ArchivedLogs:Waiting

Waiting
The Longest Day /Ever/.
Dramatis Personae Trib, Micah	9 June 2013 The coincidence faeries put Trib and Micah at the same restaurant. Micah is still horrible at waiting.  :( (Takes place after drinks with Mel.)
Location <NYC> IHOP
Pancakes. Not the greatest pancakes, but it's two a.m., you're probably drunk, and they're available all night long. Who would think an IHOP would be so busy at 11:30 at night? Certainly not busy enough that there's an actual /wait/ for a table. Yet, it is very busy at this particular IHOP, most of the tables occupied by a large church group having their fellowship over pancakes and coffee. As a result, the tiny lobby around the host's stand has a number of not-church-group people waiting as patiently as they can for a table to open up. Once in a while, a table will clear, and some lucky group will get called, ending their wait. But it is quite a wait. Dressed in jeans and a washed denim shirt with brown work boots, Trib sits on the small bench, looking less and less patient as other people (some he's /certain/ came in after he did) get seated and he's left to scan the menu in his hands with a hard set to his eyes. Not helping? The tinny muzak that plays in the small lobby area, pummeling those not inclined with Burt Bacharach instrumentals. IHOPs are the go-to place for food when you need it at 11:30 at night! Or so it is in Micah’s somewhat-tipsy mind as he wanders through the front door, humming to himself. His humming stops when he enters, replaced by an accusatory look at the speaker on the ceiling. Clearly the muzak-al stylings do not match the tunes in his head. Micah’s slim form is clad in a jade green button-down shirt over a pair of blue jeans that are actually in decent condition. He bee-lines it for the hostess’s podium to put his name down for a table. Trib looks up when the door opens, his face already set to GLARE the newcomer back out and thereby increase the big man's chance of getting a table. But Micah doesn't get a glare. No, he gets a small lift of eyebrows, and watched carefully through narrowed eyes as he heads to the podium. The bored-looking girl there takes Micah's name, but can't promise anything quick for /one person/; a fact she states in a voice loud enough for everyone in the lobby to hear. It might be directed at Trib, even. Seeing as he's the only solo person currently waiting. If Micah should look in his direction, he raises his half-hand to tip an imaginary hat, one corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly. “Mmhmm, thanks, y’all got nice seats over there,” Micah reassures the hostess with a nod of his head in the direction of the waiting area. Apparently nonplussed about waiting. His trip to find an empty seat brings Trib into his view, finally, and earns the big man a bright smile. “Hey, cowboy!” Micah greets with a wave, moments before plunking heavily into a chair next to him. “I keep runnin’ into you. Promise I’m not a creepy-stalker.” Trib grunts something like a laugh, and rolls a shoulder. "Sure, that's what you say," he rumbles, and his eyes narrow in what is probably intended to be a playful expression. "You boxer groupies are all alike." His nostrils flare, a bit, and he tips his head to regard the redhead. "You been out drinkin'?" he guesses in an almost amused tone, one eyebrow lifting. "Needed some pancakes to soak up the booze?" Micah giggles at Trib’s laughing…perhaps even more readily than his typical giggliness provides. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched a boxin’ match ‘cept fake ones in movies,” he admits. The question earns a nod, and an index finger held about an inch away from his thumb to indicate, “Little bit. Owed a friend a few drinks. But she had t’go home. An’ I didn’t want t’go home yet. Also? Weird bar. People s’posed to buy you drinks. I was gonna maybe eat there, but people kept sendin’ more drinks an’ I didn’t wanna be /drunk/. So pancakes happen.” "Yeah, that shit is fake, but it's pretty accurate, for the most part. In Raging Bull and Rocky, anyway." Trib is An Expert, apparently. Or maybe not. "I didn't see that one with Clint Eastwood and the chick, so I don't know