Historically a center of counterculture, the East Village has a character all its own. Home to artists and musicians of many colours, this neighborhood is known for its punk vibe and artistic sensibilities. The birthplace of many protests, literary movements, it is home to a rather diverse community and vibrant nightlife.
Light and life and color don't stop when the sun goeso ut, not in the East Village. It's a nice night out which means there are still plenty of pedestrians out--clubgoers, buskers, chalk artists, late shift workers and the questionably legal coming and going. There's a hot dog vendor doing a brisk business near the entrance to Tompkins Square Park, though it's nothing compared to the rush he'll see when the little nightclubs and jazz spots empty out later this night. Still, there's a short line along the sidewalk beside his cart. A few drunken co-eds, a couple out on a date, some dude more interested in his phone than in shuffling forward...and then there's Violet.
In spite of the warmth of the velvet-soft night, she's got her hoodie up, hiding the ears, casting shadows on an already dark face. Her hands are in her pockets, hiding them. Cut off khakis leave fuzzy legs bare though and there's noooo way she's going to be able to disguise the tail that flicks and sways behind her. She's at the /end/ of the line and is standing with head tilted back as if she were studying the sky, when in reality she is probably just pointedly ignoring the hard looks and occasional muttered remark made by passersby.
Wading through the busy nightlife on the sidewalk is an overlarge man who doesn't exactly scream city mouse in appearance or demeanor. With summer having started in earnest, both the Alaskan-born Teddy's size and appetite are at their prime; he's a veritable hairy tree trunk, thick with muscle and a thin starting layer of fat that will continue to grow until the fall, dressed in jeans and boots and a t-shirt with a sharkbear on it (because why the hell not), epic beard in full force, and snarfing the last remnants of another cart staple, the soft pretzel. This does not stop him from noticing the hotdog vendor. His eyes practically light up at the sight of it, and licking his fingers clean from that last, buttery taste of salted bread, he eagerly moves to join the line. He smells of woods and musk and something a bit feral and not at all like the city. Nope.
Hello, animal smells. Not just any animal smell either but the sort that makes more city bound creatures' hackles lift. Violet's tail, smooth and sleek, goes as bristly as a pipe cleaner as the space directly behind her position is filled. /Filled/. She half-turns--her eyes catch the light and reflects it, a brief yellow laser flash appearing--and looks up (and up) to find the source. Pupils have swallowed most of the orange of her irises. If she had whiskers they'd be all aquiver. Instead, her nostrils flare...and then she sneezes, delicately. "...whoa," she sums up. What? That's eloquence, when her Southerner's drawl can draw a single word out in all sorts of bemused and awe-filled ways.
He's not the tallest guy out there, Teddy. He can't go toe to toe with Tim Duncan or Shaq or anything. He's more like a great big wall. A great, big... hairy, Alaskan wall. The alluring, aromatic scent of the hotdogs can only go so far to mask the smells of the other occupants in line, and just when the person in front of him gets that whiff of him, Teddy also gets a whiff of her. He rubs his nose and looks down. "Whoa yourself," rumbles out, his bass voice like a boulder rolling around in the belly of a wooden ship at sea. He grins. It is meant as a friendly, disarming gesture. The over-sized canine teeth probably don't quite help. "Dude, cool tail," he says, with clear appreciation. Teddy's not an idiot, though. He says it with a low, quiet voice, hopefully masked by the general street sounds. He's not going to call her out in front of, you know, everybody around like that.
"Dude?" She's just repeating the word back at him, amusement rapidly taking the place of /be/musement. Because what else is some big slab o' guy who smells like bear going to say? Violet isn't sure but she did /not/ expect 'dude'. The tail in question is doing a good job on its own, making a spectacle of itself and her owner. Still fluffed out, it lashes back and forth with force enough to risk whipping the legs of the girl in line before her. Vi is forced to twist at the waist, grab the damn thing and hold it still. Because /that's/ subtle, right? Surely no one will notice. "If you're like...a California beach bear, I'm just gonna...I quit. I just quit," she says, equally quiet--though perhaps not quiet enough, as heads do turn back, and the co-ed's giggly, boisterous conversation shifts to hushed whispers...and frequent peeks at the pair.
