ArchivedLogs:Can't Play a Player

Can't Play a Player
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Shelby	2013-01-02 It's a contest to see who can dodge the most questions.
Location <NYC> Strand Books - East Village
The Strand manages to pack a whole lot of character into one bookstore, but they have a lot of space to fit it in. They advertise themselves as having eighteen miles of books, and whether or not that is true, it certainly is true that they have an enormous number of shelves packed into their rows and rows and rows of books. A book-lover's haven, this East Village landmark boasts an enormous collection of volumes of all types among their stacks, crammed into the narrow aisles. Well-known for their rare and out-of-print collection, they have many hard to find volumes tucked away in their labyrinth of shelves as well. Early afternoon and it's brilliant outside, the clear sunlight bouncing off of windows and unmelted snow-- what there is of it that hasn't been greyed by pollution and being walked on. It makes for a pretty picture through the windows of the bookstore, tucked away where it's warm, cosy and smelling of miles and miles of printer-fresh paper. Of course, the best place to be is not near the windows, it's back in the stacks where the shelves go high and the world becomes a maze of wood, cracking leather and gold-limned pages. That's where Shelby is to be found. Unconcerned with such niceties as finding a normal place to sit, she's claimed a patch of ground at the end of one shelving unit. There's a guitar case propped against the "wall" beside her, and books scattered around underfoot. In short, she is a prime tripping hazard but completely oblivious to the risk. There are books to be leafed through, after all, immense coffee table tomes of artwork that she's arranged around herself in a half-circle. Taking front and center is a volume of Bosch's paintings, opened to a double-page depiction of "The Garden of Earthly Delight". If one were to look quickly before tumbling over the girl, they might notice that the river at the bottom of the page is flowing, carrying along its host of fruit-riding humans, mounted unicorns are running the fields, and in the left hand corner of the left page, Adam is gettin' it on with Eve. Lucien is not, particularly, looking. Dressed more casually today, in jeans and a dark sweater, he still manages to edge away from sloven by dint of the fact that his jeans are carefully /tailored/ to his fit and his sweater is knit in soft cashmere. His attention is turned down towards a book of his own -- pictures, too, though in rather a different style. Calvin & Hobbes, /Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons/. There are more books in the crook of his arm, or at least there were before he comes to an abrupt half-tripping stop when he runs into Shelby's disaster zone. His /own/ volumes slip out of his arm to join hers scattered on the floor as he reaches a hand to stabilize himself and avoid joining them, grabbing onto a shelf as he turns a sudden frown downwards. The frown is his only greeting, his attention soon distracted by catching the guitar case he has also started to tip over. "Ngh." The sky is falling, or so it must seem to the girl. She lets out a little squeal of horror and tucks into an arms-over-head ball as books cascade around her. It isn't until the largest threatening shadow, that of Lucien, has stabilized that she peeks through the shield of her arms. Pressed jeans, swanky sweater, and oh look who it is. The rumple of a frown that had been creasing her brow smooths over into a look of pained concern. Note the way she begins to rub her shoulder. "Ow...are you okay? Geez, I didn't even see you there, you could've been hurt, Mister Tessier." Rub rub rub. "Yes, I am sure you are quite concerned," Lucien answers mildly, looking down at Shelby with a look that starts out annoyed and eases into wry amusement. He crouches, beginning to sort his books from the others with intermittent distraction as he looks at the titles of the ones already on the ground. "And quite hurt, yourself," is still murmured quiet, as he looks through the pile. "I would have more sympathy if you did not make yourself such a target." Such a mild tone earns him a look of veiled suspicion. Just a flash, there and gone as Shelby bends at the waist to help in the sorting process. Her arm appears to work just fine. Bosch's heaven and hell have stopped cavorting, in her distraction; nothing to see here! "No one's been back here all the time I've been here," she says to defend herself, sounding only a little sulky. "It's not my fault." Which must mean it's his, yet she separates two of his books to offer up for exchange. "Good thing you didn't rip anything, you'd have to buy it for me." "Would I?" Lucien's eyebrows raise in curiosity, and he parts with two of her books to reclaim his own. "By your dictate, or by the store's?" He looks the teenager over thoughtfully, glancing at her attire and then down at his own. And continues tidying. "And if you and I went to the management here and tried to convince them that the other was in the wrong, who do you imagine would win that discussion?" He gathers his small stack of books into a neat pile, sorted from largest to smallest for convenient balancing. Ooh. Shelby knows a challenge when she hears one. That frown reappears briefly while she gives him a good looking over. "Jesus, and I was just telling someone how cool you were too. If you're gonna be like that, I take it back." And then her hand darts out in a blatant attempt to snare the Calvin and Hobbes book. Since he lacks a sense of humor, he doesn't deserve -that-. "Anyway, I could just tell 'em you like, grabbed me or something if you wanna get nasty. You still read comic books?" Lucien's hand shifts, not far but