ArchivedLogs:Transplants and Lifers

Transplants and Lifers
Dramatis Personae Dan, Melinda	2013-02-09 Melinda has to get out of the house, and winds up in Dan's favorite bar.
Location <NYC> Molly's Pub - Lower East Side
This bar is literally a hole in the wall that is the Lower East Side. Grimy tables litter the small common room, nearly pushed up against the small bar in the corner. On the mirror behind the bar, a greasy menu has been taped, with a small offering of pub food to purchase. A jukebox, at least forty years old, sits in the corner, an 'out of order' sign on its cracked glass face. This is a bar to come to when you want to drink to forget, or maybe pick a fight. Certainly the crowd looks rough enough to oblige the latter, and the booze is cheap enough to indulge the former. Molly's Pub is one of those places where people don't really talk to each other. Rather, it is a place to come and drink heavily. Like Dan is doing, according to the row of empty shot glasses that stand in front of him on the bar like good soldiers. Soldiers that get toasted with the longneck beer bottle in his hands, an act that is heavy with sarcasm. His scarred face twists with some emotion, and he takes a long pull of his beer, thumping his finger against the bar. The bartender, a very Archie Bunker-looking fellow, gives the man in the security guard uniform a dirty look, but places another shot of cheap-smelling whiskey on the bar, sniffing as he takes the five that Dan flicks at him with a tight grin. At a table, a couple of rowdy-looking fellows are in a heated argument about current events, or at least the most current events. "I bet this snow is something a mutie did," one growls, slamming his hand on the table. "Didn't I tell you that thing the other day wouldn't be the end of things?" "You're a dumbass, Frankie," his fellow replies. "They've been predicting this storm for days. You think a mutant was behind it?" "Maybe," Frankie says, glaring at his friend. "Maybe one of them freaks on the West Coast sent it out this way, as some sort of warning or brotherhood or something." His friend throws his hands up in the air, forgoing the argument in favor of finishing his drink. Neither man sees Dan smile. Melinda enters the bar because there are so very few things open after the colossal snow that smashed into New York City the night before. She is less sherpa-like than her last excursion on account of the proximity to home and the fact that the snow is rather stuck in one place instead of whipping around in the atmosphere. She gives the bar a long look before finding an open spot and moving in close, leaning against the bar and waiting on the bartender. Her eyes examine those to her right and left before she orders three shots and a draught beer. Dan glances over at the woman who joins him at the bar, and his mouth pulls to one side as he listens to her order. "Careful. Fred there will give you the most rotgut stuff he can. Your stomach will hate you for it." He drains his shot, and chases it with a swallow of beer. "Just so you know." He taps the bar again, indicating his readiness for another. "Oh? Do you have any recommendations?" Melinda turns to give Dan a little more of her attention. "I'm not against sampling the local fare, but it would be nice to not have my stomach lining dissolve." She smiles a little and fiddles with a coaster. Her hair is swept into a tie at the base of her neck, but sections keep falling into her face. She hooks the left side and tucks it behind her ear. "Jim Beam," is Dan's response, and he offers a tight smile as he regards the woman. "Can't go wrong with Jimmy." He nods to Fred, who scowls, and complies, pulling out a bottle of Jim Beam and filling four shot glasses, sliding one towards Dan, who toasts the man with a wider smile. "Don't eat the food, though." He sets the empty glass on the counter, and cradles his beer in one hand, his fingers idly pulling at the label. "Nasty night for being out," he notes. "Too nasty to land in this dump, unless you just have to." "Ah, One of the Js. Always a good call. Won't kill ya, but will definitely get you drunk." Melinda nods appreciatively as she lifts her first glass, twirling it lightly in her fingertips before shooting it back like a pro. Her throat is tight and burning for a few seconds and she gasps for air, but the end result is a smile. "It has been far too long since I've done that." She smiles to herself and remembers