ArchivedLogs:Never Say No to a Free Lunch

Never Say No to a Free Lunch
Dramatis Personae Trib, Micah	29 June 2013 Thrift shops and discoveries!
Location <NYC> Thrift Shop
Not as flashy as a Salvation Army or Goodwill store, this thrift shop still offers good bargains on everything from dishes and furniture to outdated electronic equipment. It might not be the best-looking inventory to be found, but it's all of it in good working condition and, more importantly, cheaper than the bigger charity shop. Sectioned off into individual function, the shop offers no carts to aid the shopper, but any of the young-looking staff will be happy to hold your purchases until you've finished shopping. It's very hard to furnish an apartment, when your only source of income has temporarily dried up. It takes a certain skill and finesse, which Trib is not exactly brimming with. But, he's managed to get /some/ money together, and so tonight finds him seeing what he can manage at this shop. Dressed in jeans and a sleeveless grey t-shirt, the big man prowls up and down the aisle, glaring at the various things to be found there as if their mere existence is somehow an affront to his aesthetic tastes. Tastes which apparently include a battered card table and a lawn chair, both held in his left hand effortlessly as he studies a stack of plates that have been carefully shrink-wrapped together in a stack. Micah has, fortunately, brought his own bag for holding purchases as he goes. It is a medium, eggplant-purple duffel bag of the type people might use to tote athletic gear to a game. The strap cuts crosswise across his jade green button-down shirt, leaving the bag to hang by his denim-clad hip. The bag has been put to good use already, with a few bulkier items pushing at its sides. He is currently gathering up towels by some algorithm other than what matches, because the patterns he selects seem to be entirely random. One towel is held up toward the light to determine how whole-or-worn it might be. As he lowers it for folding and placing in the bag, he catches sight of Trib across the aisle in the kitchenwares. "Afternoon!" he calls over with a smile, waving the towel like a tiny flag. The cheery greeting catches Trib's attention, and he looks up, his gaze locking on the redhead and the waving towel almost immediately. There's a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and the side of his mouth lifts a bit. "Afternoon," he rumbles, abandoning the plates to drift closer to Micah. "I didn't expect to run into anyone I knew /here/," he says with a chuckle. He lifts his half-hand to wag a finger at the other man good-naturedly. "You realize this ain't doin' nothin' to clear you of that stalking claim you made." It might be a tease; it could just be a statement of of fact. Whatever motivation was behind it is lost as he drops his gaze to the purple bag and its mysterious contents. "How've you been?" Micah giggles at the good-natured accusation. "At least you can rest assured that, if I am a stalker, I'm about the least adept one ever. Since I'm pretty much doin' the opposite of bein' sneaky about my presence." The towel gets tucked in with the other wares. "I'm actually just stockin' up on some things for friends as aren't able to get about in public in the current climate." He gestures toward the front door with a tilt of his head, pretty much indicating /out there/. "Linens an' some random requests. Had a few books'n board games super cheap today, too. People gotta be gettin' stir-crazy the longer this goes on." He picks up another towel to inspect, finally answering the question Trib had posed. "I'm doin' well enough, all things considered. You holdin' up?" "Yeah, you're pretty bad at it," Trib agrees, leaning over to inspect the towels, himself. "But then, I ain't exactly someone that elusive. You could stand a block away and probably see /me/ comin'." He picks up a fluffy-looking blue towel, and holds it up to the light and twisting it in careful inspection. "That's nice of you," he says of Micah's samaritanism, and shakes his head slowly. "Yeah, its' gettin' rough for folks out there," he says. "I feel bad for the ones that have to stayed holed up like that." He lifts a shoulder at the question, and wrinkles his nose. "I'm doin' all right, I guess,' he says. "I got an apartment, but my job's closed down 'till all this blows over. So I'm tryin' to make every dime stretch as far as it can." He holds up the card