ArchivedLogs:Seeing Possibilities

Seeing Possibilities
Dramatis Personae Doug, Rasheed	2013-02-20 A cheesy exchange
Location <NYC> Zabar's - Upper West Side
Zabar's is where those in the know go to get their bagels and lox. Arguably the most famous (and best) Deli in Manhattan and continually operated by the Zabar family since 1934, Zabar's is now one of the largest supermarkets in New York City, jam packed with great food at good prices. Lunchtime is a buzy time, at Zabar's, the deli jam-packed with people there to get sandwiches and soup and bagels. Rasheed is not among this crowd. He's a little ways away, over in the actual supermarket, arms crossed across his chest as he peruses their extensive selection of cheeses. He is frowning at the cheeses, more intent than displeased. Dressed neatly in a suit (but no tie), there's a name badge clipped onto a belt loop of his slacks although, currently turned around against the fabric, it reveals little past a generic electronic keycard. Doug is also not part of the lunch crowd, having made the trip north for more than just bagels and a schmear. He approaches the cheese section, basket in hand, clad in a red and gold jersey over a white thermal and loose-fitting jeans. The basket seems to have little in it, beyond ramen noodles and a few cans of stew, and a few bottles of kosher soda. He pauses by the older man, eyes skimming him briefly in acknowledgement of the proximity, and he bends to study the cheese carefully. After a moment, he grimaces, and offers a friendly grin in Rasheed's direction. "I never know what to choose." "It's the problem with too many choices," Rasheed says to the display case. /Grimly/. He is eying the cheeses like they are a particularly complex problem to solve. "I suppose it depends what you are choosing them /for/. Snack? Meal? Yourself? Others? A --" His lips press together. Thin and distasteful, as he says with some measure of reluctance, "-- social gathering?" "I'm just afraid I'll make the wrong choice," Doug confesses, wrinkling his nose. "And wind up with something that I regret." His gaze on the cheese case is more like he's looking for the one thread to pick at to unravel its mysteries. "I guess all of the above," he says, answering the question of why he needs the cheese. "Except the social gathering part. I don't have a lot of time for parties and stuff." He frowns. "Camombert is soft, right?" "Camembert is soft, yes. Strong. Do you like the ones that -- smell?" Rasheed is looking at the Camembert now, considering. His fingers tap against the crook of his arm. "Count yourself lucky," he adds, with a quick-thin quirk of mouth. "I am having a dinner party tomorrow." He says this in much the same tone he might use to say he was sentenced to hard labor tomorrow. "Though I suppose /social/ gathering is a stretch. More like cozying up to potential donors. People enjoy food with their, ah, schmoozing." "Oh, it's one of the stinky ones?" Doug wrinkles his nose. "I don't know. I like bleu cheese, but I'm not fan of the stronger ones for just...eating." The mention of why the older man is looking over the selection gets a groan from the blonde, and he rolls his eyes. "Oh, God, those are the worst," he says, shaking his head. "So dry, and boring, and everyone knows why they're there, but no one but the host is willing to talk about it...I'd rather eat a plate of the stinkiest cheeses in the world than sit through /that/." He winces when he realizes he's ranting, and lifts a shoulder apologetically. "My mother does a fair amount of fundraising." "Strong, yes. And runny." Rasheed taps again at the inside of his arm. His gaze shifts over to a square of Pont-l'Eveque. "Ah, well. The guests are all professionals in my field, I imagine we will have plenty of interest to discuss that is not, mmm, dry and boring. It's the socializing that tires me." His dark eyes shift over towards Doug. "Does she? In what field?" "Ew. Runny cheese makes me gag." Doug says this without rancor. "Cheese can be soft, but it shouldn't be /slimy/." He grins, and shifts his attention to a wheel of Stilton, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully. The question gets his sidelong attention, and his mouth presses into a tight line. "Politics, mostly," he says. "But it's sort of a gross symbiosis with my father's work. She raises funds to get politicians elected who in turn influence certain commitees to look favorably upon my father's company when assigning contracts." He works his mouth as if to clear the bad taste from it. "What is your field?" "Your father's company?" It's an absent question, accompanied with another quick glance over towards Doug, eyebrows raising at the expression on the teenager's face. "What does he do, then?" Rasheed steps in towards the counter to order a cheese -- the Pont-l'Eveque, one petit square -- but then goes back to perusing. "Medicine," he gives in simple answer. "He runs a biological research