ArchivedLogs:Strangers' Pants

Strangers' Pants
Because Thrift Shop.
Dramatis Personae Trib, Micah
In Absentia	4 June 2013 Settle down, it's not that exciting. ^_~
Location <NYC> Clothescycle - Garment District
Selling clothing both new and used -- but mostly used -- this store often has something for those fashion-conscious but on a budget. There is a distinct alternative bent to many of the clothes (and many of the dyed-haired, pierced clientele that often show up) but for those willing to take the time to look through their racks and racks of clothing, there are gems to be found both in their newer and vintage sections. In their basement, for the adventurous, their dollar-a-pound section offers just what the name suggests: they sell clothing for a dollar per pound. The pickings are often unusual, to be sure, but for those handy with needle and thread, sometimes the heaps of fabric can be turned to creative use. Mid-evening seems an odd time for clothes shopping, particularly in the mostly-empty (at this time of evening) Garment District. But, Clothescycle is one of those places that's worth the trip, no matter what time of day. Bargains galore await the thrifty and patient shopper. Trib is one of those, pushing through the narrow space between the racks with an odd care for someone his size. The boxer looks like he might be a regular customer here, in his ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt that has a picture of Max Headroom (Google it, kids) on the chest. His large feet are barely kept from the floor by flip-flops that look to be as ill-fitted as the pants. Trib has a couple of pairs of jeans draped over his left arm, his right half-hand trailing along the racks of shirts and occasionally twitching one out for him to consider sullenly. At least, that's what the ruined features of his face suggest, his brow heavy over his golden gaze. Maybe he objects to the /prices/. It might be an odd time to shop, but sneaking about close to closing time really is the most convenient for people who got stuck working late. Such is Micah! The slender auburn-haired young man wanders through the door, humming, still clad in obvious work clothes consisting of a TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis. The khakis are more than a little plaster-stained down the front of one leg. Kid seems to know what he needs, though, as he beelines for a massive pile of jeans on a table and proceeds to prod his way through its offerings. Trib doesn't immediately notice those around him. He seems focused on finding a shirt that will actually fit his massive chest and shoulders. Unfortunately, the selection of /those/ kinds of shirts being strictly limited; mostly Hawaiian prints and flamboyantly silky-looking things that get a sort of horrified look from the big man before they're abandoned. Eventually, though, he finds a couple that might work, although by now he's back near the table with the jeans. Which are apparently worth another look-through, as he turns and begins to join in the digging. Glancing up at the redhead, he offers a grunt that might be a greeting. "You see any 38/38s, lemme know," he rumbles, which seems more greet-y. Sort of. Micah is attempting to develop some sort of search algorithm for the messy table full of denim. It might be a /grid/ pattern. Like the jeans are kids lost in the woods and the team is splitting up to find them before nightfall. He flashes the other man a bright smile in greeting when he is addressed. “Oh, goodness knows, I’ll clue you in. Not like we’re competin’ for the same ones. I’d prob’ly be able to climb into just the one leg.” Because he’s kind of skinny. See, it’s funny! “I go through more jeans. It’s kinda sad. Only so much patchin’ you can patch before it gets right to ridiculous-town.” "Yeah, you're a tiny thing," Trib grunts, his eyes crinkling as he looks Micah over again with more attention. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "But it ain't /that/ easy to get into my pants." He chuffs something that might be a laugh, and offers a flutter of one eyelid that might be intended as a wink. "Try 'em at my size," he says of patching. "I wear through 'em pretty fast. Can't help it." He lifts a massive shoulder in a shrug. "Which ain't no fuckin' fun, because they're a bitch to find on the cheap." “Hey, who you callin’ tiny?” Micah says with nothing of offense and everything of amusement in his voice. He giggles at the getting-into-pants comment, the faintest hint of shell-pink brushing across his cheeks. Because blushing at nothing is an /art form/ and he has mastered it. “Yeah, my problem’s less the size an’ more the metal an’ carbon fibre and plastic leg /not/ bein’ the easiest thing for cloth to rub up against all the live-long.” He gently bops his left knee into the table leg, resulting in the kind of hard /clunk/ one wouldn’t expect from an organic joint. "Hey, if the shoe fits...." Trib is equally amused as he digs through the jeans, holding up a pair to inspect the tag in the waist. "What size you wear?" he asks, flipping the pants in Micah's direction. Which probably messes up his organizing. He pauses as the other man explains his wear-and-tear, and his mouth pulls down in a sort of impressed look. "No shit? You some kinda veteran or somethin'?" Because Micah /totally/ looks like he should be on the front lines. The thump gets a small lift of his eyebrows, and he nods. "That's pretty fuckin' bad-ass." That comment earns a snort. “Don’t even get me started on shoes.” Micah grins at that. “Oh, gosh, honestly depends on the…whatever it’s called…the fit of the thing. Usually can get away with about 28 to 30 waist and 30 inseam. Belts are wonderful inventions.” He manages to keep the items being flipped his way from flopping into his search pattern by shoving them forward a bit. “Nah, not a veteran unless y’count the intrauterine wars. It’s congenital. Not all that exciting.” "Ugh. Shoes. Those're a bitch to find, too." Trib gestures with his half-hand at his feet. "I can't even start fuckin' trainin' again until I can afford a decent pair of fuckin' boots." He nods at the information, resuming the search with a small chuff of sympathy for Micah's situation. "Yeah, that don't sound too exciting," he says, shaking his head. "Still, you got a kick-ass leg out of it. Like that Six Billion Dollar Man dude." He holds up his hand. "I'd kill for a sweet robotic hand." He smirks. "Like a super-hand, or somethin'." His eyes crinkle further in amusement, and he offers a pair of jeans with more care. "Here. These are 28s." “Hm…yeah. If you have an unusual size, it can be tough to find ‘em at Goodwill or anythin’.” Micah pulls out a possible option from the pile, which he drapes over an arm before continuing to file through. “What sorta trainin’ you lookin’ to do?” He giggles a bit at the lack-of-excitement. “When I was younger I’d make up stories to see what people would believe of it. Actually had this substitute teacher convinced I’d been attacked by a whale. I was sure that one was /never/ gonna fly. They make some pretty nice articulating finger and partial hand prostheses, y’know…” He takes the offered jeans and plops them over the other pair on his arm, working on a small collection to choose from. "Well, it ain't an unusual size," Trib says. "It's just a 15. But there ain't many of those showin' up in the discount bins." He rumbles a chuckle and lifts a shoulder. "Won't take too long to save up for a decent pair, though." He continues to dig, wrinkling the ruined ridge of his nose thoughtfully. "'m a boxer," he says in answer to the question. "Just amateur right now. Till I get a decent manager." At the whale story, he actually /laughs/, a clear baritone that doesn't match his ordinarily rough voice. "Oh, man. That is fuckin' classic," he says, shaking his head. "People will believe all kinds of dumb shit, if you let 'em." The suggestion of hand prostheses gets a snort. "Dude. I can't even afford a pair of /kicks/, let alone a damned robot hand. Maybe one day, though. You know a lot about that shit because you've got the leg?" "That's good, at least. Not too long of a wait." Micah grins, shaking his head slightly at Trib's profession in a 'to each his own' kind of way. "Never saw the appeal to gettin' beat upside the head all the time. Wish you luck with it, though." The other man's laugh earns an answering chuckle. "/Literally/ classic. I thought it'd be transparent. That an' how many middle schoolers are spendin' time on the high seas?" The issue of /cost/ is a familiar one to him. "Yeah, it's rough gettin' the higher end stuff covered. Only got the knee unit I'm usin' 'cause I work in development with the manufacturer. Highly trained