table and chair and smirks. "I don't see me throwin' any fancy dinner parties any time soon, though." Micah looks /up/ at Trib, as if gaging something. "How tall /are/ you, anyhow? Keep makin' friends with folks as make me feel tiny, an' I ain't even /that/ short, really." He returns the towel he had been looking at, checking another in its place. "Least I can do. Folks had it hard enough before it became near-impossible." He perks a bit at the mention of Trib's finding an apartment. "Good on you! Always nice t'finally have a place to settle into. Not so good on the job front, though. They shut down the whole business over this craziness, too? Mmn. I hope they can get their doors open soon. You been lookin' around for other things in the meantime, or just tryin' to wait this thing out?" Micah's lips curl in a bit of a playful smirk. "Fancy parties are overrated. Much rather get people together with random food an' some group games, myself." "Six eight," Trib answers as he smiles down at the redhead. "I'm almost too tall for the ring. If I wasn't a heavyweight, I probably couldn't compete." He slaps his chest his with his half-hand. "But I make most people feel short," he says. "I don't know where I get it from. My dad's only a little taller than you." He chuffs a laugh at the congratulations, or maybe it's the question about his work. "My boss is kind of a well-known mutant," he says with another lift of his shoulders. "So, I don't know how soon he'll be opening back up. My dad gave me some money, but I'm probably gonna have to look for something pretty soon." He wrinkles his nose, clearly unhappy with something about that statement. "Food an' games are fun," he says. "I ain't really got a bunch of people to do that shit with right now, but they are fun." He waggles his fingers in the air. "What games do you like? I like Risk, An' Axis an' Allies. Those are pretty kick-ass." Micah just shakes his head at that. "You gotta have some kinda tall grandparent out there somewhere, or somethin'. Man." He crinkles his nose at the explanation of well-known mutant status keeping the business closed. "Yeah, there's a bakery I go to...keeps gettin' vandalized for employin' an' bein' a safe space for the genetically enhanced crowd. I mean...how d'you go after /cupcakes/?" A last, boldly-flowered towel is added to the pile in Micah's bag and he finally stops picking at new ones. He seems inclined just to loiter in the aisle a bit unless Trib indicates a need to look for things in another spot. "It can be a little tough, adjustin' to a new place. 'Specially when you're havin' financial troubles." His tone is coloured more with experience than with simple sympathy. "War game type, eh? I generally don't get into Risk unless I'm plannin' on spendin' /forever/ at it. Let's see, Catan, Small World, 7 Wonders are all standbys. Lots of assorted card games...especially ones that get kind of ridiculous. Actually prefer table-top RPGs to anythin', but that's a lot harder to throw together quickly. Or do in bigger groups. Pretty much just mix it up a lot, really." "Maybe." The blue towel gets draped over Trib's shoulder, and a second, bright-red towel follows. "I don't really remember my mom's side of the family. They could be a bunch of tall fuckers." A couple of handcloths are found (neither matching the towels) before the big man eases down the aisle, probably dragging Micah along in his gravitational wake. "I ain't new to the city," he says with a grunt of a laugh. "I've lived here for a couple of years. I'm just tryin' to rebuild my life." It's stated matter-of-factly as the big man moves to where blankets and quilts are stacked neatly. "Which ain't exactly all that different." He listens as Micah lists his preferred games, and his eyes narrow briefly. "Yeah...I don't know what most of that means," he confesses. "Except 'card games'. I can play the hell out of some cards." He reaches out to dig through a stack of quilts, inspecting them carefully. "What're those others you were talkin' about?" Micah nods along with the family explanation. "That seems the most likely thing, then. Just took after the taller side." He trails after the larger man like a good little satellite, having finished with gathering his own goods. "It does amount to much the same thing," he muses in a distracted tone, Trib's comment only further fuelling a particular suspicion. "That's kinda the standard reaction of the non-gamer world, not to