives no indication that it bothers her. Her applause is more staid, but accompanied by a smile makes her monstrous face look--frankly more monstrous, showing off the sharp, elongated canines. 'That story speaks to so many people here because the disaster has been so isolating for them, even while it brought other communities closer together.' /Her/ signing, while nowhere near as natural as Dusk's, comes easily enough, though her heavy reliance on narrative over description marks her as a non-native signer. Clint watches the other two closely while they sign, following with greater ease once Dusk slows down. 'I stay busy, recently. Volunteer...' He frowns, groping for a sign before finally giving in and spelling out 'P-A-T-R-O-L.' Then, with a shrug, 'But even before. I not have many friends...know sign.' 'P-A-T-R-O-L,' Dusk echoes this before demonstrating the sign. He nods at the mention of volunteering. 'Busy is good. Go fucking crazy through things like this if you just sit around watching things fall apart. But it's important to have people to relate to, too, I think.' He nods to Isra at the mention of isolation, one of his wings shifting to rub slowly against one of hers. He leans forward over her, offering a fist out to Clint for a knuckletap. 'I'm D-U-S-K,' he adds. 'I didn't grow up here, grew up in DC, but been here long enough to know plenty of folks in the community. If you're looking for more folks to hang around with there's plenty of other events -- well, not sure how many have restarted /yet/, but social time is -- good time.' His grin is sharp. 'And contagion-free socializing, too.' 'Busy is easy,' Isra adds, 'communication, sometimes harder.' She picks up her cider and takes a sip. 'This particular disaster has tended to encourage people to pick up new languages, though.' Her ears prick up, slightly, the tip of her tail twitching. 'Perhaps your friends can learn to sign, too?' Then, inclining her head. 'I'm I-S-R-A.' 'Patrol,' Clint repeats the sign. 'Thank you.' He stretches out his own fist to meet the proferred knuckletap. 'My name C-L-I-N-T. Nice to meet you-two.' He chuckles, a little self-consciously. 'I not have /many/ friends, sign or no. Would be nice to have more, yes.' He picks up his beer again, takes a long draught, then sets it back down. 'Keeping busy is not really enough, no.' Dusk swipes his beer back up, taking a swig of his own and then setting it down again. 'Well. In /that/ case maybe you can --' His claw flicks out around the room. Onstage a timid-looking woman is smoothing at her shirt, a little fidgety before she relaxes into her poem, about the feeling of learning to swim. 'Not like the city is short on potential new friends, right? What you have to do is keep busy,' he informs Clint cheerfully, 'in more fun ways than zombie patrol.' He pauses, taking a spoonful of soup and then offering some to Isra. 'I mean there's bar nights and museum trips and beach time and climbing trips and -- not like you can't bond over zombies but. /Everything's/ better with good food added in.' Isra merely nods at Clint, taking Dusk's soup and watching the new poet on stage. Then, setting the bowl down, she gives Clint a sidelong glance. 'You don't need a lot of friends,' she offers mildy, 'if you are happy with a few. So long as they are good ones, either way.' Looking down at her mostly-empty plate, she smirks. 'Good food is not easy to come by right now.' 'I work too much, maybe.' Clint shrugs, settling back and finally propping an elbow against the arm of the couch. He doesn't seem particularly /bothered/ by his admission. Then, with a grin, 'And maybe my...S-T-A-N-D-A-R-D-S low, but the food seems fine to me.' 'Standards,' Dusk reflexively clarifies, spelling and then signing. 'Good food's been hit or miss,' he agrees. His wing rubs in against Isra's, his teeth flashing to Clint in a quick smile. 'Good company, though. Doing alright by /that/.'