guinea pig, I am." That half-answers Trib's last question on its own, but Micah clarifies nonetheless. "Well, some from that. Went into orthotics and prosthetics professionally, though, so that helps a bit." "Nah, it'll be fine. Got a job, now, so it'll go even quicker." Trib offers a more smiley sort of smile, and lifts a shoulder. "I liked fightin' as a kid," he rumbles. "Got into all kinds of scrapes. My granddad was the one who thought up takin' it to the boxin' ring." The big man's voice warms as he speaks of his grandfather, his smile turning a bit wistful. "'Retribution,' he said, 'You are gonna get yourself fuckin' knifed one day, you keep on fightin' in the street. If you wanna fuckin' fight so goddamned bad, at least do it in the ring and make some fuckin' money at it.'" He shakes his head, chuffing a laugh. "He was an awesome fucker, that old man." He tilts his head as Micah explains, then straightens it to jerk a nod. "That's pretty fuckin' impressive," he says. "You build the shit and everything?" "Congratulations on the new job!" Micah returns, saluting with...the pant leg that happens to be in his hand. He snickers at the ongoing explanation, tapping a finger to his temple to illustrate an 'aha!' moment. "See, that's prob'ly where the biggest difference is. I /really/ didn't like fightin' as a kid. Mostly it hurt an' involved lopsided numbers favourin' the other guys." Something about the quote causes a brow to creep upward on his forehead. "Retribution really your given name? An' you're /not/ an assassin for hire? Or an Old West vigilante?" This seems to be good-natured teasing, for all the impish grinning. "I'm Micah, by the way. An' yeah, I do build a lot of the stuff. Almost everythin' for the orthoses. Prostheses often are a mixture of base parts an' custom parts. I'll build the custom bits an' assemble the end product an' such. I don't craft the robotics myself. S'a bit too complicated for my operation." "Thanks. Just sort of fell into it, so maybe things are lookin' up, yeah?" His brow furrows as Micah describes his own experience with fighting, and his teeth grind with an audible noise. Like rock sliding together. "I fuckin' hate cowards like that," he says. "If you ain't got the balls to face someone one to one, you ought to just shut the fuck up." His smile is gone, but there's a small, amused narrowing of his eyes at the question of his name. "It really is," he says with a sharp nod, and tipping the fingers of his right hand at an imaginary hat brim. "Retribution Jones. And yeah. My dad's a big fan of Old West shit. Wants to be the next fuckin' Zane Grey. You can call me Trib, though." He lifts a shoulder helplessly, as if this is merely a Fact of His Life. Micah's name gets a nod, although Trib's interest is in the explanation. "That is some wicked shit," he says with a small pop of his eyebrows. "How long you been doin' that?" Micah /giggles/ gleefully at the little imaginary hat-tip with the introduction. “Oh/gosh/, y’need…your own /theme music/.” He all but claps his hands, which currently are wrapped in a pair of pretty large stonewash jeans. Hmm… He peeks at the tag. “Hey…I got…38/36! Is that ridiculously short?” Not that he doesn’t /feel/ ridiculous for calling that /short/. “Was in school for a long time, but actually as a gettin’-paid-for-it profession? ‘Bout three years.” Trib shudders at the suggestion of theme music. "Had a manager try that," he says. "Some stupid twangy shit. People lost their shit when I opened my mouth and fuckin' Jersey Shore fell out instead of Texas drawl." He looks up as the jeans are produced, and nods. "36 will do in a pinch," he says, holding out his half-hand. "When I get a pair of boots, it won't even show." Once he has the jeans, he looks them over with a small uptick of his eyebrows. "I didn't have no patience for school," he says with a small chuff. "I barely made it out of high school, but I got mad respect for anyone who sticks with it that long. Good for you, man." Micah might /still/ be giggling. "Sorry...I was just picturin' this old saloon band just...creepin' along after you like they was bein' /sneaky/. But playin' music. Which is not sneaky." He is starting to realise this is one of those things that doesn't come across right /outside/ of one's own head. He looks a shade victorious as he hands over the almost-right-size