company," Doug says absently, a muscle in hsi jaw jumping lightly. "Mostly stuff I don't understand, but it pays the bills." He chuckles hollowly, and his mouth pulls to one side. "Medicine, huh? You might know him, then. He does a lot of consultant work. Ramsey BioLabs?" He lifts his eyebrows inquisitively, and cocks his head. "They test a fair number of vaccines and stuff. Treatments." His gaze lingers on a block of Gruyere, and he looks thoughtful. "What field of medicine do you work in?" he asks politely. "Mmm." Rasheed is leaning in towards the case to frown at cheeses again. "Beaufort is tasty," he says, half to himself, and then, "one day I will just hire a planner for this kind of thing. Ah -- no." He straightens, head shaking slightly. "That sounds a bit removed from my practice. My focus is neurology. The fundraiser, though, is for a clinic I run separate from my private practice. It can be easy to make people understand why drug addicts and sex workers and the houseless need their support, but more difficult to make them understand why they deserve it." "Oh, wow," Doug says with a grin. "Neurology sounds way more interesting than finding a new cure for the flu or whatever it is they're doing. Of course, the people who work for my dad would probably say the reverse." He makes note of the Beaufort comment, and idly picks up a box of crackers sitting on a low shelf in front of the case, slipping it into his basket. "A clinic is a good thing to raise money for," he says. "But you know New Yorkers. The best way to get them to give money is to find a celebrity or someone to give money first. Preferably in front of them." He grins. "Everyone wants to be as cool as the biggest star in the room. That's what my mother says." "I imagine many people get into the fields they are in because they are interested by them," Rasheed says, with a brief smile to answer Doug's grin. "I neglected to invite any celebrities. I suppose I am taking the hard upward slog just appealing to people's better natures. One would hope that doctors could be swayed by the idea that medicine should be accessible to /all/ people, but. Mmm. We will see." "I'd hope that was the case," Doug says. "Although I imagine there's some jobs and things that are more 'wind up' places than goals to be achieved." He lifts a shoulder. "My mother never tries to get money out of doctors," he says sympathetically. "She says they have the hardest time seeing what might be possible because they're knee-deep in pain and misery all day." He winces, and closes one eye at Rasheed with a rueful expression. "Sorry. Clearly, she doesn't know all doctors." He grins. "At least not doctors uncorrupted by the pharmeceutical companies." "That's a strange way to think of it," Rasheed says, a hint of amusement curling through his tone. "Or a very pessimistic one. I don't think your mother knows medicine very /well/. All I see is what might be possible. I'm knee-deep all day in the opportunity to improve people's lives." "Maybe she just spends her time around a lot of stuffy doctors who've been in their business far too long and lost their passion for it," Doug offers with a bright smile. "I rarely see anyone under the age of 45 at her fundraisers, unless they /are/ a celebrity." He shakes his head, and indicates to the person behind the counter that the Stilton and the Beaufort are among his choices. Then he's looking at Rasheed carefully. "But it's nice to meet someone who still has passion for their work." He holds out a hand amiably. "Doug Ramsey." "I come in under that line but only barely," Rasheed answers, small smile fixed on his lips. "I dearly hope that my next couple birthdays do not see my losing my passion for what I do. What is it /you/ have passion for, then? You certainly haven't reached 45 yet." At Doug's choice, he eyes the cheeses contemplatively, and then adds an order of Beaufort to his own selection. He turns, accepting the offered hand with a quick firm clasp. "Rasheed," he says. "Rasheed Toure." "Well, you're kind of a specialist, aren't you?" Doug says, lifting a shoulder. "I imagine it's easier to hold onto your passion when it's focused. 'Healing people' as a general goal is noble, but it seems like it could be really taxing, after a while. But 'healing people's brains' or 'trying to cure heart disease' are a bit more focused, and seem less..." there's a frown, and Doug gropes for the word. "prone to burnout." It's not the best finisher, but he goes with it, clasping the older man's hand warmly and giving it a brief squeeze before dropping it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rasheed." He grins, and his eyebrows jerk up, momentarily in a happy motion. "My passion is computers," he says. "I'm majoring in Computer Science at Columbia." "I'm not really sure your distinction is one that --" Rasheed considers Doug's expression for a moment, but then shrugs. "It's all cast from the same mold. I don't think my