Logs:Corporate Types

Corporate Types
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Jax, Rachel, Skye
In Absentia	2020-09-14 "You gotta understand, it does sound an awful lot like what you're askin' me is to take support from a source I can't ethically get behind so as you can salve your conscience."
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. It's a lovely pleasant evening and Tomkins Square is bustling, a lively jazz band performing in the center where a large space has been cleared for dancing, the playing courts and dog runs filled, even the chess games attracting their share of kibitzers. Over at the very fringes of the swing-dancing group, a wide table has been set up -- the banner at its front bears a colorful image of a Chimaera and it is laid out with an assortment of baked goods to one side, a plethora of art (mostly prints and sketches, though two small vibrant oil paintings have been set up to flank the display) on the other. A smaller sign at the corner: ALL PROCEEDS TO BENEFIT NEW YORK FREEDOM FUND, next to a small stack of pamphlets about the bail fund in question. Jax is eye-catching as ever at the moment in a vivid purple tank underneath a much more sparkly silver mesh top, tight black jeans decorated with multicolor metallic stars, his brilliantly colored orange and purple hair spiked up into a bird-of-paradise-esque shape, orange-rimmed star-shaped sunglasses on his eyes even though the sun has near set. He has not been here manning the table, in fact -- but ever since he arrived off the dance 'floor', that has not stopped plenty of people from stopping him rather than those actually working here to ask a barrage of questions ranging from the topical ("-- how many mutants have you all helped?") to the somewhat-less-topical ("-- is it true they're still holding your kid in jail?") to the wildly irrelevant ("no, seriously, ARE you dating Ryan Black?") He's fielding most of these with patience in between sips from a very heavily sticker-emblazoned thermos. The tap-tap-tap of his foot, in time with the music, is probably less irritation and more the catchiness of the tune. When he manages to politely prise himself away from the group and amble back to the table it is to pluck a chocolate-chocolate chip cookie off one of the bake sale plates. "I should get myself a tee shirt that says I ain't dating him but somehow -- I just think that'd raise more questions." Actually seated at the table, Dawson does not seem at all to mind the reprieve from humans asking him if it's true they let Dangerous Mutant Criminals out into the streets. Far more boring than Jax in khakis and a blue-grey polo shirt, both tidily pressed, his drab brown hair neatly combed, the most immediately eye catching thing about him is the prosthetic arm he wears at his right side -- it makes no attempt to disguise itself as flesh-toned, instead glittering and jewel-toned in an intricately painted birdfeather design, bright emerald on one side, on the other gray-white with an iridescent red patch near his wrist. He looks up from the email he's been sending when Jax draws near, a smile flitting across his heavily-scarred face. "Yeah, I do feel like your 'I'm Not Dating Ryan Black' tee might not have the effect you want in shutting down gossip. Someone's interested in your painting, by the way." He gestures with a flick of brightly-feathered fingers towards one of the oil paintings, vividly colored in a somewhat whimsical style, a slender figure with a shoulder-length fall of rainbowy hair perched on a fire escape looking out over this very park. "They went to go actually get money." Seated at the table beside Dawson, Skye is wearing a black fitted tee with a pixelated rainbow brain above the word "neurodiversity", slim-fit blue jeans, and chunky-heeled black ankle boots. "What if there was a bit batch of them, like 'I'm Spartacus' style?" she says, smiling sympathetically. "Or go for the surreal angle and put 'Am I Dating Ryan Black?'" Rachel is walking through the square, two reel leashes in hand—both of which lead to a pair of fluffy, stub-tailed toy poodles. At the moment, her rimless sunglasses are sitting atop her head, and she's wearing a basic black v-neck, some beige ankle-cropped capris, and a pair of comfortable, albeit unremarkable looking tennis shoes. It's clear that she's wandering around the square, soaking up all the wonderful sounds and the music and letting her mind go for a jog of its own. That's until she spots the three colorful figures from afar. It's not long before she's standing at the table, eyeing the assortment of baked goods with interest, and peeking up at the three of them every now and again. "Oh great! That'll be a decent chunk'a change, at least." Jax pays very little attention when Rachel arrives, save for a very small nod as he moves aside from the table to allow her more room to peruse the baked goods. (In addition to the chocolate-chocolate chip cookies which he is currently munching and Not Paying For, there's also pumpkin cookies, citrus cookies, slices of peach-basil pie, carrot cake cupcakes, and raspberry tiramisu cupcakes still on offer.) "Oooh, I like that angle, actually. Should start selling those in his merch. Going by Twitter anyone could be dating him so it'd fit. You could be," with a gesture towards Skye, "or him, or her." The flutter of his hand towards Dawson or Rachel in turn sends a very faint flicker of shimmering golden light towards his indicated targets before the glow vanishes. "I'd get all'a us a shirt." Dawson hides his smile behind his palm, head shaking slightly. "I'd get one," he replies, amused. "For