ArchivedLogs:Mundane

Mundane
Dramatis Personae Micah, Doug
In Absentia	3 March 2015 "Here's to the normal life things."
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to plentiful artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. It is a dreary, rainy day promising to be a drearier, icy night later on. Those with business to accomplish are putting a little extra /bustle/ on it to try and get home earlier in the evening. Nerves are a little frayed and folks are a little agitated in the long lunch order line. Micah, fortunately, has been through already, early to lunch to go along with his plan of early-day. He has a bowl of roasted red pepper and tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich to go along with it, a large coffee at the side for additional warmth. He is dressed predictably Work for this time of day: TARDIS blue polo over grey henley, khakis, but snow boots on for while he's out. The seat next to him is loaded down with outerwear, crutches, and his messenger bag. It is too rainy for dockwork, and so many of the workers find their day ending at the lunch hour. Perhaps it's a balm from upper management; a few hours to prepare for the encroaching storm. So it is that Doug is wandering through the door of Evolve, a damp-looking knit cap pulled down low over his ears to the point it brushes up against his beard. When he peels off his equally-damp pea coat, he's also wearing a blue shirt -- though his is a little more utilitarian in its blue, and has his name in script over his left pec. Looking around for an empty table, he spies Micah, and heads that direction. "Hey, Micah, can I drop my coat here?" he says by way of greeting, offering a hopeful sort of smile. "Just while I put in my order?" Micah has, in the way of eating in public, just stuffed a bite of grilled cheese in his mouth when someone approaches his table. “Hmn,” there fore serves as his initial greeting, non-sandwich-holding hand waving in the meantime. Melted cheese is sticky and takes some chewing, a swallow of coffee hastening it along. “Sure s'okay.” "Awesome," Doug says, dropping his coat on the back of an empty chair. "I'll be back in a minute." It is, however, a good ten minutes before he returns to the table, a cup of coffee in his hand and a receipt with a number circled at the top. "Wow, they're busy today," the blonde remarks as he blows gently on his coffee. "I guess nobody really wants to be out in this weather." He grins, and motions at the empty chair. "Can I join you, or are you in the middle of work stuff?" he asks, already grabbing at his coat in preparation to leave. "I don't want to bug you if you're busy or something." “Yeah, I think everyone's tryin' t'get lunch an' /get/, if they can.” Micah dips the corner of his sandwich into his soup before taking another bite. An amused brow lofts at the question of being work-busy, as he has nothing in front of him but food. He waits until his mouth is empty to comment, however. “Nah, just gettin' a bite b'fore finishin' up with whatever patients'll come in. Most folks are puttin' off or askin' t'come in earlier, so I think it'll be an early day, though. Prob'ly for the best.” Doug nods, and sits in the chair when Micah explains, throwing a leg over it and tucking up snugly to the table. "Yeah, our crew got called off early," he says, sipping at his coffee. "Seems like the barge we were going to work is stuck upriver somewhere." He shrugs, and looks around the room. "I guess most people are trying to get ahead of the weather, though," he notes. "My dad is big on preparing for snow and ice like they're going to be stuck until the Spring thaw. I wouldn't be surprised if that's why my mom learned to can." He chuckles, and rolls his shoulders as if shrugging off the thought of his family. "But hey. An early day is a good thing, right? Means more time for being lazy someplace warm." Micah blinks a few times, lips twitching faintly with what might be suppressed laughter enough that he feels the need to explain himself. “Apologies... I just...somehow barges bein' stuck in rivers gave me a mental picture of failin' a river ford in Oregon Trail.” He nods along with the rest of Doug's discussion, taking sips from his soup spoon meanwhile. “She mightn't have the worst idea. I mean...she'd be the most popular neighbour in Boston 'bout now. An', yeah, early's good. The less ice I hafta contend with, the better.” It takes Doug a couple of moments before he realizes what Micah's laughing about, and he snorts in amusement. "Yeah, I think the problem here is more ice in the water than it is floods washing the oxen away." He chuckles, smoothing his beard around his mouth as he eases back in his chair. The older man's thoughts on his mother's canning gets a half-smile. "Hey, she would. My mom is completely shallow, but she can put up a bread and butter pickle that'll make you think you never had one before." He nods firmly, and looks at the counter as Micah continues. "Oh, yeah. I guess