ArchivedLogs:Stale Donuts

Stale Donuts
Dramatis Personae Jim, Melinda	2013-12-28 '
Location <NYC> Helping Hands Homeless Coalition - Chelsea
The Helping Hands Soup Kitchen is a very large, white room with linoleum floors, rows upon rows of tables, and sturdy but cheap chairs. Toward the back, away from the entrance, is a shortened wall that divides the servers from the patrons, not to keep one from the other, but to help facilitate the distribution of food. Kitchens lie behind with several openings where food is passed out to the dining hall. Along the walls, there are announcements, calendars, and pockets filled with pamphlets for those who can read that describes all the services available at Helping Hands and where they take place. Near the entrance is a desk that controls access to the staircase that leads upstairs to the rest of the shelter, beds, bathrooms, and beyond. Stale donuts lined up in boxes; black coffee in styrofoam cups. The cramped enclosure of a back room, lined with metal folding chairs. The smell of winter and winter coats, scarves and boots and a Caution: Wet Floor sandwich sign set in the middle of a puddle by the entrance. And people, all standing up with the low murmur of a meeting ended. Towards the front, there's a developing liveliness, hands shaking, a few hugs. Dressed in usual thrift store corduroy jacket, Jim is standing up in the back row - the so-called Denial Aisle THANK you very much - slapping a fedora on his head and turning to fold up his chair. Melinda enters with a mop and bucket at the end of the meeting, looking as if she'd rather have been there sooner. She is busily frowning and wringing out the mop as she shoves the bucket into place, flopping the drier mop in the puddle to help sop some of that hazard up. She's dressed in her comfortable jeans which are starting to seem less comfortable in how tight they are laying, and a long sleeved flannel over a white v-neck t-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a pony tail, high on her head, but whispy nonsense has escaped the band and seems to constantly tickle her nose. She mops mops mops at the spot to get up some water, and then plunges the mop back into the bucket to rinse out some of the grime and salt from city boots. As she leans upon the handle, she looks up to see how many people are milling and how many are leaving, for future chair collapsing. Then Jim catches her eye. Huh. A few other folded chairs are pressed into Jim's possession by a middle aged woman in a bomber jacket; he FROWNS at her but takes them, gripping them by their seat backs over each forearm, which has them bump and bobble off the side of either hip when he carries them towards the rack they hang on. The woman accompanies, carrying a few as well. They don't speak much until they've moved on to the coffee table, Jim with a posture openly conveying a stiff annoyance, running squinted JUDGING eyes over the top of his styrofoam cup at the people that walk past him. The woman seems intent to ignore his bad mood, saying a few stern words to him that make him frown deeper. And simultaneously allow her a grudging hug before she leaves. Just kind of pretending it hadn't happened. It's not until this point that his eyes move towards the exit. And the woman mopping. And he pauses. Then raises his chin and projects his voice to her, "Well fuck." It's LIKE a greeting! Melinda's lips purse hard at this greeting, her eye giving the look of someone who has had a long day. Her expression warms after a moment and she lets out a soft sigh. Her hand lifts and she waves, before turning and putting the mop and bucket up against a wall to rest. She turns to step toward him, but pauses, looking around the room once more, then eyes him again. "We'd stock fresher donuts, but there's this law of the universe that says we can't. Don't want to go up against laws of the universe, you know." "Yeah well." Jim shoves a fist into a jacket pocket, the other lifting his coffee back in front of his mouth, "Sometimes it feels like these meetings are meant to be a fucking punishment anyway. Make it too comfortable and people'll take up drinking to get in." He runs his eyes up and down Melinda, taking in her attire, "Been a while." "I'm sure there are more comfortable non-drinkers clubs around. I just don't know if they help people change as much." Mel speaks quietly as Jim's eyes look her over, a tired slump starting to slip into her posture. Despite her stance, her coloration is good. Her limbs seem to be catching the plumpness that is infecting her torso though. "Yeah, maybe Novemberish, while you were resting between patroles. How are you doing after all of that?" "-and then there's Mel's