ArchivedLogs:Delicious Travesties
| Delicious Travesties | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-02-01 A chilly day, a spicy meal, and colorful company. |
| Location
<NYC> Inkline Studios - Lower East Side | |
The front room of Inkline Studio is small, and does not, particularly, look like a tattoo parlor at all. Framed surrealist oil paintings line the walls instead of the typical flash ink, although interspersed are a handful of tasteful, artistic photographs of various people displaying their tattoos that might give away the nature of this business. Black leather armchairs cluster around a low glass coffee table; large black binders that sit on the table contain portfolios of the past work done in the studio. A glass counter stretches along the length of one wall, a plethora of various body jewelry on display; the 'front desk' sits at the far end of the counter, computer and cash register and large file cabinet making up the work space. The piercing and tattoo rooms are in the back, brightly lit and sterile, with doors closeable for privacy. The wind blows cold and fierce outside. It howls through the door when Tag enters and tries to throw it wide open. He darts through and pushes it shut with his whole body, as if bracing against monsters in pursuit. The dangling ties on his purple-and-magenta knit cap are laden with half-melted snow, as are the tassels on his long rainbow scarf and the hems of his black jeans and the soles of his boots. He unzips and shrugs out of a blue softshell jacket and hangs it by the door. The tunic he wears beneath it is bright red. "Hey, Jax," he calls out, peering around the shop in wonder. "You around?" The counter is staffed, today, by a tall woman with jet-black hair, black sleeveless shirt, arms bright-coloured with a wealth of tattoos. She looks over Tag with a growing curl of smile as she takes in his colourful attire, and jerks her head towards a closed door in back. "Sticking a needle in someone," she tells Tag, and waves a hand towards the couches. "He won't be long, you want to wait. Got an appointment or just a friend?" This is probably more than a curious question; she's reaching one hand towards a clipboard with a stack of forms attached. "Oh, hi!" Tag chirps, pulling off his cap and pushing a fall of red-orange-yellow hair out of his eyes. Mostly. He is still looking out at the world though a many-colored curtain. "I'm just a friend, and I don't mind waiting. It's a lot warmer in here that it is out there!" He leaves scarf and gloves on, hugging himself as he wanders up to the counter. "I'm Tag," he adds with a broad smile. "Kind of ridiculous, isn't it? Gone from near sixty to snowing in a day." The woman shakes her head, setting the clipboard aside and leaning back against the counter, arms resting against the glass. "Tag? I'm Ray. Niiice hair. You're as colourful as he is." "Thanks, Ray, and nice to meet you!" Tag bobs his head in a small bow. "I love your ink!" He pushes his hair out of his eyes again, only to have it flop back to the same exact place. "At least the weather gives me an excuse to wear wildly different outfits from day to day...or in the same day," he muses, grinning. "Not that I /need/ an excuse." "You don't look like you need an excuse," Ray agrees, smile widening. "Though I guess all that gear in /summer/'d just swelter you to death. -- Hey. Delivery for you." This, she is calling out back over her shoulder, as one of the doors opens. Jax is emerging, just about as colourful as Tag -- vividly purple-green-blue hair, black nails dotted with a different-coloured glitter star in each, red t-shirt with a glittery black heart taking up most of its center, a knee-length black skirt and mismatched brightly-coloured thigh-high socks beneath. No sunglasses, today; instead he has an eyepatch, colourful as well, bright purple with a black trim. The man he accompanies is much more sedate, plain blue jeans and a black coat over a black polo shirt. No visible tattoos, no visible piercings; his smile is easy as he thanks Jax, presses a tip into his palm, heads to the counter to check out. "-- Delivery?" Jax squints towards the counter, and then grins brighter. "Hey! Tag! That's, like, the /best/ kind of delivery." Tag brightens--literally--when Jackson enters. "Jax! I finished all my deliveries for the morning!" A paused. "I dunno, some people look /pretty/ happy to get their suspiciously plain parcels..." He sticks out his tongue and rocks onto his toes. "But I wanted to drop by and say hi and maybe get a tattoo. If