Dan's words. "I had to. Couldn't be inside my apartment one more minute. Everyone was getting stir crazy and one roommate was having a shag-a-thon to kill time. The walls, my dear sir, are paper thin. One can only take so much thumping." Dan seems impressed by the way the woman handles her whiskey, and he salutes the slamming of the shot with a raise of his beer bottle. "Jimmy'll do right by you," he grunts, and takes a swig, flicking bits of label onto the surface of the bar. The story gets a bark of laughter. "Tell me about it," he says. "I've been stuck at work for the last twenty-four hours. I couldn't /wait/ to get out and come and have a drink or seven." He offers an actual flash of teeth for the roommate story. "Don't get a thrill listening in?" he asks, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Don't blame you. I got enough of that shit in the military. No more roommates for me." "Ah, but the military pension is what keeps you roommate free, right?" Melinda shakes her head and exhales, knocking back the second shot and finally taking a swig of her chaser to keep it down. "I don't have that luxury yet, so I'm still stuck in the roommate years. And no - no contact high from the boot knocking," she purses her lips contemplatively. "Kind of hard to remotely fantasize about their sex when you've had to clean the mess they leave in the bathroom." The laugh Dan utters is harsh and hard-sounding, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. "I wish," he says, staring at his beer bottle with a small tightening of his jaw. "I only got to keep the VA medical. No pension on an honorable discharge." He lifts a shoulder, exhaling a long slow rush of air. "Still, I remember what it was like, coming in to find your roommate getting busy." He wrinkles his nose. "Whatever you've found in your bathroom, I've seen worse on the floor of my billet." His mouth tightens briefly before it relaxes into something close to a smile. "Dan," he says, holding up his beer in introduction. "Ohhh. I'm sure it was nasty. Kept you from thinking any of them were porn stars in your head, right, even if you didn't have that aversion to their partners?" Melinda's tough talk is somewhat hindered by the sound of her voice, a little nasal with none of the usual slurred words. "Sorry to hear of your non-pension - and your medical care. I guess it's better than nothing. Maybe." She sips her beer. "You hear things about military medical - even as a civilian." Dan laughs, this one less hard-sounding, with a bit of richness to it. "Oh, trust me," he says. "All the porn star goes right out of a man when you've seen him squatting to take a shit in a ditch." He closes one eye in a solemn wink. "But they did bring home some pretty hot chicks." Dan's voice is also unslurred, despite the row of shot glasses, although his eyes are red-rimmed and his nose is starting to take on color. "VA isn't /too/ bad, for me," he admits. "All I get is counseling and some follow-ups on my eye." His thumb jerks to his face, and a shadow flickers across his expression before it lowers. "Still. It's hard on the guys who need full-time recovery." His gaze lingers on the woman, then, and his tongue snakes out to wet his lips in a furtive sort of gesture. "So, you live around here?" "Close enough, I suppose," Melinda replies, cagily, not making eye contact with Dan after the personal question - not at first at least. "Felt like I walked for hours to find the place though. It's not like someone's posting billboards of what places are open, you know. Wouldn't that be nice though?" She smiles and lifts her last shot, deciding to take a sip off the top instead. "I could really go for some greasy Mexican, but hell if I know where an open shop is and don't want to be marching around all of Manhattan to find it. How about you?" Dan's mouth pulls tight, although the smile doesn't fade. New York women. He snorts a sound that might be a laugh, and shrugs. "I called Fred," he admits. "That's how I knew he was open. Been coming here for years." The question causes something mischevious to gleam, and his expression goes innocent. "Me? I'm sorry," he says with a shake of his head. "I don't really know any greasy Mexicans. There's an Italian guy on my crew who like his product, though." "Oh, good lord. You're still thinking about sex." Melinda rolls her eyes and shoots back her last shot, chin twitching against the discomfort in her throat. "I'm talking