ArchivedLogs:Kid Stuff

Kid Stuff
Dramatis Personae Jim, Shelby	2013-04-27 '
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 is late! Late enough that darkness has fallen and most of the people who would normally occupy a park have left for other parts unknown. That leaves the homeless, the layabouts, the bored teens shooting hoops and the occasional junkie. It also leaves Shelby. She's laid claim to one of the playgrounds. Her skateboard is flipped on the cedar chips that carpet the ground, showing its belly to the sky while she has taken up occupancy of one of the swings. The chain needs to be oiled. It squeeeeaks, squeeeeaks as her weight alone shifts it back and forth. The teen isn't properly swinging, just swaying forward, swaying back, sneakered feet dragged over the earth and churning furrows in the mulch. Now and again she pries a hand free of the chain to rub at her eyes but with her hood up and the lights low, who knows /why/ that could be. Probably RAGWEED. Jim certainly isn't trying to guess, his approach inappropriate loose through the shoulders with one little finger crammed in his mouth to try and work free a shard of chip that had lodged in his teeth from his guacamole sampling. The swingset trembles slightly when his weight drops against the pole frame a few yards from where Shelby is suspended. "Lot of predators out a night." Yes, he still has his floral hat on. It casts a dark shadow down over his eyes. Shelby knew he was coming. Really she did! That's why she goes stiff through spine and shoulders at that shuddering. A quick sniff follows while she curls her hand around the chain again. A shove with her toes sets the swing to...swinging, her head hanging low. "No one's gonna fuck with me," she insists. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. "You, maybe. For wearing that stupid ass hat." "Hey," Jim mutters, "I got this for fucking... seventy five cents, what d'you want." It has a general dismissive city snideness... but more tired, with less heart. FLUMP-rattlerattle. He drops his ass into a swing next to Shelby. The swingset frame does what it can to cope. Jim is not a talented lazy-swinger. He's upright in the spine, feet planted squarely on the ground with knees apart - and kind of high, because the set is not meant for legs quite as long as his. "...you got a smoke?" He gave his back to Melinda. What was he THINKING. Her heels are dug in to bring her to a stop, allowing the passage of the pack and lighter pulled from pouch at the front of her hoodie. Shelby then shoves off again, still looking down at the lines her feet have drawn in the cedar chips. She's been here awhile given their depth. Then she proceeds to make them worse by dipping a toe in and flipping mulch forward. Some of it patters against the flipped board, the rest against the ground, in a poor mimicry of rain. "I fucked the party up good, huh?" "I don't fuckin' know," Jim inconveniences his cigarette-lighting by saying this, the end bobbing in and out of the flame. He hands back the pack and lighter, his breath making that short 'I-am-ABOUT-to-speak-hang-on' inhale, rushing his first lungful of smoke and then breathing it out. With /words/, "I didn't really stay around to find out." He kicks off his flipflops - they land around Shelby's board - and works his feet into the woodships, towards the ground below, to allow a few micro-thin hair-like fillaments of roots to work at the soil. The woodchips have kept its moisture insulated and sheltered. It's /good/ dirt. He jerks his chin back at the building, sending the fern fronds and baby's breath bobbling, "What was all that." Unspecified 'that'. His eyes are locked hard and unblinking across the park expanse. The teenager makes a soft huffy sound. Not /quite/ laughter. Too forceless. "I don't fuckin' know," Shelby mimics. But if Jim is content to wait for a better answer, she'll get around to it eventually. "Told Mel about me and Hive about a week ago. Then Hive invited me over last night," she says after more ruin has been wreaked on the landscaping. "I texted him. Asked if he wanted to hook up, he said come over for a beer." It's like pulling teeth, getting info out of this one. She stops again. Starts a moment or two on. "Kind've...shot me down. Said it was complicated. That he'd turn me into a zombie if we fucked, or something. Guess it wasn't that. I thought he liked me, y'know? He said...he said it was nice. With me. But he was messed up when he kissed me. So." Jim is silent indeed, save the rough vocal just subtly edging his exhales, curling smoke issuing like dragon's breath from nose and mouth equally. He's watching his flipflops with that absent New Yorker awareness that makes you keep your belongings within eyesight at all times if you want to keep them. Finally, he raises a hand. Drags his palm across his jaw, creating a sandpapery noise and sighs as though in surrender, "You've had a rough time." Somehow, it's an - encouragement? A /prompt/ for her to say