ice /would/ be sort of your arch-enemy, wouldn't it?" He looks back, and rest an elbow on the table surface. "Couldn't you make an ice-leg?" he wonders. "Like, with little cleats on the bottom of the foot?" “Oh, I'd imagine. If oxen're your trouble with transit these days...” Micah just lets that trail off into a headshake. “Mmn...pickles. Nothin' quite like home picklin'. They just never seem t'get the spices quite right, or as varied, in the store varieties.” He leaves his spoon in his soup long enough to shake a fist. “Darn right. S'what the crutches're for. They've got ice tips on. Can take 'em off easy enough t'avoid damagin' floors, or just not use 'em once I get inside. Would be a harder proposition with the prosthetic-proper. I mean, /could/ do, but gets awkward. I just do snow boots, usually.” "If oil prices keep going up, oxen may be back in demand," Doug quips, covering it with a quick sip of his coffee, and crinkling his eyes over the rim. "My mom makes the best," he reaffirms. "She should be sending me some this summer, in one of her stealth packages. I'll bring over a jar." The number on his receipt is called, then, and he hops up with an apologetic finger held up as if to pause Micah while he goes to the counter. When he returns, he has...the same lunch as Micah. Well, with two sandwiches, but otherwise it's the same. "It smelled good," Doug says sheepishly as he settles himself, unfolding a napkin to rest in his lap as he listens to Micah's explanation. "I guess you would look kind of weird with one meat foot in a snow boot and one metal foot," he agrees, dragging his spoon through his soup. Then he smiles suddenly. "Although, in this case, 'weird' means 'super fucking awesome.'" "The Amish're savin' up their best 'I told you so' looks, I guess." Micah's shoulders rise and fall in a resigned shrug. "S'kinda a /thing/. I'll go for when it's particularly gross out or somethin'. Comfortin'. I think a lotta parents make it for kids? 'Cause I know a number of people get the same way over it." He laughs outright at the description. "Ain't too far off from whenever I'm runnin'. 'Ceptin' it's a sneaker an' the carbon fibre blade. An' usually has shorts involved 'cause I'm either /inside/ or it's nice out. That's where y'get the best looks from folks. Had a few joggers in the park hit trees an' lampposts an' people, near-about or full /on/." His head shakes slightly, though his expression is still largely amused. "It's actually one of my favorite things, even in warm weather," Doug confesses, picking up a triangle of sandwich and dipping it in the soup before biting into it. "But it /is/ less frequent in its summer appearances," he says around the mouthful of sandwich, which he then washes down with a swig of coffee that he almost loses after Micah describes his running experiences. "Blades are easier for running, right?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows as he mops at his chin. "I'm curious. Is that because you don't have to rely on the pivot of the ankle joint?" He scratches at his lower lip, as if testing the dryness of his chin. "Because that seems like it would be hard to duplicate. That is, if action figures are any indication." "Simple things're good sometimes," Micah agrees with a nod, finishing off the last corner of his sandwich. "I can't really run without it. Get to about a jog an' then don't have the push-off with the day-to-day model. It ain't...just the joint arrangement. It's the whole shape of the thing. Blade's designed t'store kinetic energy, spring y'off." He mimes with his hands the compression and expansion process. "Huh," Doug says slowly, talking between spoonfuls of soup. "That's interesting. Anatomy was never my thing, so my knowledge of how the foot works is limited to a little bit more than kicking and toe-stubbing." He grins, and reaches for his sandwich for another dip-and-munch. He lifts his eyebrows, chewing slowly and swallowing before he speaks again. "I bet you and B could invent a foot that worked like the real thing," he says confidently. "I mean, one that works better than the ones that are available now. That you /could/ run with, if you needed to for some reason." “Ain't necessarily...anatomy so much as physics when y'get t'modern runnin' prostheses. They finally stopped botherin' with tryin' t'mimic typical anatomy. S'when they got /good/.” Micah's spoon bobs a little in its path back to his bowl in tiny-emphasis. “It's a specialisin' problem. Y'get good push-off, y'sacrifice stability. Y'get good stability, sacrifices the energy storage for push-off. I /could/ wear the runnin' blade all the time, but then I'd never be able t'hold still comfortably. The other's better for most day-o-day tasks. Just not so much on the runnin'-jumpin' territory.” Doug chews on that information, along with his sandwich, his brow furrowed in thought as he chews. "So, what happens when you need a quick getaway?