about food. Burritos. Nachos piled a half foot high with cheese and beef that's been stewing in a mystery seasoning for more than 24 hours. I'm talking jalapenos that sting with vinegar more than heat." She takes a long pull off her beer. "I'm hungry and you talk to me about hair product. Ugh." "You started it," Dan rumbles, pinching the last of his label from his bottle and dropping it to the bar. "Talking about your horny roommates." He flashes a wider grin, and closes one eye thoughtfully. "That /does/ sound good, though. I could go for some disgusting nachos." He holds up a hand as Fred approaches with a fresh beer. "And not what /you/ call nachos, Fred. Velveeta and fritos is not /food/." He wrinkles his nose. "I think that Garcia's Bodega y Cucina delivers," he says, fishing in his pocket for his phone. "They're just around the corner." "Fred'll let you order food here?" Melinda asks Dan but ends up looking at the bartender, her brows rising. "Damn." She drinks down more beer. "Hey, Fred, if I ever lose my job, I'm coming here to take over your kitchen." "Sure," Dan says, even as Fred nods and moves to take fresh beers to the two men still talking heatedly about mutants and freak weather. "Fred's been pals with my dad since I was a kid. He might even sell me this place one day." "Not likely," Fred says, his voice the gravelly rasp of a lifetime smoker. "Might inherit it, though." Dan grins, and winks at Melinda while he dials. "Either way," he grunts, and raises the phone to his ear. "Hello? Who is this? Maria?" He grins. "This is Dan Rourke. I'm here at Molly's. How's your pop?" He listens, and nods as though it were a video phone or Skype. "That's great. Tell him my dad's waiting for him to come back to poker night, okay?" He laughs, and shakes his head. "Listen, Maria, we're starving over here. You guys delivering?" He listens, and his face brightens. "Awesome." He flicks his gaze to the woman at the bar, and nods. "So, send over a large plate of Cinco Nachos, and a couple of your beef burritos with queso." He listens a moment longer, and nods. "Yeah. Extra jalapenos, and chips and salsa, too. You know what Fred's food's like." There's another laugh, and he shakes his head again. "Yeah. Okay. We'll see him in a bit, then. Bye." He clicks the phone off with a beeping noise, and sets it on the bar. "There. Be about twenty minutes or so." "Damn. And that is what you call a life long New Yorker." Melinda's tone is rife with admiration. "You have something I could only dream of acquiring." She smiles and leans against the counter, knuckles holding her head up. Somebody's a lightweight! "I know the city. I can get around. I know how to find things, but you, sir, you... You are New York. It pumps within your heart and is in your bones. How did you ever get by in the Military? Weren't you just itching to get back the entire time?" Dan ducks his head in a show of modesty, and he offers a small grin. "You'll get there," he says. "I know a few transplants who get around like lifers. It just takes time." He wrinkles his nose at the question, offering a small glare at Fred as the older man snorts and moves off. "I wasn't in a big hurry to get back," he admits. "Not at first. After a couple of years overseas, though...." He reaches up and rub a thumb under his scar with a thoughtful stare at his untouched beer. "It's good to be home," he says, shifting into another grin, and lifting his bottle in salute. Then he frowns. "What's your name?" he asks, suddenly. "Mel." Melinda offers simply, smiling. "You are going to share some of those nachos with me, right? I can split the bill, or buy you another beer for your connection." She turns a little more on her stool to face him. She lifts her glass to drink, still only about halfway through the liquor. She looks up and over at Fred, pushing two of the shot glasses forward. "Can I get some more Jimmy? And perhaps another for Dan here?" "I ordered enough for the whole damned bar," Dan quips, although it's just the five bodies in here, at the moment. "Garcia's nachos are way over-piled, and probably what you're looking for." He smiles and nods his thanks at the offer of more whiskey, although Fred only puts one shot glass on the bar in front of Melinda, and fills it. "He's had enough," the older man grunts. "Beer only, from now on. He's sleeping in the storeroom as it is." Dan makes a face, and cheerfully gives Fred the bird. "The only drawback to knowing