more, while he mulls. He pulls off his flowery hat and begins to work loose a daisy - it's fake and plastic - to hand over to Shelby. Here. Consolation prize. "Who hasn't?" Again the scoffing sound. But after a moment, time spent looking at the stupid plastic flower, Shelby reaches out to take it. It's tucked behind one ear, settled securely, then she pushes off again and lets the swing do its thing. "Y'know, when I told Mel...she told me maybe I should take a break from dating," she says after a few back and forths, her tone desert dry. "Guess that was her way of telling me to stay away from Hive. I should've known how stupid I was being. When I was in your heads. He fucking showed me. You, her. Him." "-christ." Jim hisses through his smoke, curling his arm around his hat and tossing it like a frisbee to land somewhere amongst the shoe-and-board pile of belongings. "That whole thing was a nightmare. I'd do it again, 'f Hivey needed it. He'd probably do the same. But I'll never miss the fucking lack of privacy. Uh." He prepares himself for a /real/ difficult word, "--sorry." There's a long uncomfortable creaking of chain while Jim rolls the balls of his heels on the ground, making a fraction-inch swing back, and the forward. And now it's his turn for spontaneous confession (a rare event!): "Mel 'n I've hooked up a few times since he dropped everyone from the Borg net. I dunno how Jax 'n that Micah guy /did/ it, screwin' with everyone watching all the time. But y'know. Whatever, right. So afterwards..." He shrugs, lacing his fingers between his knees. "wouldn't really say we're a /thing/. -- but she hadn't said anything t'me about Hive. I dunno. Maybe it's better she put it out there." Aw, are his teeth on edge 'cause Melinda had intended to tell Shelby before she told him? "...Least it's honest, right?" "I didn't mind so much." This admission is a quiet one. Her next is slightly more teen-bitter. "Least he /needed/ me then. Jesus." Shelby reaches up to rub at her eyes again--stupid ragweed--between giving him a red-rimmed look and a slow blink. "She...but...oh man." Some time is needed to digest that and when's had her fill of it, she breathes out in a huge, angsty gust. "...guess we all know how Bastian felt." "Ugh, kid you're gonna dodge a few million bullets if you keep 'need' down to a minimum with your personal relationships." Jim says to the warm red cinder just beneath his line of sight. "People need codependent relationships like they need a hole in the head." He fishes into the breast pocket of his hawaiian shirt, withdraws a handkerchief, shoves it somewhere in Shelby's direction, "Blow your nose." NOT said 'wipe your eyes'. Sinuses are worst on the nose. Duh. "--mmh. Doubt I could guess what 'Basti was feeling any more than he could /me/." There's a long bout of creaky-chained quiet, Jim's jaw tight, his eyes busy scanning the park. The people visible in the park. A distant lamp post that's flickering. "--I tell you something?" "Okay, he /wanted/ me then. Shut up." It is a grumpy Shelby who snatches at the handkerchief. With her arms hooked around the chain, she brings that unfortunate square of cloth towards her nose--"I didn't think anyone even carried these anymore, dude."--and blows vigorously. It is kept afterwards because omg yuck, who gives that sort of thing back. After stuffing it into her pocket, she swings and ends up looking at much the same things Jim is looking at. The quiet is, if not comfortable, at least companionable. "...sure, I guess." They're like meercats - humans are both social creatures, prone to syncopation, and /hunters/ in their hindbrain mechanics, with eyes drawn to movement. A jogger passes by, her white socks and reflective stripes on her shorts probably have both Jim /and/ Shelby glancing inevitably back towards her more than once on her route. "I was a drunk for a, uh. A pretty long ass time. In my work, you see all kindsa ugly shit. Abuse an' betrayal and heartache. Murder. The whole messy gamut of human misery, all passing over my desk. And it took it's god damn toll." He pulls in a breath, jaw tightening, "Then I got clean. Got my shit together, climbed out of the rubble and I had to wake up an' swallow the idea /everyone's/ got problems. But if you start writing yourself off the list, cause your problems aren't as /big/ as other people's problems, like its some kind of sick competition, you're /fucked/. Go home. You're done. I'm not sayin' those twins don't need all the backup they can get. I'd take a /bullet/ for either of them. Or anyone else in those fucking apartments up there." He turns towards Shelby, spearing his eye contact into hers, "But I don't for a minute think I'm any /less/ just 'cause my problems aren't /their/ problems. You /got/ reasons t'be upset, kiddo. You're dealin' with some serious heavy shit, way more than I had to when I was your age. Cut /yourself/ some slack while your at it, huh?" Shelby does indeed track the jogger on her way. But when Jim begins to