quickly, securing a better grip on his stack of books as Shelby attempts to pilfer one. "I do not start nastiness," he replies, quiet and even, "I only end it. Was the hotel acceptable?" This question, delivered just as neutrally as his other words, sounds more blandly curious than solicitous. He glances down at the books beneath his hand. "Should I not?" Hey, she was grabbing that. Shelby's eyes narrow and she keeps hold of her side of the book. "It was awesome, thank you," she says almost primly. "And you're kinda old for comic books, don't you think?" If Lucien were to glance down right now, he might see that the cover of the topmost book has begun to move. The main figure is waving at him in a bid for his attention. Lucien does glance down, if only to look at Shelby's hand on /his/ book. His own grip tightens, though his eyebrows /raise/ at the cover of the book. Just slightly, his jaw tightens, green eyes lifting back to her in more searching curiosity. "You live on the streets," he says levelly, "you are too smart to think that this is getting nasty. I have no doubt you have seen nasty. This," he does not try to /tug/ the book away from her. His fingers just stretch forward, extending towards hers, "is teaching you to learn your audience better. You are good. But it is not the pitiful change-counting and shoulder-rubbing that moved me and it certainly is not the sulking." Clearly Lucien knows the proper way in which to handle people of her sort. Shelby was expecting either a tug or a freak out. Receiving neither, and in risk of being touched, she jerks her hands back, releasing the book back to his care. For a moment she simply glares at him-- rubbing her hands on the thighs of her jeans, as if at risk of catching cooties. Calvin and Hobbes have turned their attention from the shambling Snow Goons and are lobbing snowballs at the man, but the missiles do not emerge from the cover; they sail off and disappear beyond its edges. Poof, gone. "What was it, then? You got a thing for kids?" With the books reclaimed, Lucien turns his attention more towards the cover, watching in absent curiosity the snowballs as they fly. "That is risky," he says, in lieu of answering the question. "With many people it might earn you a swift eviction from the store, if not fresh bruises. Do you put on such displays often?" "You started it." Either by tripping over her or by not playing along with the hand out game, Shelby doesn't say. Instead she scrambles to her feet. Just in case. The Borsch book comes with her, tucked in the crook of her arm, and her other hand rests atop the guitar case. Once spied, Calvin and Hobbes return to hiding behind their tree without movement. Two, it seems, can play the no answer game. "By being assy without even saying hello or how are you or oh fuck I'm sorry I almost fell on you." "Hello," Lucien says, eyebrows raising, and, in the same calm-polished tone, "How are you. Oh, fuck, I am sorry, I almost fell on you. Is that better?" He does not get to his feet, staying crouched as he tucks his books beneath an arm. Shelby's bright eyes narrow and he's regarded warily. "Now you're just messing with me," she says slowly, not -quite- sure if she's on to him or not. "How come you were so nice the other night and such a dick today?" She pauses for a beat, painting book hugged to her chest. "If you were just showing off to your girlfriend, you maybe better let me know so I can let -my- friend know you aren't as cool as I said." "I have no girlfriend," Lucien answers with a quiet exhale that is almost, but not quite, a laugh. "Nor any desire for one. And I am generally a dick. But I do reward good acting. And I also know --" This breaks off with a frown. Now he does stand, slow and with an absent smoothing of his sweater once he has risen to his feet again. "I am sure there is nothing that would make my life so complete as to be held in high regard by one of your friends. Please, tell me, just what would it cost me to have you continue to extol my virtues?" Just as slowly, Shelby retreats a step to maintain a bubble of space. Comfort for all involved. The other books she'd chosen are left scattered on the ground; she's that sort of patron. "I figured you liked being a do-gooder. So does he," she says with a careless shrug and a toss of her chin. Translation: probably a lot. "So you got me a nice hotel room just 'cuz I can act? That's pretty..." Whatever she might have used to describe his actions is bitten off. She's watching him with a frown. "How come you didn't freak out at the pictures?" "I devote very little of my energy to doing good," Lucien answers with a slightly wry twist of lips. "But I spent long enough on the streets to know how miserable a winter night can be." He does not frown, anymore; he watches her back, expression mildly impassive under her scrutiny. "Would you like me to? I could, if you want. I am sure the management would be glad to remove a mutant from their aisles." He is saying this, now, while looking down at the mess she has left. "Oh." It's a flat word, with none of the affectation she's used previous to this-- either sunshiney or sulky. "Why would I want to get kicked out? But everyone freaks out. Except people like me." This Shelby spices with a twist of defiance, chin still high. She's not going to look at those books; she's looking at -him-, the books can go hang. Or get tread on, as the case may be. "Because you are hammering on this point as though you want me to make a big deal out of this." Lucien meets defiance with bland thoughtfulness, folding an arm across his chest to stabilize the books wedged under an arm. "Is this a test? I feel," he informs Shelby Very Seriously, "quite judged." Oh. -Oh-. She gets it. Shelby looks around, frowning. Shelves, more shelves, and lots of books. But who knows what lurks behind