a bartender your entire life," he says with a mournful pull of his mouth. "But thanks for the offer." "I see, I see. I bet you have a cot with his name on it by now. Does he have to do his laundry once a month too - or do you clean his sheets?" Strangely enough, Melinda sounds more as if she's verifying actual facts to build a more complete picture rather than teasing either of the two men. She takes her shot glass and thanks the man before tossing back the whiskey and making a 'nyaah' noise. She chases the beer and raises her brows. "It's probably best to know the bartender. I should know more bartenders. I know that when I sling coffee, I always make better drinks for people I know. Must work the same way with alcohol." Fred grunts in amusement, winking at Melinda as he moves off. Dan, however, looks a bit offended. "I'm clean," he protests. "Being a drunk doesn't necessarily mean you're a slob." His offended look doesn't last, fading in a flash of a grin. "Fred never has to clean up after me," he says. "Although he feels the need to lock up the booze, for some reason." He takes another swallow of beer, rolling it in his mouth before he actually swallows audibly. "You work at a coffee shop?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. "That's cool. I don't have the patience for all that half-caf, light foam, extra cinnamon shit." He motions at the bar. "That's why I'll take over here, one day. Simple. Beer and whiskey. Nothing fancy." He tilts his head. "Which coffee shop?" "A super fancy one in Soho. I'd brag, but I'm kind of in hot water with the owner right now and kind of want to not talk about it." Melinda sighs and shakes her head. "You should try one of the fancy ones though. I figure you for a 'black eye.'" She takes a sip before continuing. "It's a plain black coffee - sometimes french pressed which makes it smoother - with a full shot of espresso mixed in. Sooo much caffeine, so much rich coffee flavor." She smiles dreamily, licking her lips at the thought. "Punches you in the face like a black eye." Dan grins a bit at the confession, and lifts his shoulder. "Hey, everyone has troubles at work, sometimes," he says, although he doesn't pursue the question of why Mel is in hot water. Instead, he wrinkles his nose thoughtfully at the coffee drink. "That sounds good, actually," he admits. "I've always liked my coffee strong; sounds like that would just about do the trick." He chuckles, and glances up as the door rattles. Not the food, though, as whoever (or whatever) is is keeps moving on. "I've been punched a lot, though. It would have to have some kick to it." "Oh, but not a literal punch, because ... wow. I don't think I could drink a liquid that actually physically punched me. It'd be worried something weird would be in it, or it wouldn't be healthy, you know? Like scientist microbes or nano-robots." Melinda shakes her head. "Nah, it's just all the caffeine and a nose full of heavenly earthy brew - unless you get Starbucks, because they burn their beans. It's like acting tough when you're not actually tough." Mel certainly has her prejudices. Dan laughs. "You're drinking whiskey," he points out. "That's a liquid that can physically punch you in the gut, if not the actual eye." He shakes his head, and leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar. "I don't go for that Starbucks stuff,' he says. "It's all hipster yuppie masturbation. 'Look how cool I am -- I only drink fancy Ugandan coffee with soy milk'." He snorts, and rolls his eyes. "When did that even start? Fancy coffee?" He sighs. "Remember when the fanciest coffee you could think of was General Foods International coffees? That was nice." "Fine fine fine," Melinda replies, shaking her head. "I guess I just think that punching is entirely to do with fist shaped things and skins, not my intestines dissolving because I drank rotgut." She finishes off her beer but stays where she is. She giggles at his impression and wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, that's about right. Have you seen the plastic reusable cups that look exactly like paper cups? Those are hilarious. If you want info, ask your Italian friend with too much product. The Italians have been been super brewing coffee longer than either of us have been alive." Dan grins. "Nah. He wouldn't know good coffee from his ass, if you held a gun to his head." He chuckles, and glances at the door, where a young Hispanic man is entering