ArchivedLogs:Gleeble Globble

Gleeble Globble
Dramatis Personae Anole, Doug	2013-04-07 '
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. A sunny Sunday afternoon finds Tompkins Square Park a bit busy, with many of the local residents taking advantage of the warm weather to shed themselves of their winter pallor. Some are jogging, some are on the playground, and others are just sunning themselves. There's a quiet sort of noise that filters through the air; a combination of talking, music, and the rustling of wind in the leaves. It's one of those moment-in-time New York moments. Doug has managed to find himself in the middle of a pick-up game of soccer. Dressed in blue compression shorts and a yellow-and-blue rugby shirt, he's not really dressed for it. But he's playing with a group of other young men, dribbling the ball across the lawn to set up an easy kick for a goal. His kick is fouled by another player, legs tangling for a brief moment before Doug lets fly. The ball sails over the goal, bouncing away as if sensing its moment of freedom is at hand. "I'll get it," Doug assures the others, and lopes off after it, losing it briefly as it ricochets of a trash can and goes suddenly in a new direction. The ball's new direction encounters a skinny young teenager, hastily scurrying away from a nearby ice cream stand. He has failed to purchase any ice cream despite eying it hopefully; in lieu of ice cream he /did/ manage to collect three hostile epithets, one glob of spit, and a host of glares. Busy days at the park are /probably not the ideal time for Anole to be there and /yet/. The warm weather has lured the reptilian teen out-of-doors, dressed in shabby patched jeans and a threadbare grey hoodie, hood pulled up over his head. It's not quite enough disguise to hide green hands, green face, and when the soccer ball ricochets off into his back he startle-twitches, whirling a good deal faster than a human should be able to to catch it before it hits the ground. And then promptly, wide-eyed, drops it with an apologetic "Sorrysorry I'm sorry!" -- like perhaps it is his own fault for getting hit? Tentatively, he nudges it with a toe back in Doug's direction. Doug winces as the ball hits the skinny kid, and he holds up a hand. "Oh, man -- are you okay?" he asks as he catches up to him. "I'm so sorry. That kick just got away from me." He reaches down to scoop up the ball, tucking it under his arm as he looks the kid over. He doesn't seem bothered by green features; his examination appears to be pure assessment. "I mean, not that it was traveling fast enough to hurt you, but still. Soccer balls have left plenty of bruises on /me/." He frowns, and rubs at the back of his neck. "So, are you? Okay, I mean?" "I'mfine," Anole squeaks, backing up a few more steps when Doug comes near. He's pulling his hands back into his sleeves, pulling his hood up further over his head. "-- I bruise pretty easy. But it's hard to tell." He tucks his sleeved hands into the wide front pouch-pocket of his hoodie, and his green eyes skate over Doug, first warily and then a little more thoughtfully. "Sorry," he says again, "I didn't mean to -- touch your -- sorry." "Oh, good," Doug says, grinning amiably and ignoring the shouts from the pitch for the moment. "I'd hate to have caused a sideline injury. I haven't done that since my first game." He waves a hand. "You don't have to apologize to me," he says, shrugging lightly. "I mean, what are you apologizing for, really? Saving me from chasing that thing around the park? Getting hit?" He makes a dismissive noise. "Neither of those is worth getting upset about, when you get down to it." The shouting from the pitch is getting louder, and Doug makes a face as he throws the ball back to the group, waving them off. Turning back to the kid, he tips his head at the grassy area. "You've got good reflexes," he says. "You'd make a heck of a goalkeeper. You play?" "For -- because --" Anole doesn't actually answer that question, just shifts uncomfortably and looks back towards the nearby ice cream stand. His head shakes. "Sorry," he says again. Apologizing for apologizing. "Ye --" His eyes slide back towards the grass and for a brief moment he straightens -- just briefly, before slouching back down into his hunched trying-to-disappear-into-his-sweatshirt posture. "No." This time he shakes his head, emphatically. "No, I don't. I don't even know how. You guys look like you --" He shrugs his shoulder. "No." "Are you sure?" Doug grins at the self-catch, following