about that one." He lifts a massive shoulder. "You should come and see a match, when I get signed to a card," he says. "It's a lot of fun." He listens as Micah explains, his brow knitting once, briefly, when Micah mentions the bar. "Ugh. It wasn't one of them weird swingers clubs, was it?" He wrinkles his ruined nose, and sinks back with another small furrow of brow. "Those places are creepy." Says the huge man with the perma-glare. “Ha, I dunno how much fun I’d be at a match,” Micah asserts with a shake of his head. “Medical-person. I kinda watch sports’n things thinkin’ about what sort of /horrible injuries/ people are acquirin’ in the process.” He also crinkles his nose. Perhaps it’s contagious. “I dunno? It was a place m’friend had been before. I think maybe it was just a gimmick, but maybe not. I don’t really know much about bars around…anywhere, actually. I don’t bar much.” Trib snorts. "There's plenty of injuries, all right," he agrees, running a finger along the broken ridge of his nose. "They're only /horrible/ if you're doing it wrong, though. Or if the other guy is a dirty fighter." He sounds annoyed by the fact that this would even be an issue. There's another snort -- this one amused -- when Micah admits his lack of bar-hopping. "I don't go to bars, either," he says. "They're a lot less fun if you don't drink. I only go in when a potential owner wants to meet in one." He grimaces. "That was how I found out about swingers' clubs. Oddest fuckin' meeting /ever/." "Ohgosh, yeah. Football. Football is the bad one to watch with the breakin' people," Micah adds, nodding this time. "I don't drink much. Well, /can't/, even. Kinda small an' then my body mass is less'n average for my height an' build anyhow on account of--" he picks his left foot up and taps it back onto the ground by way of finishing the sentence. "Literally...lightweight. An' I don't like actually bein' drunk. Oh, well. Swinger club seems like a /really/ odd place to schedule a business meetin'." "I never got into football," Trib admits. "Seems like a lot of nonsense over a damned ball and yardage." His mouth tips in a lopsided smile. "At least boxing is just one-on-one skill and power. Not some half-assed war game." Clearly, he has no love for the gridiron. He listens to Micah's explanation, and bobs his head. "Makes sense," he says. "I probably could drink plenty, but I don't 'cause of bein' an athlete. Gettin' drunk makes bein' motivated a real bitch." He snorts a laugh, and rolls a shoulder. "I don't really think the guy was really interested in my contract," he confides. "Unless it was somewhere up his ass." "The sportsballs all seem kinda silly, but people are really into 'em so..." Shrug, apparently, is the so. "To each his own, yeah? But I'm kinda a huge geek, so I'm not s'posed to get it, right?" Micah grins at this, clearly entertained by the idea of 'supposed to'. "Yeah, you're a big guy, prob'ly could hold your drink well," he muses, head canted to regard the other man. With spectacularly poor timing. A smudge of pink appears all but instantaneously across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "That would make more sense in the locale than contract writin', I'd guess." Trib shakes his head. "I never understood any of those pack-mentality sports. Even hockey got past me, and that's /full/ of fightin'." He rumbles a chuckle, and grins tightly at Micah's pinkening. "Yeah. If the guy had a pen on him, I wouldn't have wanted to touch it," he says, and he sounds perilously close to actual laughter. "He was...not my type. At all." He shifts his weight in his seat, throwing his long legs out in front of him and watching the host stand carefully. Maybe he's WILLING a table to open up. He doesn't shift his head or his expression when he speaks again, his voice low. "That was some weird-ass shit earlier." "Ugh, yeah, skeevy is no fun," is Micah's wise observation. His gaze also follows the hostess briefly, just in case. He nods at Trib's observation. "Yessir, it was. Giant bugs. Stealin' jewellery. An' bugnappin' people. Though, apparently, they're friendly bugnappers? They took my person," he adds this detail in hope of clarifying the