with a large paper sack of food. "Oh, there's Raymond," he says, and grins as the young man approaches them, fishing out his wallet. "Hey, Ray. Tell your sister thanks for this," he says, thumbing out three twenties and handing them to the boy. "And tell her I'll come around in the next couple of days to check that furnace, since your dad's still laid up." The young man bobs his head, and his fingers weave a response in the air. Dan watches intently, and shakes his head. "No. I'll come by. Don't mess with it." He claps the teenager on the shoulder, and nudges him towards the door. "Now go." The teen grins, and disappears into the windy street with a wave over his shoulder. Dan turns back to the bar, and opens the bag. "I hope you were serious about being hungry," he says to Melinda. "'Cause there's a lot, and this shit is nasty for breakfast." "Oh Yes! Definitely." Melinda moves closer, excitedly waiting for the opening of the package, eyes wide and perhaps a little crazed. She is as helpful as she can be, grabbing whatever Dan hands over to her and opening it for everyone to partake in. "Yeah, I can only imagine. This stuff loses its appeal when the fat finally congeals." The package contains a plethora of delicious-smelling styrofoam packages, the first of which the lid is barely contained on. This is the one that Dan opens first, revealing a mound of nachos that could feed four, easily. The chips are fresh-looking, drowning in cheese and piled high with beans, meat, tomato, and onion. In the middle, a happy trio of guacamole, sour cream, and pico de gallo offer dipping choices. Dan slides the container closer to Mel as he fishes out another container, this one less-strained looking and lighter, judging by the way he handles it. "You'll like this," he says with a small smile. "Maria does most of the cooking, and she's a miracle in the kitchen. Her husband's waistline is testament to that." He opens the new container, revealing more chips and a styrofoam cup of thick salsa. "Dig in," he says, as he pulls out the other two containers. "Fred, grab us some paper towels, yeah?" Melinda needs no second bidding. She reaches in to the magical food jenga and pulls out a chip that has pretty much everything on it, fingers working carefully to move that chip from the mound to her mouth with every tasty bit intact. She stuffs it in her maul and chews, cheeks puffed up to keep everything inside while she masticates, pleasant noises rumbling in her throat. "oh... my ... stars. This, this is amazing. Perfect." Dan grins as he pulls out the final item: a small cup that, when opened, reveals a generous portion of jalapenos that assaults the nose with the sharp tang of vinegar and pepper. "Told ya," he says, reaching over to fish a chip out for himself, with less tomato on it, and pushing it into his mouth. He mimicks Melinda's happy noise, albeit in a deeper register. "Man, Maria outdid herself," he admits around the mouthful. "Her old man would be proud." He swallows, and chases the food with a swig of beer. When Fred returns with the paper towels, he grabs one, holding it out to Melinda politely. "So, where are you from?" Polite dinner conversation, ftw. "Thank you, kind sir," Melinda feigns a dainty demeanor as she picks up the paper towel with two fingers, pinky extended for further elegance. She lays it in her lap and digs into the nachos with more gusto. "I am a true believer and will be frequenting her shop from now on." She munches another chip and dips a third in the guacamole. "I'm from the midwest, a nothing town in Toledo. Left the family behind to pursue my future in New York City and only visit in the summer for the Fourth." She inhales the guac coated chip and looks over at Dan. "Where specifically are you from? This your only neighborhood?" Dan smiles behind his paper towel as he wipes his mouth, and places it in his lap with a pat. "Ohio, huh? There was a guy in my platoon who was from Cleveland. He was also not a fan of the state," He grins, and grabs another chip, placing some jalapenos on it before popping it into his mouth. "I'm from Brooklyn," he says when his mouth is clear. "But I live in Clinton, now. I work about five blocks north of here, so I guess this is one of my neighborhoods, too." He smiles, and wrinkles his nose as the heat of the peppers hits him with a bright blossom of red in his cheeks. "How long have you lived in the city?" he asks. "And what's New York mean to your