ArchivedLogs:Alone Together

Alone Together
Dramatis Personae Jim, Shane	saturday, 14 march, 2015 part of the futurey.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a central shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. A thick swell of rolling green has taken root along the parameters of the yard compound; packing in at the base of the stone fence, a snarling braid of kudzu clings to the stone, varying points broken up in thick brambles of blackberry and raspberry, its pattern of ripening unusual in the season. The well-trimmed and flourishing health of yard grass and potted plants, clean walkways and buildings free of damaging growth diminishes the sense of unkempt abandonment, and instead implies something more ancient. Intended. Some invasion of encroaching age and deliberation. Where the fencing terminates at the river's edge, a thin fencing of cattails has formed across the watery border, thickest where a strange tree has put down thick roots, half in and half out of the water. Thick serpentine swoops and and knuckley swells that climb down deep into the riverbed like stairs, and rise above the ground on the earthen side, overgrown with moss to pad a naturally formed seat against its base. The trunk rising above is odd and thick as a man's torso, narrowing at the top into a scarred suggestion of a face set between branches sturdy enough to support weight. It's late, and this time of season that means it's /cold/ as well; not quite as bitter as in the dead of winter, but brisk enough that it's likely to frost before the night is through. It isn't quite there yet, though; Shane is dressed warm enough but not /bundled/, neat charcoal-dark peacoat paired with his grey slacks and polished Oxfords. Even with the cold, though, he abandons his shoes as he gets down near the tree, leaving them tucked safely out of /mud/ range among the roots on the earthward side and continuing down barefoot to tuck /himself/ in near the water. He settles in among knobbly roots and damp earth, rolling his slacks upward at the hems so that he can wiggle his toes down into the water. He's quiet, at first, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the inside of his coat. A lighter. Tapping one out to light it. His black eyes focus down on the water through the first long pull at his cigarette, and he holds a long breath -- somewhat /inadvertently/, gills opening to flutter instead before he remembers to close them so that he can exhale. "Got a big-ass packet in the mail today. MIT. B's been watching the mail deliveries like a goddamn hawk. Though you /probably/ heard his --" He stops with another twitch of gills, corrects himself, "-- hir fucking /squealing/ all the way out here. I thought I was going to burst a fucking eardrum, man." The breath he exhales is sharp and hard and smokey. "So much motherfucking excitement just to run the fuck /away/ for four years." His toes wiggle further into the water. "Or maybe forever, who fucking knows." Though after this with a little bit of discomfort he amends: "Or maybe he'll be back here before his first week is through. We're not hitting eighteen till next week. It'll be one thing for them to look at hir /transcript/ and another thing entirely once he gets up there and they see hir goddamn /face/." There's a little sharp-edged anger preemptively in his tone with this thought, but it fades back into a warm /pride/ when he continues. "S'good, though. {Fucking god,} is it good. S'worked hir fucking /ass/ off ever since we --" He shakes his head, flicking a thumb absently against the butt of his cigarette and then lifting it for another drag. "Not gonna lie, it feels fucking surreal sometimes. Just -- where we've fucking /been/ one year to the next, Christ, if you'd told me fucking /ever/ B'd be heading off to goddamn /MIT/ I'd have laughed in your fucking face. I was talking to hir and Dai about this afternoon before work though and -- {God help him} I think B's feeling fucking /guilty/. Like s'got no fucking right to be happy and doing well after all the shit this past year that --" His voice cuts off in a ragged breathless flutter as his gills start to open again. Very slowly, as though Shane's journey along the trees roots had left a dusting of plant spoor, his path has begun to fill out with small spring-green growth, rising up first in a thin tendril of stem that slowly lift up their heads in the forms of fragile leaves and tiny white flowers. Where bare feet had passed, the shape of toes individually visible in a soft dusting of green moss. The delay of touch to trigger makes like a ghost treading the path Shane had tread, growing nearer each step until it reaches him. When