the kid's gaze. "I mean, if you're not busy doing anything, and want to /learn/, you can join in the game," he says, waving a hand at the grassy area. He offers an encouraging smile. "They're a rowdy bunch, but they seem like good guys." Then he's STUDYING the kid's face, suddenly, and frowning. "You look familiar," he says, after he's done this long enough to begin to border on creepy. "Do you live in the Village?" "A lot of people seem like good guys, until they're talking to someone like me," Anole says, quiet and with a dismissive shrug of a shoulder. He is backing up /more/ during that studying, shoulders tensing beneath his baggy sweatshirt, his gaze instantly dropping away to the ground. "Wh -- what? No. I don't -- no. Familiar?" This just sort of /boggles/ him, though he turns his puzzled look to the ground and not to Doug. "-- I don't really have the kind of face that uhm people confused for anyone else." "I know I've seen you somewhere before," Doug says, scrunching up his nose as he tries to recall it. He watches the kid for a long moment, and lifts a shoulder. "If they turn out to be those kind of guys, I'll be pretty disappointed," he says, looking over at the grassy area. "But you might have a point." Then he snaps his fingers, whirling on the kid. "Murphy Law!" he exclaims. "/That's/ where I know you!" He takes a step forward, wagging that finger at Anole. "You're the kid he was trying to track down. The runaway." This is all presented as if it might be /new/ information for the kid. "Are you all right? Did he ever find you?" "Almost everyone turns out to be those kind of guys." Anole's eyes open huger and wider at Doug's sudden whirling, finger-wagging, and he scoots back hastily, skirting around behind a bench to watch the older teenager much as he might watch a snarling dog advancing on him. "No! I mean yes. I mean no. I mean I don't know you!" This all comes out in a nervous-flustered burst, his head shaking all the way through. "And strangers hunting me down is /kind of/ creepy!" As soon as the kid begins to scamper, Doug's hands are up, palms facing him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says, his voice shifting to a placating tone. "It's okay, dude. I'm not going to hurt you." He jerks a thumb at his chest. "Gleeble globble, yeah?" He offers a small grin, and shrugs. "I think it's just the nature of his job," he says of Murphy's creepiness. "I've met three private detectives, and sixty-six percent of them were actual dicks." He wrinkles his nose. "I think it's got something to do with peeking in windows and junk." "Gleeble globble?" This is baffling enough to startle Anole out of -- well, his /other/ startlement, just looking blank and uncomprehending at Doug. "Wh -- at?" He's not coming out from behind the bench, keeping it like a /shield/ between him and Doug, but he at least isn't running away any further when Doug's tone shifts. "It -- it seems like kind of a creepy -- like it might /attract/ creeps," he says with a slight wrinkle of his nose. "Like the cops attract abusers. Some jobs are just built to -- to help that kind of --" Shrug. "It's from a movie," Doug explains. "'Gleeble, globble, one of us.'" he chants, then shakes his head ruefully. "Never mind." He exhales heavily, and lifts a palm. "Let's try this again," he says, and rubs his face briefly before flashing a wide grin. "Hey, kid. Thanks for saving my soccer ball, and sorry that it hit you. I'm Doug." The further explanation at least makes recognition dawn on Anole's face, and for a moment his lips quirk up a little bit. "-- It's gooble gobble," he says, with a slight crinkle of his nose, "but you're not --" He stops here, though, looking down at the bench. His hands, still ensconced in the sleeves of his too-large sweatshirt, withdraw from his pockets to rest on its back. "Hi. Um. You're -- welcome?" he sounds a little tentative-uncertain about this, but manages a small smile. "I'm Anole." It takes a longer moment before he volunteers, more shyly: "-- I'm better at basketball." "I /knew/ it was something like that!" Doug seems amused at being corrected, but he takes it in stride, stepping towards the bench. "And just because I look like some kid who could be on Glee doesn't mean that I'm not part of the big, extended family, right?" He flashes actual teeth at the introduction. "Oh, that's /cool/," he says. "Is that your street name? 