"Wha?" the big man questions, at the whole California beach bear thing, and then he just laughs, the sound rising up from deep in his chest. "Nah, I've never been to California," Teddy says, while still chuckling away and shaking his head. "I'm from Alaska." Does that make it funnier? Make more sense? He's not sure, and is all over amused again at the idea. Because, you know. Bears and Alaska kind of go together. "You don't sound like you're from around here, either." He stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, apparently quite fine with waiting in line and in no hurry. Unlike some people running around in the city.
Oh yes, the line. Violet must sense those sorority eyes on her back. She swivels around again, an act that declares Teddy on the list of people she reasonably expects not to lunge for her neck if she's not looking. College girls? Not so much. It stops the peeking, at least, though the whispering continues. And then it's time to shuffle forward, as phone guy gets his 'dog and pays and wanders off without once seeming to look up from the screen. "Alaska," Vi muses, trusting that he is capable of conversing line-style. "That's crazy far. Lots've transplants 'round here, I guess." She turns her head, just enough for the fuzzy curve of one cheek to show visible around the edge of her hood. "I'm up from Savannah. Violet."
Spying the co-eds and apparently having no shame whatsoever, Teddy does the incredibly cheesy shoulder lean back with the double finger gun point /with/ added wink at them. It's not a real flirt. It's more of an I-see-you kind of thing hidden under the guise of a bad flirt. With the attention thrown squarely at them, maybe they'll be too embarrassed to continue with the ogling and the whispering. Maybe. "Yeah, think that happens with big-ass cities, right? Natives move out, transplants move in," he meanwhile rumbles to his conversation partner. When she gives her name (or, at least, he thinks she's giving her name and not just saying random flowers), he offers a big meaty paw of a hand to her for a shake, even if she is all not facing him anymore and will have to turn back around. "Wyatt. But everybody pretty much calls me Teddy."
He gave them the finger guns! "Oh my GOD," one exclaims and then they're all clumping together, presenting a united front. Or wall of backs, as the case may be. Mission accomplished? Maybe? Their reaction leads Violet into more of those whisper-quiet sneezes, a few in a row this time. "Smooth," is the score she offers. And then there's a hand in her peripheral vision, which gets a glance before she flicks her eyes up to study Teddy's face. Her brows--fuzzy, yep--hike a notch higher. Okay, she'll play. Or turn around, just enough to let the tail go and reach up to slot her hand into his. And bam, there's a grin, exposing her own tipped canines. "A'course they do. Teddy. Nice t'meet you, fella. Not sure I'm gonna be able t'call you that with a straight face...seems kinda...I dunno. Obvious. Too easy, yeah?"
Ahead of them, the couple on a date have scored their hot dogs--fully loaded!--and now it's the co-eds turn.
With that exclamation and the united turn, Teddy gets this huge, shit-eating grin on his face. He's practically laughing, but without the actual, you know, laugh. So good. "Whatever, just can't handle the beard," rumbles out with a chuckling flow to it, even as he strokes said beard once with his free hand. Really, it is a pretty great beard. Many a SoHo hipster must be jealous. As for the shake, well, big hand equals big shake, with his mitt swallowing hers up. Though there's no crushing force or anything about it. Wouldn't do, to go wrecking peoples' hands. "Yeeeah, it's kind of a Captain Obvious name," he agrees, grinning a little about it. "I dunno if there's any cool nicknames for Wyatt, though, you know? Comes out sounding like 'Why' or 'Et."
