ArchivedLogs:Realism and Imagined Robbery

Realism and Imagined Robbery
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Shelby
In Absentia	2013-01-19 '
Location <NYC> The Junk Drawer
The Junk Drawer is typical of most pawn shops. There are grates up in the window, cutting down the available light and leaving the flickering florescents to do the job. Longer than it is wide, two narrow aisles go back to a tall counter. On each side of the aisles there are shelves that almost touch the ceiling, covered with a huge assortment of knickknacks, electronics, games and...well, junk. The counter in the back is glass-topped and holds an array of cheap jewelry. On the wall behind it is a locked and barred case filled with other valuables, including a collection of knives. Word on the street has it that if you know how to ask, the owner can produce small handguns for purchase as well. Melinda pulls open the door and listens to the electronic chime that notes their entranced. She's decked out in a hefty poncho sweater with a cream long sleeved top underneath. She scuffs her black knee high boots against the mat meant to trap the nastiness of winter and holds the door open for her companion. "Come on, Shelby. Let's see if there's anything of use here. The last place --" She shakes her head and lets her attention drift to the things on the walls, looking for musical instruments. "We might have some luck here." "The last place was a shithole," Shelby supplies, because she's helpful that way. She's less careful of the muck tracked in with her sneakers and leaves wet footprints behind her as she passes by Melinda to plunge into the first aisle. "And this place smells like cat piss." Not really, though there's the distinct odor of dust and faint mold. The man behind the counter in the back, bald and covered in faded ink, glances up at the women but soon looks down again; he's reading a girlie mag and can't be bothered with covered up tits when there's bare ones on the page right in front of him. Up high, there are instruments--a violin in a case lined with dull red velvet, a tambourine, a pair of maracas, an electric guitar with a chipped and scratched body... Melinda inhales unconsciously when Shelby mentions the scent, drawing herself up as the odor fills her nostrils. "It's not that... bad." She shakes her head, lips pursed, and follows the younger woman deeper into the store. She glances here and there. "Now remind me once again. Acoustic only, or is electric okay?" She is distracted by a trophy on a shelf, the name of some poor kid who got 3rd place in a track and field even emblazoned on the plate. "Really? People try to sell these things after they're used?" "Acoustic." Shelby has picked up a baby doll from a different shelf and is tilting it back and forth, making the eyes snap open, snap shut, snap open... "Electric's a pain in the ass," she says, tossing the doll back onto the pile and turning to study Melinda's trophy with bright interest. "Hey, cool! If it didn't have the name on it, that'd be sweet to decorate your room. You ever win a trophy before?" She clearly hasn't, because she loves the thing. But there are other distractions to draw her on. "I got a ribbon once." "OH, I'm good on trophies," Melinda admits, putting it back down. "But maybe I'll get you one for your birthday." She gives the girl a side glance before cutting to the chase and moving away to the counter. "Hi, Sir?" Distracted though he is, he is paid to pay attention. "Hi. We're looking for an acoustic guitar, if you have one. Any chance of one here?" Her hands rest on the counter, one hand drumming impatiently. The thought of getting a trophy via birthday present amuses the girl--she laughs, and is still amused while tagging along to the counter. This means Shelby's smiling as she folds her arms atop it and studies the guy there. The same cannot be said for him. He glances at Miranda, looking at her along a nose as red and swollen as a tomato. "If it ain't on the shelves, I ain't got it. Try the front corner," he says and stabs a beefy finger towards the unexplored aisle. In the meanwhile, the teenager has been getting a good eyeful of the magazine he has opened. Nothing as "classy" as Playboy here--this is full, unairbrushed nudity. "Hey, she's got pimples on her butt!" Melinda stares at the clerk, then turns her attention along the lines of where he points. She inhales once more, biting back some comment and steps away, turning toward that corner and begins to walk away. At Shelby's comment, she snorts loudly. "Hey, real is good. Fake porn must get old. It's all very mechanical anyway." As their luck would have it, there is a quasi decent acoustic guitar case in the corner. She kneels down next to it and opens it up, looking at the poor damaged thing that can't even be put behind the counter. "Hmmmmm." Shelby might well have stayed to exchange words with the clerk--he looks none too pleased with her observation--but without Melinda to pay backup, she beats a hasty retreat after the older woman. "-I- don't have ass-pimples," she claims. Fortunately she doesn't continue on that line of conversation because yay guitar! To her knees she goes, peering around Melinda to get a better look. "Man, that's been through the wars. All of them." She reaches out to knock on the body. "Still solid though even if it's bunged up." "Do you know for certain? have you looked?" Melinda challenges Shelby with a raised brow. "They're quite common and it's not a big deal." She snickers and moves away so that Shelby can have a look. "Why don't you give it a strum and see how the sound is before you commit to the lack of broken body." "Ewww, no, I'm not going to stare at my own ass!" See, this might be why Shelby likes Melinda--she makes the girl laugh. "No one else is gonna want to either. That's just gross." She knee-shuffles closer to lift the instrument from its case. What follows is -not- melodic--strings are plucked, where they exist, and the screws tightened to try to achieve something like being in tune. "So," she says, with her chin down and head moving back and forth between strings and tuners, "do you check out your butt a lot?" "Well, some people are into it." Melinda straightens up entirely, giving her back a small stretch. She is patient for the tuning and the repeated unmelodic tones, but she is not exactly expecting the question. Her brows rise and her ears flush. "I... I guess. Sometimes. I didn't really think it was a lot. I just like to know what my body looks like. Nothing shameful in that. It's not like I slap my own ass and cry out, 'Oh, yeah, I'd fuck me' when I do it." Oh dear. That might have been the wrong answer because as soon as Shelby