pants. Score one for the search grid! "Ha! I guess it all depends what ya got the patience for, an' that's what you do. Like me, I got no patience for bein' beaten about the head an' shoulders by really big guys. This is why division of labour is such a wonderful societal advancement." He snags a third option from the pile and slings it with the other two. /Might/ be that arm is starting to get a little heavy. Trib narrows his eyes at Micah. "You sure you didn't work for my manager?" he says, his suspicion not entirely removed from the tease. "'Cause that sounds a lot like what he was plannin'." He drapes the jeans onto his own pile, although he doesn't seem to feel the weight like Micah does. "Boxin' ain't about /gettin'/ hit," he says with a snort. "It's about /hittin'/ and /not/ gettin' hit. It's a lot more graceful than folks think." He almost sounds defensive, although it's with the practiced ease of one who's had this argument before. Then he's shaking his head. "You sure talk like someone who's got a lot of college," he says with a tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "Which is cool. I like listenin' to smart people talk." Teeth meet with lower lip in an attempt to stop the giggling. "Okay, please tell me that's not actually true, because that would be /hilarious/ an' not at all what seems like a good idea right before a /fight/." Micah flutters an exaggeratedly dismissive hand at Trib's explanation. "Pshht. There y'go talkin' like somebody as is actually doin' things /right/. My version is less 'boxin' ' and more 'hidin' in a corner and/or tryin' to talk your way out of /ohno/'. See right there? Benefits of division of labour. Saves people from doin' things entirely wrong constantly." A chuckle spills out of those no longer bit-closed lips, accompanied by another faint shading of pink across his features. "I'm actually gonna just say 'thank you' t'that one, on account of the number of folks up this way as get caught up on the accent an' think I sound like some kinda hick. Or at least say as much." "Hand to God," Trib says. "Even auditioned a couple of bands to do it. But the commissioner wouldn't let him get away with it. Too showy." The big man seems relieved, although he flashes a bit of straight, white teeth at the fit of giggling. "Yeah, there ain't many places to hide in a boxin' ring," he says with a shrug. "But I guess you've got a point." At the demurral, he snorts, and scoops up his finds in his arm. "You forget what my dad's obsession is," he rumbles. "I grew up with all kinds of hick accents in my movies and shit. I don't even fuckin' notice it, honestly." He reaches up to touch that invisible hat, again. "But I gotta fuckin' /mosey/, now, man. But it was good meetin' you." His gaze is speculative, for a minute, and he tips his chin up a bit. "You got a number, if I want to call you sometime?" “Count your blessin’s in your commissioner then, because /goodness/,” Micah agrees with a shake of his head. Oh/gosh/. He’s gotta /mosey/. That is /precious/. Micah has to put effort into not giggling again, instead reaching his free hand into a back pocket to pull out a business card (from his stock kept altered for non-business purposes) at the number request. He hands this over to Trib, the deep blue card bearing white writing that reads, ‘Gorilla AT. Micah Zedner, MSOP, CPO, ATP, PYT’ (the last acronym is added in handwritten ink as a joke on the preceding soup of acronyms). It also reports a P.O. Box address, an unexciting professional e-mail address, and two phone numbers (the second of which is circled in the same ink). “Yeah, I should go try these on before my arm snaps off from haulin’ ‘em around.” He gives the armload of denim a little shake. “Nice meetin’ you, too.” Trib takes the card, eyes scanning the lettering, and crinkling hard at the name. "Zedner's a pretty fuckin' cowboy name too," he notes, sliding the card into his back pocket. "I think my dad's got a couple books with that name in 'em." There's another flash of teeth, and Trib dips his head again with that tip of the not-hat. "I'll see you around. Have fun gettin' into strangers' pants." He grins before he turns, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the counter. "I'll call you." And apparently that serves as good-bye, because then he's gone, leaving Micah to his search. And the hunt goes on....