"It's a heck of a beard." Always wise to agree with a guy whose hand dwarfs yours. Though Violet isn't above giving as good as she gets--big shake leads to big shake and maybe a teeny tiny prickling of claws, where the pressure pushes them forward from the tips of her fingers. That she cannot help, a fact that leads her to extricating herself from his grip as soon as she can to avoid puncturing anything. "Wyatt's plenty good on its own. There was...ah...well...Wyatt Earp, I guess? I don't really know what passes for cool anymore. Not 'round here. But y'know, your nickname, you go for what you like, right?" And on that note, she looks from him to the co-eds--and discovers it's her turn! They've shuffled to the side to make with the relish and ketchup station, leaving her to step up into the vendor's line of sight. That smile he'd been wearing tightens up and leads to him looking past the catgirl, at Wyatt. "Next!"
"Hey now..." But that's a mild protest, as such things go. Violet's brow has rumpled--possibly, it's hard to tell under her pelt--and her eyes narrowed. The tail picks up its swing again. This time it lashes at Wyatt's leg. Fwomp.
If Teddy notices the claws, he doesn't comment. He's got calloused hands, anyway. He's dealt with worse. It's cool. With the mention of Wyatt Earp, he belts out a short laugh. "Dunno, bro was played by Kevin Costner. And I mean, Dances with Wolves was decent and all, but then there's Waterworld..." Questionable choices, Kevin. Questionable. Choices. As a couple queues up behind him for the hotdogs, he inches forward after Violet, all anticipatory about being next in line. But whoa, he did not expect to be next so fast. Also, sup, tail. His heavy brows drop low, and he lumbers up the extra step to be right behind Violet, looming. Like a... looming loomer. "What's the deal, bro? The lady's interested in your wares. Smells awesome, by the way."
This is one of those instances where Violet is not going to worry about looming happening all up in her personal space. Different day? It might bother. Right now, it takes her all of two nanoseconds to figure out this could swing in her favor. "Check it out, real money. Money doesn't come with genes," she says, producing a wilted five dollar bill from the pocket of her hoodie. It's waved, as if that might perk it up a little. She takes special care to not tack a smile on there, as Southern impulses would otherwise dictate. No sense in scaring the flatscans with teeth, right?
The vendor remains unimpressed, however. A New Yorker born and bred, he looks the big guy up, he looks the big guy down, and then he tenses his doughy jaw. Compliments, it would seem, are not having their desired effect. "We don't serve freaks," he Bronx's at Teddy. "You buying or what? C'mon, I got a line here."
"Look," Teddy says, sounding pretty amiable, despite the words that continue, "I'm a big dude with a serious hunger right now, and was totally debating if I wanted to order like five or six of these hotdogs. If you don't take the lady's order, though, I'm walking." That's a small chunk of change to miss out on, just for being a bigot, right? Not quite trusting it would be enough, though, he also throws in, with a slightly raised voice, "/And/ I tell all these nice folks around us here that you spit in the relish." Teddy, apparently not afraid of being a little petty. Hell, who says the guy doesn't actually do it, already, though, you know?
It's true, he totally looks like a relish-spitter. A pissed off relish-spitter at that. He scowls, creating interesting new bunches and creases in his face. People are looking. People are /watching/--including the sorority girls, who are too aghast to even giggle at this point. Somewhere back in the line, a person guffaws. Someone else mutters a thing that sounds none too friendly. This is perhaps not the most sympathetic of crowds, or neighborhoods. Which might explain why the vendor judges not for the plaintiff. "Look, buddy! You got a hard-on for them people, you take it somewhere else. I told you, we don't serve /freaks/ here. Get the hell away from my cart or I'm calling the cops!" Back there somewhere, a guy calls out, "Hell yeah!" A couple of others just quietly slip away.
Violet, looking stormy beneath the fuzz, shoves the fiver back into her pocket. "Hey fella, s'not worth it." This is for Teddy, accompanied with a backwards glance that's hard, narrow...and pretty resigned. To prove it, she steps aside to clear the way. "I'm not starving or anything. You go on."