you have time. Or I can make an appointment, but I'm bad at remembering those sometimes... Oh, and how are you?" "You're anything /but/ suspiciously /plain/," Jax says, amused. "Do you ever see what's in the packages, what's the weirdest thing you've seen? Or maybe the coolest. Or both." He's slipping around in front of the counter to open one arm and offer a hug. "A tattoo? I do those. Sometimes. UM. Do I have time?" He's a little lost on this count, looking helplessly at the woman behind the counter, who obligingly turns to the computer to examine it. "I mean /probably/ that'll depend what you want. It's not the kind of thing I like /rushing/ what if I made you an appointment and then reminded you to keep it?" "Hm..." Tag bounces on the balls of his feet a few times, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Most people don't open them in front of me, but there've been a few. The weirdest was probably this sort of glass cylinder with gray goop in it, like in a lava lamp, except more liquidy. The coolest was a tail. Attached to..." He trails off, blushing suddenly, and takes off his scarf and gloves. "Well, a tail you could wear without any clothes, is all." He drapes his scarf over his coat and stuffs the gloves into its pocket. "That's probably smarter. I mean, as impulsive as I am, it's kind of surprising I'm not covered in tattoos /already/. Just...usually if I want something on my skin, I just paint it on. But I definitely want my tag more permanently attached to me. They always come off when I do them." He rolls up the sleeve of his red tunic. The rainbow-cursive 'Tag' there looked bright enough at the moment. "You've got time," Ray is telling Jax, "tomorrow in the morning. Time now for lunch, though," she adds, with a quick smile. "How's tomorrow morning for you?" Jax drops his hand, almost absently to lightly trace the rainbow letters with a fingertip. He is listening, curious, to Tag's words, and for a moment he looks puzzled. "A tail you could --" His brow creases, uncertainly, and then /suddenly/ he blushes. "Oh -- /oh/. Oh. Oh, gosh. That's --" His cheeks are furious red, and he doesn't finish this sentence, his smile returning a little crookedly. "-- OK, now I'm trying to think what situation you'd need one of those in a /hurry/." "Tomorrow's great," Tag replies. "Actually, pretty much /any/ time is fine unless I've already committed to doing deliveries. I don't get as many because I'm new and all, and I definitely don't get the 'odd hours' jobs. You know, the /really/ suspicious ones." He snickers, touching up the mark on his arm just a tad. "I dunno, maybe there was a party. With a dress code." "That's --" Jax's blush deepens. "-- a really specific dress code. Um. I don't think I get invited to -- that kinda party." His hand drops, then lifts again to brush through his hair. "'kay. Can you put Tag in? Tomorrow morning, first thing -- uh, kinda first thing. We don't open till ten. -- do /you/ go to that kinda party? Maybe I've been at the wrong ones." He scrubs a hand against his face as though that will rid it of its blush. "If I come /get/ you will you remember? I -- don't actually know where you live," he allows, "that might make it hard. Where do you live?" "Ten used to be /earlier/ than first thing for me, but then I started living with a barista." Tag snickers. "Now I just never sleep. As for parties, I've been to ones like that with other people. I can't really work the dress code for some of them..." He trails off and tugs his sleeve back down, picking at it a bit self-consciously. "But I haven't recently. In fact, I really haven't gone to /any/ parties recently. Just clubs, sometimes? Probably shouldn't do /that/, either. It turned out poorly last time." His smile returns quickly, though. "You don't have to come and get me, but if you wanna, I don't live all that far away." Digging a much-abused notepad--one with sheets of different colors, clearly marketed toward middle-school students--from his pocket, he tears off a mint-green page and holds it out for Jax. The address to Melinda's apartment appears in small, neat handwritten purple letters on it. "Oh, thanks!" Jax takes the paper, glancing at it and nodding. "Oh, yeah, that's not far. Cool!" He folds it up neat and small, slipping it into his pocket with a grin. "Iii feel you on the never sleeping, uhm, I used to be in the habit of waking up by five but bartending sometimes doens't get me /home/ till then -- I think I sleep a couple days a week, though." His nose wrinkles slightly as he looks