worry. They're...kinda combinations of board and card games. No point in goin' into all the details of the individual things right now, or that's all you'll get to hear about the rest of the day," Micah adds with a grin. "RPGs are roleplayin' games. If people have heard about anythin', it's usually Dungeons and Dragons. So...like that, but the rules and settings are different from system to system. Tend toward fantasy and sci-fi themes. Can be modern or futuristic, too. Not everythin' is all medieval-settin' high fantasy like D&D. So y'can get a good variety there, too." Micah's teeth meet with his lower lip for a moment as he pauses, finally letting a lingering question surface. His tone is softer. "You ain't gotta answer this if you don't wanna, but... You been talkin' about rebuildin'. An' mentioned Jax helpin' you out, the other night. Were you involved in that mess in Chinatown, too?" Trib /doesn't/ answer, for a moment, keeping his gaze on the quilt clutched between his fingers. His jaw tightens, just a bit, and he slides his gaze towards Micah in consideration. "If you're askin' if I was part of them mutant fights," he says finally. "Yeah, I was." The quilt is deemed unsuitable, and the big man takes another step forward, twitching a baby-blue afghan open to perhaps check for stains. "But I don't know what you mean, 'too'," he grunts. "I don't remember your shinin' face around the cages." A slow nod provides an answer in the affirmative. That /was/ what Micah was asking. “No, not me. Just...too many folks. Jax's boys. Friends of theirs. Friends of mine. Took us way too long t'find 'em an' get 'em out. T'get all of you out.” His fingers slide along the strap of his bag in a purposeless, fidgety motion. “They also liberated some...funds...from the operation. Been usin' 'em to try to help folks get back on their feet after. If things get too rough, let us know, okay? 'Cause they messed up you all's lives in more ways'n I could or care to count. An' sometimes that needs helpin'.” Trib's mouth presses into almost non-existence as Micah explains, and there's a shift of his jaw that sounds like marble sliding against marble. "There were too many kids," he rumbles, his eyes darkening. "I'm just glad they all got out okay." He exhales heavily, through his nose in an ironic sort of noise. "Well, safe, anyway." The revelation of the possible monetary assistance gets a lift of his eyebrows. "Really?" he asks, his eyes crinkling suddenly. "So, you guys robbed those fuckers, on top of takin' their toys?" /That/ earns a bark of laughter. "Fuckin' serves 'em right, the sick fucks." “Too many kids,” Micah echoes in solemn agreement. “Well, is it robbin' t'take somethin' from somebody that didn't really belong to them in the first place? Just...puttin' it back with the rightful owners, really. If it belongs to anybody, it's you all.” He catches his fingers up in his hair. “Weren't me as did that, either. Can't take credit. I just...drove a van. Provided some first aid. Was an extra pair of hands around the clinic for a bit. Nothin' like what the others got themselves into.” "Well, they thought it was theirs, so I guess /technically/ you could call it robbin'," Trib says, reaching up to scrub a finger along his ruined nose. "But, I like your way of lookin' at it better." His fingers twitch, and he falls silent for a long moment. "I could definitely use some money," he says softly. "It'd be nice to not have to worry about rent for a month or two." He makes a noise at Micah's dismissal, and offers a hard look. "You fuckin' did /somethin'/," he growls. "Which is more than anyone else did, as far as I know. My fuckin' dad didn't even know I was missin'." The afghan is also deemed unacceptable, and when he flips it closed again, it's an irritated sort of motion. "So, don't give me that 'oh I didn't do that much' bullshit, 'cause it ain't true." “I'll talk to the guys that're holdin' on to it, see what we can do,” Micah offers, his smile creeping back slowly as a chastised cat. Trib's growl doesn't scare it off again, but does prompt a rapid bloom of red across his cheeks. “I know...it's /somethin'/. Just never feels like /enough/. With all that keeps happenin'. Because the /bad/ is so much, don't ever feel like enough good to weigh it out. Those other guys, though. Feels like they work honest-to-goodness /miracles/ sometimes. I just...can't take credit the same. For the likes of all the crazy /they're/ doin'. Is all.” Trib snorts. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he says, wrinkling his nose. "You can't ever do /enough/. There's always more work to be done. Because people, as a group, tend to fuckin' /suck/." He lifts a shoulder. "I don't know that I'm one to appreciate the 'miracle-workin' type," he rumbles, eyes crinkling slightly. "I don't really understand havin' that need to be a hero. There was a kid in the cages who kept goin' on about how he was a bona-fide superhero." He lifts a shoulder. "I don't get it. That shit's comic-book type shit." He winces as something occurs to him, and ducks his head. "Not that I ain't grateful for them folks," he amends. "Your friends sure as shit saved /my/ fuckin' palooka ass." Micah cringes at the description of the superhero kid. Because dammit, Peter! "There's a difference between workin' miracles an' lookin' for trouble. 'Specially when it's trouble you aren't even the best equipped t'handle." A sigh escapes his lips. "That comic book stuff usually ends up with more people hurt or worse." He claps Trib on the shoulder at his colourful admission. "Well, I think we're all glad for that!" he declares, though his smirk seems aimed mostly at the table of blankets before them. "You lookin' for somethin' specific? I kinda got an eye for fabric. Might be able t'help spot a thing." "Well, I don't do much of either," Trib says, missing the cringe as he examines another blanket carefully. "I've had my fill of the latter, and I ain't equipped for the former." He offers a crinkle of his eyes to let the other man know he's joking, a bit, and nods. "I imagine, if they're doin' that shit regular, there's a lot of grateful folks around," he agrees. The question gets a lift of his shoulder. "I just need something thick that won't give me bugs," he admits. "I can't afford a brand-new pillow, so I just got to make do for a while." He tugs at a particularly thick-looking blanket, his eyebrows ticking upwards as opening it reveals a big moth-eaten place. "I may be barkin' up the wrong tree, though." “Me neither,” Micah agrees with a glint of laughter in his hazel eyes. “Plenty of grateful folks, yeah. Plenty of /angry/ folks, too. Get into almost as much trouble as they solve, I sometimes think.” He scans through the piles of fabric, digging for things that have been hidden under the surface layer. “If you don't much care what it looks like, the best way to find somethin' nice'n soft is usually...” He cuts himself off to continue /burrowing/ through blankets. His fingers strike something that earns a nod as he moves to pull it out for inspection. It is a /fluffy/ quilt done up in pattern of teddy bears and rocking horses. “Baby blankets,” he finally finishes the statement. “Usually they been well-cared for. Made out of soft fabric an' washed about a million times 'til they're softer.” He spreads the blanket out over the display table to search for holes or discolouration. “An' people will get rid of them just 'cause the kids get older, not 'cause they're fallin' apart. Again...if you don't mind the patterns.” The blanket is pushed Trib-wards for a yea or nay. “You gotten lunch yet? I mean...it's late for lunch. But. I forget to eat sometimes.” "Baby blankets." Trib looks a bit startled at the input, and he wrinkles his nose. "That's a good idea." His lips quirk into a grin. "I don't mind the patterns," he says. "Hell, if push comes to shove, I can just shove 'em in a t-shirt, and boom -- instant pillow." He moves to stroke his fingers over Micah's find, and nods. "Yeah. That'll work fine. Thanks." At the question, he shakes his head. "I don't have money for fancy things like lunch," he drawls, his eyes crinkling amiably. "I was just goin' to grab some packets of ramen on the way home." His eyebrows twitch, and the side of his mouth lifts in an almost smirk. "But, I could maybe find a couple of bucks for a hot dog, if you're askin' me out." “Ugh, no. I been just settin' up an' broke an' livin' on a mostly-Ramen diet in /recent enough/ memory, m'self. I meant let me /get/ you lunch. With real vegetables an' everythin'.” Micah chuckles softly as he folds the quilt back up and deposits it in Trib's arms. “C'mon. Get this stuff checked out an' get goin'.” It doesn't sound like he's waiting for a yes or no on that! "You got yourself a deal," Trib says amiably, scooping up the blanket and following along. "I never say no to a free lunch." He flashes teeth in a half-grin. "Never."