them? She lets out a huffy breath and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. "Fine, whatever. I'll shut up." As if Lucien would be so lucky. She does, however, shuffle backwards to clear the aisle in case he wants to saunter on by. Over the spilled books. "How long?" she asks then. "How long were you on the streets?" Lucien does not saunter by. Almost idly, a little distracted, he stoops to pick up a book, eye its spine, eye the shelves. Reshelf it. "I was near fourteen, when I first --" The book in his hand waves, vaguely. "It took five years and change to leave. Has it been long, for you?" There is a quick wry twist to his lips. "Long enough at least to learn to con people." Shelby's head lowers. She is connecting dots here and there, lining up the pieces. When everything is in place, the narrow look fades, though some wariness remains. "I guess," she says, slowly enough that it's clear this whole opening up thing is no easy process. Far easier to ask the questions. "How'd you get out of it? You're like...flush now, huh?" A glance skims him from feet to head, the tailored jeans to the neatly coiffed hair. "How long?" Lucien prompts, further, reaching for a second book to do the same. The wryness in his half-smile spreads to his lips. "I would not recommend my exit strategy. I am --" He hesitates, born less of reticence or shyness and more out of a pause to shelf a third book. "-- as flush," he says this word crisply, "as the generosity of my clientele will allow. Thankfully, I have my own skills at persuading people to part with their money. I might just have stepped up my game a notch." She huffs at him again but this time, the expression of frustration is followed by a sort of honesty. "Like...four years now." Shelby's face then twists up with undiplomatic distaste-- but it's milder than might be expected. "What do you mean, stepped up your game? What, you got a full-time trick now or whatever?" she asks, cautious but curious enough to forget herself. She slides a step closer, making no move to assist with shelving but listening closely. "Or..." "Tying my food and shelter to one individual seems like a risky business. I have -- many. Rich enough that the time spent is a good investment." Lucien quietly continues his work as he talks, drifting further and closer as books require him to find their appropriate place. "I just mean I got more practised at acting. Turned my skills to something more stable than spare change. Whoring is whoring, though, whether they are paying me twenty dollars or two thousand." "Jesus, you make two thousand a lay?" Shelby might be taking the wrong pieces of information from this. Her forehead crinkles. "I haven't turned any tricks. I mean...like. Not the -real- thing. But two thousand dollars..." Her eyes run over the books he's hanging onto, as if one of them might be "Turning Pro for Dummies". "Is it like, with old fat people?" "No, an hour," Lucien corrects absently. Likely not helping Shelby's musings. "Most men make less. Some women make more." None of his books, sadly, offer step-by-step guides to becoming a high-priced hooker. There is another Calvin & Hobbes book. Two Asterix. A Lemony Snicket. A young adult fantasy about dragons. His book selections are entirely devoid of lasciviousness. "I have had old fat people," he allows, "and young svelte ones. After a while you do not notice. I prefer clients who can keep up an interesting conversation." "Yeah? You like, really talk to them and stuff? I guess that'd be the acting part," Shelby muses. "Two thousand an hour, Jesus. I could..." She cuts herself off and it's probably for the best. Up come the shoulders, her smile reappears and she brightly indicates the Lemony Snicket. "That's a good one. I read it awhile back, some guy had it. How old are you, anyway? I bet you've got a ton saved, right? If you started when you were, uh...eighteen." "If I had started when I was eighteen," Lucien replies mildly, "there would have been some time to save. And yes, I talk to them. I dance with them. I go to the theatre with them. I do many things." He tucks the last of the mess back onto a shelf, turning then to flick a glance over Shelby. "It is good. I enjoyed it, when I read it." The question of his age seems to draw a pause from him, his brows furrowing. "Twenty-two," he answers at length, though his solemn-carved face seems some years older. With the last book shelved, he looks down to the ones in his arm, and then back to Shelby. "Have you eaten?" "Really?" Of everything he's said, it's his age that surprises her the most. Shelby cocks her head. "And you learned how to do all that even though you came off the streets. That's, like..." Words fail her. She's lost for a moment in some thoughtful place-- probably determining how to talk him into teaching her-- but shakes out of it with the question. "Oh, sure. I had breakfast. I got this doctor to put me up in his place, you know? I thought it'd be nicer but he's got food anyway, and he doesn't like chicks so it's all hands off. I should head back, he's kinda fussy about shit. Hey, but I'll call you, okay? And I'm sorry about being a cow when you tripped on me." "Ah. The do-gooder?" Lucien presumes, lips twitching up slightly. His head tips down, a small polite nod. "I imagine I will hear from you later, then." His noncommittal tone gives little indication as to what he thinks about this, but there is amusement in his green eyes. "Until then." Hugging his books almost protectively to himself, he turns to head off with them. "You're -supposed- to say, I'm sorry too. Geez." Shelby snorts behind him and then sets off in a different direction, deeper in the stacks, book and guitar in tow. Probably on a course to harass some other poor, innocent, strolling patron just looking to enjoy a quiet moment in the middle of the city.