at Tag, head tilting slightly to one side. "Poorly --?" It's a tentative sort of question, followed quickly by an absent squeeze of the other man's shoulder. "Hey do you want food? I'm starving and I'm here till uh. Nine, gross." He might not even be waiting for answer, ducking behind the counter to retrieve a jacket and a messenger bag, putting on the first before slinging the second around his shoulder. "Can't work the dress code?" he's asking, as he slips back around front, smoothing down his skirt where the bag has hitched it slightly up. "Do you not, uh, keep --" He blushes slightly again. "-- enough tails on hand?" Tag gives a kind of helpless shrug. "Yeah, poorly. Hive had to save me. A guy--not him, someone else--bought me drinks, and I got waaaay plastered. But, I would love some food!" He bounces a bit, but stops when his hair falls across his eyes again. "In fact, I feel like I should treat you because you keep feeding us at game night." The knit cap--the pink paler now than before--goes back on his head and the scarf around his neck. "Wait, you tend bar? Where?" He pauses, jacket in hand. "Well...some of my lovers have put me in pretty crazy outfits. No tails, I'm not sure I would have objected, if that's what they wanted to see me in. I'm only willing to show so much skin at an actual /party/ with lots of people, though." It only took a quarter of a second out in the icy gale for Tag to realize that he had forgotten to don his gloves. "You mean there's bars where people /don't/ get skeezy when you dance?" he asks, fishing gloves out of pockets and putting them on. They really don't do a whole lot against the wind. "I figure there's a certain amount of that anywhere people drink and cruise. Besides, if you're behind the bar, it can't be all /that/ bad!" This last with an unguarded smile as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "At least you have something /to/ show off!" He pauses a beat. "I mean your ink! I've faked tattoos on myself, like with the tag on my arm, but if I do big patterns, they tend to...change. People get pretty weirded out when you have different tattoos all the time. So, where are we going?" "I don't know," Jax admits with a laugh, "I don't have a lot of experience with other places. I've pretty much just gone there and Evolve. And /there/ I'm almost always /behind/ the bar -- not, uh, that that actually stops people being skeezy all that much." He squints one way up the street, and then the other, apparently undecided -- "I don't know! Do you like Indian, there's a place --" But it's too cold to stay undecided /long/; he reaches to hook an arm through Tag's, to tug the other man along down the street, head bowed against the cold. "I have a lot of ink," he agrees, blushing slightly. "And I'm totally fine with showing /that/ off, that's like. Showing off a /portfolio/ or something. S'different when people just want to see -- skin, though. And not ink. Will this be your first tattoo for-real?" "I /love/ Indian! Especially baingan barta, the spicier the better!" Tag goes along with Jax easily enough. "Wow, I would have thought the bar would act as some kind of a...skeeze barricade? I guess it just give skeezy people an actual /excuse/ to talk to you, and you could get in trouble if you just tell them off." He shivers. The jacket he is wearing is much better suited to vigorous bicycling than brisk walking. "Wow, just /thinking/ about showing skin makes me cold right now! I was really afraid of needles when I was little, so I didn't want to ever get a tattoo. I got over the thing about needles, but by then I could paint on myself with my brain, temporarily." He gives a slight shrug, though his shoulders stay hunched up against the chill. "Recently, though, I've been thinking about getting inked a lot. Not sure why. Guess it's kind of like...proving you're here, and real? So yeah, it'll be my first." "Oh, good, you'll love this place, then." Jackson is a little shivery, too, though his jacket is warm and thick. He walks a little closer to Tag, maybe prompted by the other man's shivering or maybe prompted by his own. "The bar is like a skeeze /magnet/ I mean, I'm kind of just a captive audience for everyone's --" His nose wrinkles. "-- Flirting. I guess it's an ego boost, at least." Though his crooked smile doesn't look all /that/ pleased. He glances sideways to Tag, thoughtfully. "Is that worrying? Not being real. You seem pretty solid to me." "I can't say I mind being flirted at," Tag admits. "I mean, I'm pretty flirty myself, especially after