colleagues in general practice would consider their work any less focused, and," he says, with a brief twitch at the corners of his mouth, "I am quite sure my colleagues in various specialties would not consider /ours/ any less taxing. I suspect there are a fair number of other factors influencing people's burnout." He turns back to the counter, adding some Appenzeller to his order, though now he seems to be once more a little bit lost among all the varieties. "Computers," he says, with a slight nod. "That should serve you well, these days. Do you know what you intend to do with it, once you are through school?" Doug's mouth twitches. "I suppose I hadn't thought about that," he admits. "Not that I think very much on the subject at all. But I see your point." He shrugs. "I guess every job is like that. Not as simple as it might appear on the outside." There's a soft chuckle at that, and he wrinkles his nose as he grabs a block of smoked cheddar and slips it into his basket. "I have some aptitude for them," he says of computers. "And I'm hoping to eventually have my own software company one day. Maybe develop some apps and operating systems that are the next Apple." He raises his eyebrows, and his grin goes lopsided. "But, I'm still just a freshman, so I don't know. By the time I graduate, there might be something else I want to do with it." He pauses, glancing at Rasheed. "Did you always want to be a neurologist?" "Most jobs are," Rasheed agrees, easily. Possibly he's /suggestible/ on the matter of cheeses; he glances to Doug's smoked cheddar and then takes a block of his own. Maybe he is panicking. At the thought of Dinner Party. "It's always good to aim high," he murmurs, as he Cheeses himself. "No," he admits, "I wanted to be a long succession of things before I settled on medicine. Neurology came fairly soon after the choice to be a doctor, but I ran through many options first. Computers were one, once." His smile is slightly amused. "I wanted to be an Imam, for a time. Things change." "I wanted to be a fireman, when I was a little kid," Doug says with a grin. "Any job, really, where I could stay in one place. Until we moved up here, we didn't really stay anywhere for overlong, so stability was a big draw for me." He chuckles, and picks up a container that claims to contain port cheese, and studies the label. "I guess everyone takes time to find their way." He turns his gaze to Rasheed. "Isn't an Imam a Muslim religious leader?" he verifies, his brow knitting. "That's kind of cool, actually. I don't think I've ever met anyone who considered theology. How old were you?" "Quite a different upbringing than mine. I've been here all my life. Moving from Brooklyn to Manhattan was quite a change," Rasheed says, with a wry note of self-deprecation. "Yes, it is. I was -- well. Young, at first, but it was a path I kept coming back through up until -- college, really. I suppose software might provide you a bit of stability, if you centered your company somewhere you wished to stay." "That makes sense," Doug says of Rasheed's path. "I mean, you're still /helping/ people. Just physically instead of spiritually." He grins, and raises a hand. "Sometimes two things seem similar enough to be confused with each other. But it sounds like an interesting path, nonetheless." He winces as his pocket quacks, and fishes his phone from his pocket, reading the text there with a small pull of his mouth. It doesn't seem to require reply, though, and he slides it back in his pocket. "Man, I would have given anything to have a regular neighborhood, with actual friends." Rasheed's suggestion gets a smile. "Well, the smart money would say move west, where the companies thrive, but I'm partial to staying in New York, honestly. It doesn't seem to have hurt Stark Industries to center here. I can at least aspire that high, right?" "College is a good place for friends, right? I know I met many there." Rasheed frowns at his basket and its slowly accumulating hoard of cheeses, but then flashes a quick smile at Doug. "At least," he says, a little dryly. "They do say if you shoot for the stars, you will land among the clouds. I should, ah, return to work." The basket gets another look. Another frown. For its /inadequacy/. "It was good to meet you, Doug. Good luck with your computers." "Yeah, it is," Doug agrees with a flash of a grin. "I don't have a /lot/, but I've made a few." He chuckles, and waves a hand as his pocket quacks again. "Speaking of which, that'd be my study group again. I should go and catch up with them." He nods and shifts the basket in his hand. "It was good meeting you, too, Dr. Toure," he says amiably. "I hope your fundraiser is a big success, and your clinic receives the help it needs." He looks down at his own basket, and wrinkles his nose. "Cereal," he says. "Forgot cereal." Then, with another small wave for Rasheed, the blonde is drifting off, in search of sugary breakfast goodness. Maybe with a prize.