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. "I mean, given who you're married to, some hasty exits are probably going to occur. Also, you live in New York, so, muggers." He pushes his spoon along the surface of the soup, expression still thoughtful. "Sorry if I'm asking too many questions," he says suddenly. "I probably should have asked this stuff ages ago. But I'm honestly curious about it." "Even /with/ the runnin' blade, I'm not fast enough t'get away from somebody in shape on two bio-feet. S'the unilateral amputation. Folks on /two/ blades tend t'be the fastest. S'harder goin' with the asymmetrical set-up." Micah shrugs, likely having had this conversation before and rather come to terms with it. "If I run into trouble I usually just...honestly let 'em know I'm not up for a fight? You'd be surprised how often that defuses things. Do what you're s'posed to with muggers an' just give 'em what I got on me. It's not...much, gen'rally speakin', certainly not worth riskin' injury or worse." He twirls his spoon through the last dregs of soup in his bowl. "Other'n that, things go bad sometimes? Got m'shoulder messed up right after movin' here. S'when Nox helped me out. Been shot. Almost blown up. Don't /guess/ runnin' a little faster would've made those particular situations a whole-lot better'n they were. Prob'ly would've /complicated/ the whole ladder situation. Blades ain't good for climbin' so much." Finally, the spoon picks up the last of the soup to deliver to Micah's mouth, a quick enough morsel to down. "Kinda just get used t'the idea that the world's a dangerous place, an' y'either go out in it or y'don't. I'd rather be in it. I mean, I leave the crazy-dangerous stuff t'more qualified folks when I'm able. But I'm gonna do all the normal-life things." "That makes sense," Doug says after a long moment of thought. "I mean, I guess there's plenty of stuff you can't outrun." He scratches his chin thoughtfully, blushing a bit at the reminder of being almost blown up. "And avoiding crazy-dangerous is just good sense," he says with a quirk of his mouth. "If my dreams are any indication, anyway." He grins, and lifts his coffee cup. "Here's to the normal life things." “Kinda company I tend t'keep anymore, don't think it's even the biggest factor in m'safety assessment anyhow.” Again, Micah shrugs at this. “Promised the kids,” he explains further. “After the first few messes I got m'self into 'round here. All their family keeps goin' off into danger head-on. They need somebody t'stay back an'...take care of 'em. If it comes t'that.” He tenses a little at the dream mention, then lifts his mug in return. “To perfectly mundane existence. It has its merits.” Then he finishes off his last swig of coffee. Doug pauses in his toast at the revelation, and his brow twitches faintly. "That was good," he says. "From what I've seen, they like things stable." Then he snorts, and spreads his hands. "Hell, who doesn't, right? It's good to have a safe and secure place, right?" His laugh is a bit hollow following that, and he chokes it off with a hasty clink of cups and a long swallow. By the time he's lowered the nearly-empty cup, he's smiling again. "I am all about the mundane," he agrees. "Well, as mundane as a computer nerd can get, anyway." “S'pretty high up in Maslow's Hierarchy,” Micah agrees simply, gathering his empty dishes all onto his tray and excusing himself briefly to bus the lot. He starts poking through the outerwear on the chair when he returns. “Speakin' of mundane things, though. Should be gettin' back t'work. For a little bit, at least.” Doug just holds up two fingers in reply to Maslow's Hierarchy, smiling a bit before he drops them and returns to his sandwich. As Micah buses his dishes, the blonde watches flicking his eyes around the room and smiling when he spies a familiar purple-haired technopath, who gets a cheery wave that somehow ends up being for Micah, too, since he returns in the middle of it. His imminent departure gets a nod. "Yeah, better to get it over with and get home," he says. "Thanks for letting me hang with you while I ate. I enjoyed it." "No problem. Always happy t'tip folks off to a good lunch. 'Specially at m'kid's place." The last comes with a playful-jesting smile. "Be safe t'night. Might wanna prepare for a night in." Once layered back in all of his outerwear, messenger bag slung across his torso and neon orange forearm crutches at the ready, Micah half-lifts a hand from a crutch in a small wave. "Have a good one." "Already made a date with my wi-fi," Doug assures Micah. "I don't plan on going anywhere until I hear from the shop captain." He waves his sandwich in farewell, leaning back in his chair. "You be safe as well," he says. "And have fun at Game Night tonight." He watches the older man leave, waiting until the door closes behind him before exhaling heavily. "Well," he says to himself as he dips his sandwich in the soup. "That went pretty well, for once." He grins a bit, and holds up his cup as a barista sails by with a coffee pot. "Can I get a refill?"