a drink. But there's flirting and then there's...well, being skeezy!" His laugh comes out as a puff of white condensation in the air. "Funny I can't seem to put it to words." He leans into Jax. "Sometimes I feel real, but sometimes I feel like I lie to everyone just by existing. It's like you're wearing a mask you never wanted and can't take off. And then sometimes I feel like I have to keep moving, keeping making art, keep doing /anything/, or I might just disappear into the air." He pauses, biting his lower lip and glancing sidelong at his companion. "Is that weird?" "Yeah, there's flirting, and then there's --" Jax doesn't finish this, just trails off with a slightly warmer squeeze of Tag's arm where his is hooked around it. His smile fades off into a thoughtful expression, teeth biting down at a lip ring to wiggle it distractedly. "It's probably weird," he says, shoulder bumping up against Tag's. "But, I mean, it's the kind of weird I kinda get." He's pulling away, now, but only to pause outside the rattly glass door of a small Indian restaurant, tugging it open for Tag to step into the small entryway, a second door beyond to keep the cold out. "I mean the world kind of has all its expectations and assumptions and sometimes it feels like lying to not just be open about --" His nose wrinkles, and he frowns, slightly. "Uh, everything. Though it won't really treat you so good if you /are/. Um, but, not that I don't want you to keep making art cuz that's /great/ just, uh, don't disappear, okay? I like you here." Tag relaxes when the door shuts behind them, sealing out the capricious winter and bombarding them with the warm scent of a thousand spices. "I wish I were braver. I have nothing to be ashamed of, not /really/--my art doesn't hurt anyone, and I'm not making anyone /else/ queer by being queer. But like you said, I don't want to be hated." He takes off the cap, and his fringes, more pink now, as if influenced by the color of the cap, fall over his eyes. "I'm trying to grow that out, but it's really obnoxious like this..." Pushing hair out of the way again, he nods at Jax. "I promise, I'm not going to stop doing art, and I'm not going to disappear." Then, more softly, "Not again." "Are you /sure/ you're not?" Jackson asks, smiling brighter and more teasing now. "I mean, if /I/ were a straight dude I'd totally get gayer just being around you." He reaches up, brushing a finger lightly at the pink-tinged fringe. "It got pinker. If the queer's not infectious the /cheerful/ certainly is." Only now does he push open the second door, flicking a glance back to Tag as he opens it. The spicy-food smells grow stronger. "Good. I mean, nobody wants to be hated. Sometimes the world's kinda hatey though. But it might be kinda better to just gather up a good strong group of people who /aren't/ than to disappear from it." Laughing as he follows Jax inside, Tag replies, "I /have/ been accused of 'converting' people I few times, but if I did, they were perfectly /willing/ converts." He draws a deep breath and lets it out. "Ah...we had Indian delivered for dinner a couple of weeks ago. It was good, but just not the same as being in the place they're cooking it." Now properly inside climate-controlled territory, Tag strips off the gloves and unwinds his scarf. "I /wish/ I could infect people with happiness," he says, blowing up at the pinkest lock of hair, which also seems the most intent on blocking his vision. "The world might be a /little/ less hatey, at least. Building communities is a much more reliable option, though. Do we seat ourselves here, or what?" He peers around the restaurant, which is crowded but not completely overflown. "I might could cook Indian next Tuesday, but t'ain't gonna be half so good as this." Jax's hand lifts again, his smile brightening as he pushes back that stubborn lock once more. "Y'ever thought that maybe you already /do/? I mean, I know /I/ get happier when I'm -- oh, hi!" This is not to Tag. It is to a waiter, plucking up a pair of menus and asking them, "Two?" which Jax confirms with a nod and a chirped thanks, following the woman to a table. He pulls off his own jacket, a brightly silvery thing that he drapes over the back of the chair. "But s'a hard job to do all on your own, there's a /lot/ of people need infecting." "Maybe?" Tag flashes a smile at the waiter who seats them and unzips his jacket. The tunic underneath has also turned pink somewhere along the way. "Sadly, but not everyone likes bright colors as much as we do! Especially in the winter, people