sleeping in, at least. I might get excommunicated if someone caught me with it in public." He pulls up a smile, bright, when Rachel stops at the table. "Evening, miss! We suggest a dollar per cookie or two for the cupcakes or pie. They're all great but the pie is especially amazing if you want to hang on to summer just a little longer." "I'd wear one if you actually go through with this," Skye says. "How many Ryan Black shirts do I have to own before I qualify for Blackbird status, because I feel like I must be getting close." She waves as Dawson greets Rachel. "Oh, and if you're interested in any of the art, this is all from amazing local artists, including our own Jax Holland." Her hands do a small flourish, presenting the man still standing beside the table. "I will most certainly consider, thank you. I've been looking for something interesting to put up on my wall for a while now," Rachel comments, nodding as Dawson and Skye both greet her and offering the two of them a small smile in return. It takes a moment for her to clip the handles of the leashes to the belt loop of her pants. She then returns to mulling over the choices of sweets before stopping for a fleeting moment. Her gaze narrows in on Jax. "Mister Holland, I, uh, actually had something important to talk to you about, now that I think about it," she finally admits after struggling to find her way around her own words. She searches for a reaction amongst the three of them. A slight flush creeps into Jax's cheeks, but his smile is bright at the mention of his art. "I think being a Blackbird is in your heart more'n your wardrobe," he answers Skye. "Like, do you love him? Blackbird. Done. I don't think he'd --" He cuts himself off at the sound of his name, looking back over with a tilt of his head and a polite smile. "To me about? I'm so sorry, have we met? I been awful forgetful these days." "Still one original painting unsold," Dawson tags on brightly. He slides his phone off the table and into his pocket, sitting up just a little straighter when Rachel addresses Jax. He reaches for his own water bottle, taking a small sip, but his eyes are keen on the other two. "Sweet, I'm a Blackbird." Skye gives an understated, celebratory fist-pump. "I feel like the shirts help, though. I believe in the power of stuff." She blinks when Rachel addresses Jax, though her smile has not faded. She doesn't interrupt, though. Rachel's smile falters only a little in the face of their silence. Her gaze wanders as she continues. "No, we've never met before, and I'm so sorry to be interrupting this conversation of yours but, I've been meaning to send you an… email," she stops and pulls her gaze away from the corner of the table, focusing back on the trio. She puts her fingers to her temples. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I should introduce myself. Rachel Haimowitz, Levinson, Haimowitz & Co. Uh, Steve Rogers gave me your contact information but it's a challenge to write about something so precarious without coming off cold," the woman rambles on before stopping herself. "Haimowitz," Jax echoes, with a briefly puzzled frown that just evens back out into the same polite smile as Rachel rambles. "Oh!" The mention of Steve lights his face up just a little. "You know Steve? He's lovely. I'm sorry, what -- what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Dawson takes his phone back out of his pocket as the others' conversation continues -- not email this time but Google. His brows raise afterward; he doesn't interrupt the others but wordlessly passes the phone to Jax, an article currently pulled up about Rachel Haimowitz (of Levinson, Haimowitz, & Co.), about her involvement in a racial discrimination suit against Shaw Industries. The wording of the article implies Shaw Industries may likely have sought Haimowitz's services specifically for her record in similar corporate cases. Quiet, Dawson just takes another sip of his water, only a neutral curiosity now in his expression. Skye's dark brown eyes narrow critically when Rachel gives the name of her firm. "Oh hey, I've heard of that firm," she says coolly, "you're real famous in some circles." Rachel's really trying to pick out everyone's reactions now—and half (more like half-ish) of them make her shoulders tense and her ears burn red. She pauses, unsure. With the way her brow furrows and her smile tugs into a taut frown, she's thinking long and hard about what the blazing hell is about to come out of her mouth. "I—" she hesitates, "—want to help your cause. I think you can probably tell that my line of work isn't very even-handed and I want to work towards making things better. I want to ease out of this," she pauses yet again and chuckles nervously, "This grave I've dug for myself. As for Mister Rogers, I don't know him all that well, but he is a lovely man and he pointed me in your direction, specifically." Jax accepts the phone from Dawson absentmindedly, nibbling at his cookie and keeping most of his attention on Rachel. A few nods at appropriate intervals, his small-polite smile fixed firmly in place as she talks. His eye lowers towards the end, glancing down at the article in his hand with no discernible change in his expression. Then over to Skye, his pierced eyebrows lifting. "Oh? Famous? Is -- I'm so sorry, I ain't never heard of them. Should I have?" He leans a hand against the edge of the table, carefully avoiding disrupting the actual foods. "You're -- gonna hafta forgive me, I still ain't quite sure just what it is you're askin' from me." There's a gentle apology in his thick Appalachian drawl. "If you want to make a donation, Flic -- Dawson here's collecting tonight. I just come for the swing dancing." "We raise money to pay bail for any mutant in the state who needs it posted," Dawson supplies, with a small smile. "We take cash, card, or check if you're interested in support." His mechanical fingers flex out in Jax's direction. "Given this guy's record, probably as good a way as any to help him, specifically." "Nah, I think they're mostly famous with corporate types who have a ton of money and want to use it to stay above the law," Skye replies. "I just run with a lot of folks who like to keep an eye on those corporate types. But yeah," she nods at what Dawson says, "if you got money and you wanna do good with it..." The sweep of her hand indicates the entire table and the one unsold oil painting. "Famous is a way to sugarcoat it, yeah," Rachel murmurs, an apology lurking somewhere in the comment. "What I'm asking of you, Mister Holland, is to consider receiving some under-the-table aid, both legal and financial, and perhaps even help me familiarize myself with some of the people I should be working with. I don't like being associated with 'corporate types', as your friend here put it," she stops to gesture towards Skye, "but I really don't know where to start or who I should talk to about these kinds of issues. It's fine if you refuse—I understand it's deceitful to allegedly care about solutions then turn around and help people exacerbate the problem, though I'm backed into a corner here." Jax's mouth opens into a small o, and he dusts cookie crumbs lightly off his fingertips. "Oh -- gosh, miss, I'm so sorry -- havin' to choose 'tween principles and a truckload of cash does sound like a dilemma. Ain't never been stuck between that particular rock and hard place myself, though, so I'm not sure as I'm the best of people to be advising you." He dips his head apologetically, shrugging one shoulder. "I do feel you on the corporate-types, though. I don't much like being associated with 'em, neither." Dawson has been in the middle of another swallow of his water but as Jax speaks he splutters, vanishes and reappears in nearly the same instant a short distance away from the food table, covering his mouth with an elbow as he coughwheezes into it. He returns to his seat when his coughing has passed, eyes a little watery. "You want to help," he finally echoes, slowly and more steadily, "but only so long as nobody knows it? Just being -- clear about the offer here." Skye's eyes narrow progressively as Rachel speaks, until she's practically squinting. She only gives a quiet snort of laughter at Jax's reply, shaking her head. At Dawson's summary she tips her head to the side. "Yeah, and how are you backed into a corner, anyway?" She turns her hands up and shrugs. "Nobody's forcing you to defend shitbag corps." Rachel looks between the three of them. Her frown deepens as Jax makes his remark and Dawson wheezes in response, the red flush of her ears seeping into her cheeks. She glances down at the ground, takes a deep breath, then continues. "Look, I'm not… going to defend my actions here. I fucked up, alright? I thought I wanted to practice law like this, but now I realize I don't and I can't just disappear or hand in a two week's notice because I don't know what to do afterwards." She folds her arms over her chest, looking towards her two dogs. "And it's hard coming to terms with those sorts of mistakes. It's even harder to try and do better," she trails off. As she stares down at the toy poodles, her frown mellows out. "I'm not asking you to advise me in my moral dilemmas or personal growth or receive what you would consider disingenuous charity to absolve my guilt. Take me at face value here when I say that I wish I could support issues like this out in the open, bare and naked," she emphasizes the statement with a wide gesture, "But, I don't have the network. This is new territory for me. Regardless of that, I'll try to help, and I want to get to know people who will show me ways to engage with these issues head-on." Jax listens to this quietly, his hands dropping to hook thumbs through his belt loops as he rocks back on a heel. "You gotta understand, it does sound an awful lot like what you're askin' me is to take support from a source I can't ethically get behind so as you can salve your conscience." His head shakes, and he takes a step back towards Dawson's table. "I sure do understand about making mistakes -- comin' to terms with 'em, trying to do better. S'tough. Takes work. But the thing about makin' up for your mistakes?" His hands unhook, spreading in front of him. "Really only counts for anything if you ain't planning on literally going right back to make more of the same ones." One hand drops, resting again on the edge of the table. "Sometimes doing the right thing takes sacrifice. Folks I work with? They get that. They live it, every day. They ain't raking in money hand over fist working for folks who're making this world worse for alla us. If you want to do better, then start doing better, but I ain't gonna be the springboard you use to get there." The look Dawson tips up to Jax as he takes his seat again is small, inscrutable, only a faint tug briefly pulling at one side of his scarred mouth. "Well, you could," he adds, mildly. "Give your notice. Do anything else at all. Covid's left plenty of job vacancies, still. Half of all the coffeeshops in the city are hiring." Rachel's stare hardens and her frown straightens itself out. While the creeping red remains, her stony composure returns and she nods, acknowledging their words. "Of course. Out of curiosity, how much is that unsold painting?"