has the guitar capable of making sort-of music, she begins playing the opening bars to "Goodbye Horses". Innocently. "I was just fucking with you," she claims. "If I strip in front of a narrow mirror, I look too. And I'd totally fuck me, 'cause I'm pretty cute." Her grin exposes that gap between her front teeth. And then, heaven help us, she launches into the song. "You told me, I see you rise but, it always falls, I see you come, I see you go, you say, 'All things pass into the night!'" From the counter, the man hollers, "Hey!" "So there." Melinda quips, shaking her head. She listens to the music begin to be birthed from the pathetic assemblage of wood and string and smiles - that is, until the man behind the counter shouts. "So, good enough or are we still on the prowl?" She turns to glare at the man. "You want to sell it or not?" "You gotta pay for it if you want to play with it," the man returns but he's too lazy to get off of his stool and come prowling down the aisle. He settles instead for crankily turning the page of the porn mag. Shelby cuts the song short but she can't resist a few running scales, just to fuck with the proprietor. Then she gives the body an echoey pat before returning the guitar to the case. "This'll do. I'll have to get some new strings but there's a music shop down in the East End that has those for cheap." She lowers her voice. "You think he'll let this go for twenty bucks?" "I have no idea," Melinda admits and draws herself up tall and heads back to the register. "How much?" She rests a hand on the counter as she awaits his answer. Shelby comes along behind, lugging the case along. She seems to know well enough to leave the bargaining to Melinda--in fact, she's eyeing the woman with frank admiration as she squares off with the clerk. He, on the other hand, is scowling. Maybe he doesn't dig tall chicks. "Seventy-five," he rumbles, "that one's only had one owner and it's in prime shape." "Prime shape?" Melinda scoffs and shakes her head. "That thing has traded hands more times than a dollar bill and the kid has twenty. Do you want to sell it? Is seventy five a firm price?" She looks down at him as she waits. Staring. Down. At. Him. The lady has height on him but the clerk has width. He doesn't budge--at least at first. But when it becomes clear Melinda intends to keep up the staring act, he scowls. "I could do sixty but you may as well pull a gun on me and empty the register. It's robbery." Robbery! He huffs and sits back on the stool, making it groan. "But you give me sixty and it's yours." Behind Melinda, there is a sound of indrawn breath before Shelby remembers she's letting her handle it. Who knows what she might have said. Probably nothing good. "Good gravy. I could chip in and match her contribution, but that brings us to forty and thats it." Melinda continues to haggle, looking thoughtful instead of harsh and blunt. "It's an investment in the future. The kid could really use the income." "Forty!" The guy is really getting into it now. If he had hair, he might be tearing at it. "You -are- trying to rob me! Forty years I been in this business and hand on my heart, every year it gets harder, people thinking they can come in here and steal from me. I got kids to feed. I got -grandkids- to feed." But he's also looking past Melinda to eyeball Shelby, who knows her cues enough to have plastered on a look of pitiful starvation. Finally he grumps but finger curls at the ladies to fork over the cash. "Jesus Christ, I'm going soft. Don't you tell no one Sal let you walk out of here with no hundred dollar guitar for forty bucks." Squeal! Shelby loses the act almost immediately and digs in her pocket to produce a single battered twenty. Helpfully, she points out, "You said it was seventy-five dollars." Sal scowls. "Thank you," Melinda replies, fishing her own wallet out of her back pocket and producing a crisper twenty. She pushes both bills toward the man and licks her lips. "You're doing a good thing here. Just think of it as good karma. Should anything happen to your kids or your grandkids, some stranger will help them." She glances over at Shelby and shakes her head. "Ain't no one gonna look after 'em but me. You'd best remember that, girl." Sal is flattening out the more rumpled of the bills beneath the meaty blade of his palm. "Can't trust a goddamned person in this world." Cha-ching! The register is banged open, the money deposited inside and he leans on an elbow again while returning to perusing the dirty mag. Shelby is less impressed with his pessimism. After all, is she not now the proud new owner of a bunged up guitar? She -is-! "Oh my fucking god," she's whispering behind Melinda, hugging the case to her chest and walking backwards towards the door. "This is fucking -awesome-! You -rock-. I swear to god, I owe you -huge-!" Or whatever counts as huge with the teen. But she looks happy. Melinda simply nods to Sal's proclamation and turns to go on their way. She waits until she is outside before shaking her head and laughing at Shelby. "You are quite lucky that we got away with that. You and your comments, hun." She shakes her head a little more. "You don't owe me anything. Just... take care of yourself and don't get hurt over this stupid piece of wood, okay?" "Hey, I just say what everyone's thinking," Shelby claims, turtling up a little as the cold air hits. She's got a white knuckle grip on the case's handle; it won't be going anywhere soon. "And if those guys' had just taken the last one instead of shoving me first, I'd have been okay. I'd have handed it over. Honest." Maybe. "But seriously, I owe you. If you need a hand or whatever, let me know, okay? I'll be there like whoa." "Okay, Shelby, okay. Just enjoy it. It's meant to help you out, not bring me any favors. Though, if you want to play for me, that'd be nice some time. Maybe I'll get you some open mic time at the cafe." Melinda smiles as she walks, hiding her hands from the chill under her sweater. "So what now? Lunch? Don't say bagels." "Seriously? You guys have open mic night? Sweet! I'm like, totally there. That'd be awesome. Do folks tip? They better tip. Or I'll tell them to tip you 'cause you're the best. Just lemme know what sort've music you like and I'll whip it out once I got these strings fixed up." Shelby's grin appears, undaunted by the chill in the air. "So long as you don't say IHOP. I could go for a burger, maybe. Or some street meat if we see a cart. Hey, you think it's true some of those carts use rats?" High spirits for the teen appears to translate into playing the chatterbox--but there are worse things than having your ear talked off with rumors of rats in the hot dogs and gators in the sewers.