are so gray and black and navy blue. That's one thing I haven't really missed about the northeast." He flips through the menu, but only cursorily. "Mmm...masala tea! My grandfather would call a travesty, but it's so /delicious/!" "People /are/ kinda grey in winter. S'why the world needs colour all the more. But there's other things than colour that makes people cheery. Like. Just. Being cheery! What's wrong with masala tea?" Jax doesn't open his menu, though he does look down at it for a moment like he might be /considering/ opening it. "I'm getting chana." "Definitely! And receiving packages makes people cheerful, too!" Tag grins. "I never saw so many happy people in such terrible weather until I took this job. It's totally worth dodging taxis in the snow and sleet." He perks up when the waiter brings a basket of papdums and with the tray of chutney. "Thanks! There's nothing at all wrong with masala tea, unless you're a grumpy old Chinese man who thinks it's an insult to contaminate tea with milk and sugar and spices. I'm definitely getting a cup, though. And baingan barta, because I can't live on caffeine alone." "Well, yeah, how could you not be happy when people are sending you -- um, tails. Like what /kind/ of a tail?" he adds, in belated curiosity. "I always thought it'd be boring office-stuff. Tails is better." Jackson smile brightly up at the waiter, gesturing to Tag as he mentions his food desires. "-- And can I get a chana masala, please? Spicy?" he adds, sounding hopeful like maybe he's worried the woman will say no. She does not say no, though. She just smiles and writes down their order. "Oh, and I would like mine spicy, too!" Tag adds, with an embarassed smile and a bob of his head, before the server departs. Then, to Jax, "I'm not an expert on tails, and I really don't think it was a /real/ tail. I sure /hope/ it wasn't, anyway. But I think it was supposed to be some kind of canine? Like a wolf." He shrugs and breaks off a wedge of papadum, loading it with tamarind chutney. "A lot of it /is/ boring office stuff--big brown envelopes going to very serious suits, that kind of thing. Once it was a red stapler. The guy was /really/ happy about it." "Maybe black staplers just don't cut it," Jackson says, relinquishing his menu in favour of breaking off a piece of papadam as well, scooping mint and onion chutneys both onto it. "Or maybe it was actually full of cocaine instead of staples. Did the person with the tail look wolfy to you? I think I'd want a cat tail, I just kind of curl up in the sun and nap most of the day. -- I guess that's more lizardy, really." Tag guffaws while chewing his lentil cracker, and puts his hand over his mouth. Recover, chew, swallow. "I'm /pretty/ sure my boss isn't going to send a rookie courier to deliver cocaine," he speculates, "but maybe /she/ didn't even know!" He breaks off another piece and eats it plain, tilting his head to one side. "Hm...he seemed kind of more catlike to me, too. I don't know. I'd want a monkey tail, but only if it was prehensile. I'm kind of monkeyish." "Do people put that on the -- uh, whatever paperwork you need to deliver stuff. Contents: one red Swingline stapler, one ounce of cocaine." Jackson grins, mixing onion and tamarind chutney on his next piece of papadum. "I don't know if you're enough of a jerk to be a monkey. Maybe kind of squirrely. A prehensile tail would be /neat/, though. I know a guy who has one," he adds, thoughtfully. "Though I don't know how neat he thinks it is, pants aren't really made for it. Hm." "If they do, I never see it!" Tag scoops mint chutney onto a papadum. "They only tell me the weight and any special instructions, like 'handle with care' or 'do not expose to extreme temperatures' or whatever." The server returns with tea, which Tag immediately attacks with more enthusiasm than sense, earning himself a wince and a scalded tongue. "I /always/ do that!" he grumbles, but does not seem all that put out by it. He is smiling again in a few seconds, eyes glittering with mirth behind a curtain of pink hair. "It's a delicious /and/ dangerous travesty." Jackson grins, sipping at his own water and watching Tag with amusement. "Do not expose to extreme temperatures," he repeats, lightly, sticking his tongue out towards Tag. He shifts on the seat as his phone buzzes behind him, reaching around to get it out of his jacket pocket. He squints at it, nose wrinkling up and his expression a little puzzled. "-- seance?" Uh. Have you ever had a seance?" He's typing out a return message as he asks this.