talk, her gaze strays his way and when he makes the effort to /hold/ her eyes--prolonged eye contact not being a strength of hers--they stay. For awhile. At least until she's reduced to blinking rapidly and scowling at the ground again. "If I sat around thinking about all that bullshit, I'd never get anything done," she mutters, voice thickening. "Don't even fucking start, okay? Ain't no one got time for that. It's just...stupid kid shit anyway, right? It's just." Time to sniff again, and drag the hankie out to abuse it some more. Damn it, Jim. She's a hoodlum, not a crybaby. "Hey." OH GOD. "Look." Jim pats his lap awkwardly, opening up an arm. "C'mere." "Fuck you," Shelby retorts. Some of the impact is lessened courtesy of the phlegm in her throat and nose, but the intent is clear. Except after a last honk on the handkerchief, she slides off of the swing and steps over. Purely to stuff the soggy scrap of cloth back into his pocket, mind. And maybe lean against the ribs exposed by a raised arm. /No/ lap sitting though. "If I get stupid again. About anything. Just...kick me. Or something. Okay?" "Til you're bruised," Jim promises, flop-folding an arm around her. It's not terribly gentle or practiced, just kind of clamps down like a boobytrap and mashes her up against his side. Squish. Um. Thump. That's his other arm joining it, for just a moment. He's a big guy; it's like getting buried alive - just less painful. Very firm. "It's gonna suck for a while, right?" He mutters into her hair. "Just stick it through." Shelby is no more graceful in accepting being smushed. First she's sniffing, then she's grunting and squirming like a trapped puppy before finally just /giving in/. /Fine/. Hmph. "When /doesn't/ it suck," she mumbles, voice squished somewhere around his shoulder. "I was taking care of myself before any of you happy assholes showed up." Double hmph. But after the grumbles are gone and she's taken a few clotted breaths, she's able to admit, "Wish something would go right for once." "Yeah." Jim intones, dryly. "You and me both, princess." He drops a hand onto her hooded head and just kind of -- scrubs at it. Then leans forward to push her up to her feet. "You crashing with the doctor, or you need a couch?" "Ugh," Shelby says of the scrubbing, but otherwise no protest is made. Once upright again, she gives her nose a last clearing sniff and looks off into the middle distance, like none of that just happened. "Doc, I guess. No offense but your couch smells." "Hey. Hive's never complained," Because Hive is also a BACHELOR. Jim is apparently all on board with This Never Happened, also hauling himself to his feet and wandering over to his belongings after disentangling all the little root systems he'd been giving out and pulling them back into his hair man feet. He goes about cramming his feet into his flip flops, swiping up his floral hat and whomping it down onto Shelby's head. ADORNED. "You got cab fare?" All she has to say to /that/ is...well, nothing. Shelby snorts instead, bending to grab her board and tuck it beneath her arm. The impact of hat to head earns him a smack to the ribs--RETALIATED--before she sets off to unmulched ground, where her wheels will roll properlike. "Hell no. You're springing for it. Or the subway," she says over the clack of wheels hitting pavement. "I can't believe I fucking helped Mel get you into bed...and she does /this/. Jesus." Jim shoves his hands into his pants pockets as he walks more leisurely behind Shelby, "-- wait, what." "Wrapped or unwrapped," Shelby quotes. She gets her feet up on the board and rolls slowly ahead, hat slipping to a rakish angle on her hood. "She was bitching about how she didn't know how to get you to stick around. So I helped." "Wait, that was /you/?" Jim's voice raises in the evening parktime quiet. A bum sitting back on one of the benches raises his head part ways, then lowers again. Jim is rapidly running through his mind everything he'd texted that evening, trying to think of what he'd said to a /kid/, oh shit, "Why the fuck was she -- what was she saying?" Bristle. /Hedgehog/-esque bristling! "You think I'm lying? She slap you on the ass? I told her to. Figured you'd like it." At least she has the manners to not ask if he /did/ like it. Shelby adjusts her balance, sending the board on a lazy zigzag across the path. "I dunno...how she was thinking too much about it, and that maybe you didn't wanna do it as much 'cause you were old or something. I guess she thought you weren't into her." "Y'know, just stop," Jim claps a hand against the side of his face, peeking between a ring and pinky finger, "saying /words/. God damn it. I get it. Alright." Where Shelby zigsags on her board, he walks straight up the middle, like he's unzipping her work. He'll walk with her for a ways, snipping and communicating gruffly, until it's time to cram her into a cab. Then, who knows. Maybe he'll go stare wistfully at bar front windows before hoofing it home. Where he'll eat a SANDWICH.