it reaches him, small lily pads open along the water surface, soft curlicues of vine begin to climb themselves towards him in blind brushes of spade-shaped leaves. Shane lifts his free hand to his neck, pressing down at the fluttering gills there. His toe nudges forward, webbing brushing up against an unfurling lily pad. "It's stupid," he says this as though in agreement with someone, "but it's fucking hard. You look back at every-goddamn-thing and it's like holy shit why is the world suddenly smiling on /us/. But I don't get feeling fucking /guilty/ over it, /we/ didn't turn the world to shit. We didn't goddamn /slaughter/ anybody. Though, god, B's been working ever since to make his fucking -- robots interface with those brain-chips like. If anybody tries that shit /again/, send in a drone first to /disarm/ them all before they can blow --" He pulls his cigarette out of his lips as his teeth clench. "Which is fucking stupid too, I guess, Prometheus is gone. They're not going to be /mining/ anyone's skulls at the new --" His brows furrow deeply. "... and maybe fucking stupid because what the fuck /else/ would they /want/? They didn't break us the fuck out of those cages in the first place just to sit around feeling shitty. Seriously, I don't know what better tribute he could fucking /give/ than going off to MIT and making himself a /good/ goddamn life." He lifts his hand, taking another fierce pull at his smoke. "-- ze. Crap. I just hope ze /does/. It's gonna be really fucking -- /we've/ never been --" His toes wiggle deeper into the water. And, softer: "Boston is really goddamn far." He exhales again, a cloud of smoke drifting off over the river. "I mean, really goddamn -- but if Peter got in, he'll be going up with hir and at least then ze won't be /alone/." His other hand falls to rest on one of the snarls of roots beside him, webbed fingers curling down in a slow squeeze of pressure. "I think that's what scares me the fucking most, you know? Even in the middle of the goddamn fucking cages we were never really /alone/. Who the fuck up in Boston is going to have the /slightest/ goddamn idea what kind of shit's gone down in B's life. At least here we've all got --" He waves his cigarette laden hand around the grounds before returning stick to lips. "-- Even you, motherfucker. In your own fucking -- way. Not that it's not tempting. {God.}" Shane takes a last puff of his cigarette and crushes the stub against his palm, making sure it is good and out before conscientiously tucking it into his pocket rather than just tossing it on the ground or into the river. "I can't tell you the number of fucking times B and I said we'd just run off to the fucking ocean. After Vermont -- I don't think either of us wanted shit-all to do with /people/ for a long fucking -- it would've wrecked my dads, though. Pa especially. /Leading/ that -- fff." He hisses a sharp breath, peeling out of his peacoat to fold it neatly and tuck it up higher onto drier ground. Beneath his neat black dress shirt is kind of rumpled after a long shift at the coffeehouse. "Barely kept his shit together as-is. Honestly, I'm not even sure how much he's keeping his shit together /now/ but -- s'always been good at. Putting on a motherfucking /front/." He's unbuttoning his dress shirt here, now, too. Loosening his belt. Peeling shirt off to fold it neatly, as well. Then his undershirt. "Sometimes, though, you don't want a fucking front anymore. Just --" His toes splash in the water, sending small ripples out to set the lily pads bobbing before the join the faster current of the river. "Just goddamn /leave/ all that bullshit. Let it float the fuck away. Or, I guess," he says with a small snort, looking downward as he shimmies out of his slacks and boxers as well. "Go to root. Let the fucking earth have it? Water takes mine, though." Dmp. The silent tree remains where it is, the tendrils and knots of vinery that had formed around Shane leaving a semblance of a green nest behind when he stands. Which only makes the thump of a cherry that falls on Shane's head and bounces away all the more /pointed/. The vines then begin to curl in; not un-grow so much as lose their vitality back into the tree from with they grew, absorbed back in to be put away for another day. "Fff." Shane stoops to /scoop/ the cherry back out of the water where it's rolled, rinsing it clean and then shoving it into his mouth. "I'm not eighteen till /next/ week, old man. You can save your sweet juices. My Pa's castrated men for that, you know." He tosses his head back, spitting the cherry seed off into the grasses, and then wades forward to vanish smooth and dark beneath the silvery-lit surface of the river.