Blinking, Tag cocks his head to one side like a confused dog. "A seance?" he echoes. "Sort of? I got dragged into a shamanistic thingamajig once. A lot of drumming and dancing and talking to animals and stuff." He pauses, quirking his mouth to one side. "I /think/ hallucinagens might have been involved. It was a while ago, in Georgia." Picking up his teacup, he takes a much more careful sip. "Are you going to a seance?" Jackson's lips quirk upwards as Tag speaks, and then further as his phone buzzes again. "Shamanistic -- huh. I'd like to talk to animals. Though my kid talks to fish, he says they don't have anything interesting to say." His thumb swipes against the phone of his screen again. "M--aybe. No. Uh. I think Hive and Flicker are planning something terrible, what are you doing tonight?"
"Cool! I imagine fish are probably mostly concerned with...um...finding food? Not /being/ food?" Tag shrugs. "Can he talk to other aquatic creatures? I bet dolphins would have interesting stories to tell." He pauses in the act of lifting his teacup again, hair falling over his eyes. "I was thinking of going to a dance club, maybe? Now I'm curious, though! Why do you think it's going to be something terrible?" "He hasn't run into any dolphins around New York," Jackson says with a tinge of regret. "He totally wants to see if he can find any octopuses, though. Only he's worried they'll be smarter than him and just get condescending. Um." He is frowning at his phone once more. "My -- kids told the people who live in the apartment above Hive that their apartment's haunted. So they're having a seance? Hive and everyone I thiiink are, uh, planning to mess with them." Despite himself, he grins. "Ian's kind of /made/ for haunting."
"Too bad the aquarium is still under repair, else he could definitely talk to octopuses /there/." Tag shakes his fringe aside and breaks another piece of papadam. "Dolphins, too, I guess? Haven't been in years." He narrows his eyes just a bit. "Are you /sure/ there aren't any actual ghosts involved? Not that I would be scared or anything?" Then, with a sheepish smile, he adds, "Well, maybe just a bit." "Not -- a /hundred/ percent sure," Jax admits, after a moment's thought, answering the sheepish smile with a brightly amused one. "Probably if you're not a little bit scared it's not a good seance. Though I don't know if we're seancing. More. Popcorning. S'ok, if any ghosts show up I'm totally going to hide behind Hive. You can come, too. I'd be more scared of him than of Casper." "Hive /is/ a tiny bit scary, but in a good way," Tag agrees. "I like popcorn and ghost stories, though! Popcorn is easy to color, and ghost stories were pretty much the best part about having a grumpy Chinese grandfather." He winks. "So, unless I have to work /super/ late delivering those suspiciously plain parcels, I'll tag along!" Their server brings forth a tray laden with copper bowls of spicy goodness and a gigantic plate of Basmati rice. "Ooh!" Tag sits up even straighter than before. "Thank you!" "Tiny bit," Jax agrees, but he does so with a slightly wry note to his voice. "/Cool/. I'll call you when I'm off work. See if there's any good ghosting going on. Hopefully nobody needs an emergency run of heroin-laden hole-punchers at midnight." He brightens when the food arrives, echoing Tag's "Thank you!" cheerfully. The food quiets him, for now, at least. There is deliciousness to focus on. | |