Funny story. Teddy's usually this easy-going guy, likes to laugh things off. If the vendor had been refusing him service, instead, he probably would have shrugged and said something about it being his loss and moved on. To another hotdog cart. To buy twice as many there. For some reason, though, this all just strikes a nerve with him (he's also not in the city all that much, really, been sticking more closely around work). He shrugs one shoulder back, and then the other, and as he does so, he rotates his head one way, then the other, to crack his neck when Violet steps aside. And then, after that, he takes the step forward to close the gap between him and cart, and leans on in to get real up close and personal with the vendor. "What do you mean '/them/ people'?" he asks, in a low and rusted far-away thunder of a voice. The grin that follows is large and feral, a threat display if ever a predator has done one, to show off that his canines aren't exactly normal-sized, and that, you know, maybe, just maybe, Violet's not the only one in that category he's talking about.
Well, count Violet as impressed. The vendor, less so--at least in the 'ooh ahh' sort of way. He does indeed get a good close look at those canines but it's the voice turned on him that inspires a look of terror. The sort of fear that comes with sprinkling a little in his pants, no doubt. The sort of fear that turns his /own/ voice shrill. "You see this! You people see this? It's fucking threatening me!" Modern society being what it is though, rather than anyone coming to his aid several people in the crowd have produced cell phones. Maybe someone's calling the cops. Mostly it looks like they're /filming/ this though (there's a cry of, "Holy shit!" and, "Ha, they fighting?" somewhere back there and check it out, those college girls can sure move fast, even on heels).
But when one sticks up for an alley cat, one must be prepared to face /their/ chosen method of coping with being outnumbered. See: skedaddling. Violet might have stepped aside but she remains within range to reach for Teddy's sleeve, tugtugging at it. "Hey...hey, Wyatt. C'mon, fella. I saw a pretzel place couple've blocks up, let's head that way, yeah? Y'can treat me."
At the shrill exclamation, Teddy throws his head back and just laughs. It's a deep, booming laugh, full of mirth. "Oh shit, dude, you're easy as fuck to freak out," he gets out between some hearty hahaing. "Oh my god, did you see his face?" he says, both to Violet and anybody else who might be paying attention, while he hooks a thumb the vendor's way. He scrubs his free hand down over his face to try to regain some composure, starts chuckling again, and says, "Yeah. Yeah, sure, let's find another spot. I sure as hell ain't interested in buying a hotdog from some dude that practically pisses his pants. You sure you're a native New Yorker, dude?" They may be hotdogless, but really, Teddy feels, deep down inside, that he has established his greater power in the situation, and is satisfied. It's such a deeply embedded, instinctual thing for him, with the bear side of him. In any case, this leaves him happy to move on, and he gestures for Violet to lead the way. "Hell yeah, pretzels."
Violet is not so much with establishing pecking order. Maybe if this was her turf but in this instance--and under the many, many lenses aimed in their direction--she is happy to cede this corner to shrill hot dog guy. If only because putting distance between herself and this spot means all of her fur will smooth the heck down, instead of trying its best to stand straight up. It's just not comfortable. Her hand drops away when Teddy proves himself willing to lumber on and she falls into step beside him. "Y'ever try th'stuffed ones? Like those stuffed crust pizzas, 'cept pretzels. S'crazy good," she's saying as the crowd parts like the Red Sea to let them through.
And once he's certain that their backs are really venturing on thataway, the vendor finally hits on a suitable native New Yorker response: "Fuck yooou!" drifts after them. Oh, how the crowd laughs.
Lumber along he does, as if he did not just have a potentially dangerous exchange with the vendor that could have easily turned to violence or cops showing up or violence and /then/ cops showing up. "Oh man, like with cheese and jalepenos and stuff? Hell yes. I could go in for a whole truckload of that right now," he chats with Violet, about the pretzels. As the ultimate snub for the vendor, that absolute you're-nothing-to-me response, Teddy does nothing to acknowledge the swear that's hurled after them. He doesn't even laugh. Nope, done with the dude. Moving on. To better things. Like the wonderful world of stuffed pretzels. For sure his treat.
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