future?" He looks the woman over. "You're not an actress, are you?" He says this like he might ask if she was contagious. Melinda laughs. "I thought I was until I got here. Ohio - man. You think you're something cool when you're there, but you don't realize that it is so full of boring people with boring jobs that the slightest bit of talent looks like gold." She shakes her head and picks up a pepper and puts it on top of her next cheesy chip. "But in the end? No. I work with coffee now and food service and dream of restaurants." She stops talking once she starts chewing again. mmmmm. Chips. <Citizens> Iolaus has disconnected. Dan shakes his head. "Yeah, New York is filled with would-be actors," he says with a sympathetic grin. "They don't realize they're fighting with all of the art schools up here that specialize in churning that shit out." He grins, and grabs up a plain chip, scooping a healthy amount of salsa out. "So, you want to own a restaurant?" He smiles a bit, and tilts his head. "And I want to own a bar. Huh." He pops the chip into his mouth, and chews slowly. "Maybe you should go in on this place with me, and class up the menu." Fred makes a noise at this, but otherwise offers no argument. It is what it is. "A girl needs investment capital first and there isn't a soul on this island that wants to front me that kind of cash - legally, with reasonable interest rates." Melinda leans her cheek upon her hand again. "It's a long term goal. Right now, I'm play covert spy and just learning all the ins and outs of how the restaurant I work at is run so I don't have to experiment on my dime." She munches on a small chip. "Is that why you're always here? Learning the ins and outs?" "The ins and outs of a bottle," Fred mutters, and moves to the table where the argument is starting to /really/ pick up steam. He doesn't say a word, just grabs the two men by their collars and hauls them to the door. "Night, gentlemen," he says, and pushes them out the door gently. "Go home to your wives." Dan winces at the comment from Fred, and grimaces, reaching for another chip -- this one stacked with a bit of everything. "Partly," he says. "Also, my apartment is really small and lonely. Fred may not be /pretty/, but he's good company." "It's only that way because you want it lonely," Fred mutters as he clears the vacated table. Dan flushes, and shoots the older man a dirty look before cotinuing. "But, yeah. I want to learn as much as I can so I don't lose my shirt when Fred finally lets me take over." "You better be washing glasses or bouncing some of those grumblers if you're hoping to inherit a full bar," Melinda teases, continuing to eat. "Or are you actually getting him to buy it on the daily plan, Fred?" "I do my share," Dan says with a grin, also eating heartily. The nachos seem to be magic, though, as they're just not diminishing. At least at first. "Fred's selling this place to me, one glass at a time." The older man laughs at this, moving back behind the bar and dunking the glasses in the sink. "He thinks he's smart, because he moves the kegs," Fred says to Melinda, rolling his eyes. "Like he's doing an old man a favor." "Hey," Dan protests, crinkling his eyes at Melinda. "I do plenty around here. Who fixed your sink last week? Or your cooler the week before that?" He sniffs. "I've already bought this place in what I've saved Fred in repair bills over the years." He grins, and slides one of the still-closed boxes towards his dinner companion. "Try the burrito," he says. "Before it gets cold." He opens his own container, which holds a fat burrito swimming in cheese sauce riddled with chunks of tomatoes, onions, and peppers. He looks up, mouth falling open just as Fred sets two forks on the bar. Melinda pulls the burrito box over, opens it, and eyes it like wounded prey on the tundra. She thanks Fred for the fork and readies her weapon. She digs in. "Oh, this is glorious!" she half moans around a mouthful. "This is amazing - best night out in a long time. Thank you! Thank you both!" She keeps digging in, trading stories with the pair of older individuals while drinking down beers - and eventually water as she eats through the greasy delights. "Oh, I am coming back here again soon." "Good," Dan says, watching Melinda eat with a small smile. "This place could use a pretty girl." And outside, the snowpocalypse continues, heedless of the warmth and conversation going on in the tiny pub. Ah, New York.