'Cause it's totally perfect." He grins, and takes another step forward. "I'm not so good at basketball, although I play from time to time. I bet you'd kick my ass in two minutes." Then he's suddenly ON the bench, sitting on the back with one knee crooked in Anole's direction. "You come to this park a lot?" "You do look like some kid who could be on Glee," Anole says, not like an accusation but shy, his eyes skipping up to dance over Doug and then look away. "It's my -- I don't know. It's me. My name. I'm," he says this like maybe Doug hadn't /noticed/?, "kind of lizardy." When Doug approaches, takes the bench, he tense-twitches for a moment but doesn't, this time, run off. There's a long moment of hesitation, and then, cautiously, he shifts position, staying behind the bench but leaning his elbows down against its back nearby Doug. "No. I don't -- I haven't been -- it was just nice out. I wanted to -- sun. Do you -- I mean you look like you do. You live here?" "You look kind of bad-ass," Doug says, with a bob of his head. "I mean, I know some shark kids who are pretty scary-looking, but I don't know if that translates into bad-ass the way 'lizardy' does." He offers a wink, and stretches, nodding at an apartment building across the street. "I live in the Lofts," he says. "That brown building. There's a lot of us that live in that building." He grimaces. "But, if you read the news, you probably know that. Our building's been kind of a hot-spot for reporters, lately." Indeed, there are a couple there now, lurking by the stairwell and eating their fast-food lunch. He purses his lips thoughtfully, giving the men a hard, unseen stare. "It is a nice day," he says, glancing at Anole. "But that outfit, while...practical, looks like it'd be uncomfortably warm." "Sharky sounds pretty badass," Anole says after a moment of consideration, "I mean, all the teeth. Chompy. I'd be kinda scared." His head turns, following the path of Doug's nod over towards the building. "-- Reporters? Does someone famous live there?" He eyes the apartment building curiously. His shoulders twitch, arms drawing in further together at the mention of his outfit. "Kinda warm," he says with a shrug. "Oh, man. You /don't/ read the news, do you?" Doug grins, and waves a hand at the building. "We got famous, infamous, and everyday all smashed up together. Heroes and singers, nerds and dancers...you name it, it's probably in our building." His grin slips wide, and he leans forward. "You should read the Post, sometimes. They have all /kinds/ of ideas about what's going on in there." He straightens back up, and frowns at the sweatshirt, and the admission. "I'm sorry you have to wear it." "I read the news a lot," Anole says, with a slightly uncomfortable frown. "Um, I don't -- know if there's -- does the Post count as news?" His nose crinkles. "I usually stick with the Times. CNN. The BBC. Al-Jazeera. Or just -- see what's top on Google News." His fingers creep out, just the very tips, picking awkwardly at the fraying hem of his sleeves. "What /is/ going on in there?" "I don't know if we made the Times," Doug admits. "But there's been a lot of...harrassment?" He lifts a shoulder. "Couple of raids, some excitement over one of the residents -- the guy who saved the Mayor lives over there." Doug grins, and lifts a shoulder. "Beyond that, I'm not in the loop." His tone is easy, but his eyes harden just a bit as he says it; a brief flash that disappears almost immediately. "You hungry, kid?" he asks, suddenly, looking down the trail. "Let's go see if we can find a hot dog cart," he says before Anole can actually answer, standing on the seat of the bench. "My treat." "Oh -- oh. I heard about -- I heard about him. Nobody said anything about his building. Just East Village." Anole shrugs, a faintly troubled look crossing his expression at the change in Doug's. "I'm -- um. No, I'm -- actually thanks," he says with a quick flash of bright smile. "I mean yeah. I'm starving. They won't sell to me though." He straightens, pulling his sleeves back down over his hands. "This is why it's good to know guys who look like kids from Glee," Doug says, without concern for Anole's purchasing dilemma. "They /will/ sell to me." He jerks his head down the path. "Come on. I know a guy who sells foot-longs. We'll get two with everything, and make pigs of ourselves." He grins, and motions for the kid to follow him. "It'll be fun." As they move down the path, he reaches out to nudge gently at Anole's shoulder. "Afterwards, you can show me your sweet moves on the b-ball court." Then they're off, in search of hot dogs. And a basketball.