Logs:Infuriating

Infuriating
Dramatis Personae Clint, Dusk, Heather	2019-06-25 "Just enjoying some nice relaxing poetry."
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. The cafe floor has been somewhat rearranged, this evening, to give a good breadth of space and proper sightlines to the staging area set up to one side. Though the event has just wound down the gathered crowd is extremely slow to disperse, lingering to chat animatedly in groups small or large. At their corner table, Dusk seems in no rush, turned sideways in a chair with his huge wings folded tight behind him. He's dressed casually, old beat up Vans sneakers, black jean shorts, a light grey and blue striped tee. The catfish on his plate is half-gone and he's taking his time with his second beer. "-- not sure how much you could follow from the last person's story," he's saying with a small frown to his companion. "Some of the earlier poems were a lot more -- visually accessible, I think, even if you don't know all the words some of the meaning still gets across. That last one it was like a fucking gut punch. You know it's already gotta be a goddamn nightmare trying to fight ICE for your kids back just generally, but trying to do it when you're deaf and they have no accommodations for shit? I can't imagine." Heather nods along after Dusk's explanation, and plays on her recorder in reply, "I was not able to understand much of what was said in that one. But the sentiment came across clearly." Her lips tighten for a split second and she nods sharply. "I cannot imagine either. Going through all of that in a system that is so hostile. Impossible to interact with." She touches a crumb that remains on her otherwise empty plate with her finger and lifts it up to her mouth without much seeming thought about it. She wears a worn purple sweatshirt, a pair of bright yellow jeans, and sketchers that look like they have seen better days. "Heartbreaking." Clint had been sitting at the bar for the show, picking without much enthusiasm at the remnants of his french fries and working slowly on a beer. He's wearing a purple heather t-shirt that reads 'Magic to Do ' in glossy metallic red and blue letters and comfortable straight-leg blue jeans. As the last performer wraps up, he settles his tab, signs his thanks to the bartender, and wends his way through the lingering crowd, stopping here and there to chat. He spots Dusk and wanders over to the corner table where he and Heather sit. Offers first him then, at a delay, her a friendly wave. "Nice to see you not working, for a change." "Impossible because they're making it impossible. And you know, then they take these kids and just. Give them away to white families as if they don't have their own families waiting. It's --" Dusk's teeth clench, the claws atop his wings twitching. "Heartbreaking," he agrees, but adds after this, "Infuriating. I'd like to interact with --" He shakes his head, looking up with a slight widening of eyes when Clint approaches. His chin tips upward. "Yo. Just enjoying some nice relaxing poetry. About genocide. Heather, this is Clint. Clint, Heather." Most of this he only voices, but when he introduces Heather he spells the name as well. Heather nods, "They want to make everything difficult. Too difficult, impossible difficult. It is unfair. They should not be allowed to-" There is a moment of tension in her frame when she hits stop on the tape, and then changes what plays to simply agree: "Infuriating." She looks up towards Clint, her tinted goggles up on her forehead for improved indoor vision, her strangely wild and blurring eyes plainly visible. She snaps her head down and back up in a nod of greeting. "It is good to meet you Clint. Were you enjoying the poetry as well?" Dusk has been reaching for his beer again, but puts it down without actually taking a drink when Heather speaks once more. He indicates the recorder to Clint. "Heather uses a digital voice." This time, both signed and spoken, before he actually interprets her recorded words for the other man. Clint watches Dusk closely and gives a solemn nod of agreement. Then, once introduced, switches his attention to Heather, no less intent, though his brows furrow slowly until Dusk's explanation comes. He utters a nearly silent "Ah" and says, "I'm deaf." His tone is nonchalant, but there's a touch of awkwardness in his bearing. "I enjoyed the parts I could understand. Some of the parts I couldn't, too. I'm not a big fan of genocide, but the story--needed telling." There's a flash of something hard and angry behind his light brown eyes. "Anyway, sorry to barge in on your conversation, especially if I'm going to complicate it, but...do you sign?" The very last question he signs at the same time that he voices it, the lift of his eyebrows and the (redundant) manual question mark both directed toward Heather. "I don't mind interpreting." Both spoken and kind of lazily signed. One handed, this time as Dusk actually swigs from his beer bottle. The tip of his wing flexes, gesturing to a seat at their table. 'You're not intruding. I'm pretty sure this has been weighing on a lot of people lately.' When he sim-coms, its his English that grows noticeably more choppy rather than his signing: "Not barging. This topic... been on many minds. I think." His scowl bares a good deal of sharp fang. 'You'd think that 'not a fan of genocide' would just be the baseline but here we are. With the genocide fans calling the shots.' Clint sits when Dusk offers. His expression remains mostly neutral, though his mouth presses into a grim line at the mention of shot-callers. He nods, at length. "I'm not great, either, but hanging around these kinds of events helps," he offers Heather with a noncommittal shrug. "I think most people just don't want to think about this as genocide, because if that's what it is, then they might feel like they should do something--or at least speak out--about it. Easier to insist that it isn't actually all that bad." His brows furrow again, more deeply, and the fingers of his right hand twitch. "I don't think that's something I can do right now." 'Genocide fence sitters are just as bad. How you can look at people being crammed like cattle and not want to --' Dusk shakes his head, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He stops to take a large bite of his catfish, calming somewhat as he chases it with another swallow of beer. 'You're not wrong. We should be doing something. And honestly I think we're past the speaking out point. That's gotta continue, but it isn't enough.' Heather shakes her head and lets out a squeaky kind of sigh. "It would be good if more people did speak out. But they are too quiet." She takes a drink from her own beer while the message plays, her eyebrows slightly furrowed on an otherwise neutral expression. "I would like to do something. I feel wrong doing nothing. It feels wrong that nothing is being done." She fidgets with the recorder while one hand remains rested on her drink, her teeth clacking together once. "It's unfair." Clint braces his elbows on the table and leans forward. There's something oddly deliberate about the motion that makes it seem not at all like a slouch. "I might just, if I had a notion how to follow through after." He flexes his fingers thoughtfully. "Fighting I can do, but fighting alone isn't going to get those kids back to their families." 'No. But just because the government's determined to destroy their families -- we have lots of tools and connections they refuse to use.' Dusk's eyes have traced across the room, towards the last woman to tell her story. 'And a lot of us have gotten pretty good at finding people even when nobody else cares. We've kind of had to. I'm sure there's people already out there in the community building networks for these families, If I asked around...' There's a pensive look on his face. The sharp claws at the tips of his wings are scraping lightly against the floor. Heather's eyebrows raise slightly from their previously furrowed position, and she sits up a little straighter when Clint leans in. "I am also comfortable with fighting." She looks over towards Dusk, and then down at the scraping clawtips. "I do not know a lot of people. But I could support. Whether talking to people or... any other way. My time management skills are good." "Good. Good..." Clint clicks his tongue. "I've some resources I could tap, too. Not in terms of immigrant communities directly, but--well, I have some funds, and I know a lawyer who kind of specializes in this sort of thing." His brows pinch slightly. "Might be working on this, already. But personally I'm...a bit more direct, I work well with a team, and I'm very, very good at getting places I'm not supposed to be." 'Rad. Good. A team, that's --' Dusk looks between the others, nodding slowly. 'I know people who are good at -- well.' He leans back, for a moment running his fingers through his scruffy hair. His smile is quick, fangy, a little crooked. 'I hope you know how dumb this is. But. Times we're living in. I guess we need more people to step up and be kind of stupid.'