classic inability to recognize humor," Jim mutters partially on top of Melinda's last few words about non-drinking facilities. His head is turned to watch two women and one man, all in various stages of pulling on their winter gear, leaning together conspiratorially, speaking animatedly with their fingers open to jazz-hands at one another. After a long moment of pressing his lips together he shrugs, "Ended up here. Decide of /that/ whatever you fucking want." He doesn't say it angrily just - flat. Dismissive. More abruptly he adds, turning his head back toward Melinda, "Y'look tired, Mel." "Oh, Hey, I was just asking ... hell, I don't know. About your health. The patrols. The Morlocks? I haven't heard anything about them and they probably got the worst of the shaft." Mel crosses her arms over her chest defensively, her expression low and humble. "It was a shitty transition. Didn't mean to come across like that. 'Here' just... hasn't settled in yet." Her shoulders curl inward. "Yeah, I'm kind of having trouble sleeping. I put time into it and get very little out of it." "Yeah yeah yeah," Jim sways his coffee loosely in Melinda's direction, ala 'these aren't the drunks you're looking for', "Forget about it. They're uh--" he shakes his head, eyes roving away again, "--/we're/ uh. Y'know." There's a moment's pause, where honesty, perhaps a byproduct of the humbling AA atmosphere in these back rooms, trickles in, lowering his voice for just the two of them. "It was bad, for a while. We lost a lot of good people." The side of his mouth twists deeper into my cheek, shrugging, "Guess just about everyone did. -- What's keepin' /you/ up?" "Don't know. Maybe it's a shitty mattress, maybe it's just my head not shutting up after all that we've been through lately. I just don't sleep much. Can't get to sleep, toss and turn when I try. I've been cutting back on the caffeine to see if it helps, but it only makes me more tired." Mel inhales sharply, eyeing that cup that Jim waves around, looking a bit keen on the inky blackness within. She does a good job holding herself back though. "Going to talk to my doctor next week, if the appointment doesn't get dropped again. Too many emergencies still cropping up. Everyone seems anxious about their health lately." She purses her lips and unwraps one arm to scratch at her forehead briefly and turns to place one shoulder a little closer to Jim's side. "You want to go snag some lunch?" Jim is looking down to watch Melinda's shoulder choose its proximity, his brow hoisted way way up. He doesn't see fit to voice a complaint; after a moment's consideration, he sniffs, "Yeah." And offers the crook of his elbow to her, looking one final time towards the other dry drunks "Yeah, why not." Nearer yet, he pulls his hat down and adds, "...'m not ready yet. For anyone t'know I been going t'meetings, huh?" Melinda slips her hand in between Jim's elbow and his side, fingers wrapping around the joint, sidling up closer to him. "There's a sandwich place near by, or we can raid the kitchen. I figure the sandwich place would be less chaotic." She looks down at her feet as she walks, a silent moment hanging on before she looks over at him and nods. "I will try to put it as far out of mind as possible. I wish I could confidently say that my lips are sealed, but ... oh, man, did I tell you? I finally got my head put back together. Everything is incredibly surreal, but wow. Things kind of make more sense now." "--what, yeah?" For a moment, Jim's brows raise and surprise takes a few heavy years off his face, "That's /fine/ then. /Good/. Anyway. S'not some dark secret I'm keeping," Jim pats a callous hand atop Melinda's. "Whether it gets raccooned up or not, doubt'd have a thought on it - I'm a drunk. I'm a fucking /dry/ drunk. We belong here, right?" Vaguely bitter-embossed, speaking low through his teeth, his steady hard eyes are casual as he begins their meander towards the door, tossing his empty cup in the trash along the way. "My shit to shovel." Along the way, they pass the woman in the bomber jacket - Jim pulls down the front of his hat at her, leaving only his scarred lower face to twist around a slanted grin. As they pass through the front room of Helping Hands, he sniffs. Murmurs. "-so uh." "Yeah." Melinda nods during the explanation. "I figured. S'not life or death anyway," she amends as they head out. She gives the woman in the bomber jacket a little smile and nod, her eyes curious but demeanor restrained. As they head back out into the front section, she waves another volunteer back to the mop duty she is abandoning for greener -- or at least tastier pastures. In response to his '-so uh,' she offers a "Hmm?" "You uh," pushing their way outside, a cold gust of air shoves up against Jim and Melinda's FACES. Jim squints his eyes against it like he's taking it PERSONALLY. It helps detract from his ever-so-nonchalant murmur of, "--you got a ride lined up to get to the doctor's?" "Oh." Melinda considers this. "No. I guess I didn't think about a ride as I didn't think any procedures'd be done." Her lips purse, worry setting creases in her brow. Her free hand reaches up to scratch where her hair reaches her cheekbones in front of her ear. "Did you want to?" She then reaches down to tug her flannel closed in the face of the colder temperatures outside. It's nippy, but the restaurant isn't far. The thought puts a little more rush into her steps. "Yeah." Whuffs out in a frosty plume of air. Flat 'yeah'. Kind of barked out, while Jim pauses for traffic to rush by. "Drive ya. If y'know - your uh. Funky feminist -," don't say 'wiles', Jim, WRONG WORD, Jim, "wiles -- /sensibilities/ -- Y'know." Totally complete sentences, Jim can provide them. "What's wrong with you?" Everyone loves to be asked this question! Melinda cringes up a bit like she's just been forcefed a lemon, casting a squinty stare in Jim's direction when he starts explaining. Stunned surprise soon simmers slightly, her head beginning to shake on its own, the woman still at a loss for words. Luckily, their foot steps take them inside the restaurant quickly, a small place with a few tables and chairs set up, but most of the clientele choosing to take their food with them to go. She still needs a second, her eyes turned toward the menu board without reading. "Uh. No. I am happy to accept a ride. Now I have to wonder why you're offering though." She turns toward him and clears her throat, pulling her hand away from Jim to rub both of them together. "Let's just say that some bodily functions have indicated that things are not normal inside me and I need to get something figured out, physically. So... doctor." "Wonder why I'm offer- the fuck other reasons are there." Jim SCOWLS up at the order board, shuffling sideways to come up tot he counter and ordering 'some sort of omelet thing', which the girl behind the counter must follow up with a few specified questions to ascertain what the fuck that even means. "Sssss. So your body gives out soon as your get your god damn head back. Fuck this shit." He has located a toothpick dispenser, and plucks one out for himself. Because you can't smoke indoors anymore. "Oh Jim," Melinda draws in a deep breath and tucks her hands up under her arms to warm her fingers. She orders turkey with havarti and extra tomato, despite the fact that the poor red discs are no where near as red as they should be. It's December. One does not get luscious tomatoes in December. Not in Northern America. "I think it started before I got my head back, but yeah. Seems to be one thing or another. Who knows. It could be nothing. I could go in to the doctor and get a diagnosis of 'stress' and be told to go on vacation and eat better." She slips a worn wallet out of her back pocket, one only big enough to hold her ID and one card and maybe some cash. She's ready to pay for her food. "Oh, can I get one of those juices too?" This pointing is done for the person at the cash register. Jim side-eyes Melinda's wallet, then his own - a battered leather animal all frayed and stained from dank life in the sewers. "You uh," he pinches the front of his nose, rolling eyes in a different direction, "you wanna get me? I'm a little short. Haven't gotten a lot of work... uh. In a while." He has his back turned to the people behind the counter while he waits, elbows hooked over the edge and hunting around Melinda's face. "...how long's this been going on?" "Sure, Jim." Mel doesn't think twice about it and slips her card across the counter to pick up the tab. She gets the juice and the card back before the food, so stuffs it back in her wallet and pops the cap off the juice for a sip. "Eh. It's not like I suddenly had a pain. That I would have gone to a doctor or one of our friends to diagnose faster. This is one of those unwell things, weird weight gain, strange feelings, dizziness... shifts in appetites, stuff like that. Considering we were eating crap a lot and under a shit ton of stress, I just kind of wrote it off. Things have just... not gotten better and it's been a while since quarantine was lifted. So. Doctor. To see why." "Guess as long as you're not tearin' people apart with your teeth we're comin out ahead," Jim swivels his toothpick diagonally with a trick of mandibular flexibility. And, once the food arrives, he takes them hostage into either of his hands, and wanders off to locate for them a table.