picture. "An' I about panicked half of /everybody/ tryin' t'figure out how t'find 'im. But apparently he'd called an' was all, 'No, we're just chattin'.' Buggy tea party or somethin'. I dunno. I'm still not sure I believe it actually all happened, not really." "I've seen a lot of shit," Trib says with a wrinkle of his nose. "I mean, /serious/ shit. But I never saw anything like that, before. What was that ball bug that was eatin' the jewelry? Looked like one of them roly-polys." Trib is clearly no expert on bugs, even giant ones. His eyebrows lift at something in Micah's explanation, and then lower thoughtfully. "Never heard of no bug tea party, neither," he murmurs, and his lower jaw works a moment. "Yeah, it's hard to believe it even happened. Still feel like I might wake up, and be in my bed or some shit." He's silent a moment as he watches a group of four get called up and seated. "So, that crazy fucker who jumped on that big beetle is your 'person'?" His half-hand is very useful for making amused-seeming air quotes. "He was kind of sparkly. Looked familiar." “Think that was what it /was/. Giant flippin’…terrestrial crustacean invasion, on top of everythin’ else. How d’you end up with giant bugs /anyhow/? Aside from bein’ Florida.” Micah makes a kind of scrunchy-face. At giant bugs? Maybe at Florida. “Hm, yeah, that’s Jax. He makes bad choices, too. Prob’ly oughtta fuss at him when he gets back. Thirty lashes with a wet noodle. I dunno.” His brow is furrowed, betraying some lingering /worry/. “He kinda stands out, so maybe y’seen ‘im before. Used t’have more--“ Micah’s hand wiggle-spiders over his head, /probably/ indicating hair. “Just chopped it all off recently. Oh, an’ he’s been in the news a few times.” "Think we're all guilty of bad choices," Trib rumbles, his eyes narrowing in thought. "But jumpin' on that beetle was about the dumbest thing I've ever seen. Kinda reminds me of this kid I knew who insisted he was a super -- " the big man breaks off, his eyes widening suddenly in realization. "/Oh/." He rubs a finger along his nose. "I think I know where I know him from." He doesn't elaborate, but there's a flickering of something dark at the edges of his expression. Some memory surfacing for a moment. "Yeah," he says finally. "You definitely should give him a good fussing." "Yeah, that's why the 'too'. Okay, though, that was prob'ly one of the worse choices I've seen happen in person." Micah snorts an...almost-laugh snort. "You know superhero kids, too? Everybody's so ready to get themselves /killed/ anymore, seems like." Micah frowns down at his hands for a second. "Y'do?" His eyes narrow slightly to regard that...odd change in Trib's expression. Trib snorts. "Superhero kids are /determined/ to get themselves killed," he says with great authority. "But, you can't fix teenager. You can only wait for 'em to grow out of it." He shakes his head, that memory flickering up again. Micah's question gets a shift of the big man's weight, and he lifts a shoulder. "He was at a thing I was at, a couple of weeks ago," he says vaguely. "We didn't speak or nothin' -- he was too busy takin' care of other f...olks. But I thought his face looked familiar." “Can’t fix ‘em, no. Just gotta try t’keep ‘em /alive/ long enough t’get their own sense in their heads. If they ever do.” Micah tilts his head back, letting it rest against the wall behind him. “He does…a lot of things that get pretty crazy. Hard t’keep track of all the people needin’ help.” That comment sounds less off-hand and more /first-hand/ in its tone. "Well, he helped me," Trib says, his brow knitting. "Him and his friends. Whether they know it or not." He glances sideways at the other man. "Like I said, we didn't speak or nothin'. But if it weren't for him an' his buddies..." he doesn't finish, instead pushing to his feet as the hostess catches his attention. Then he's turning to nod at Micah, and tip his head towards the podium. "You wanna eat, you can sit with me," he says. It doesn't really sound like an /offer/. Just a statement of a fact. "Otherwise, you're liable to sit here 'till your knee rusts out." Micah nods, slowly. “They help a lotta people. Usually get nothin’ but hell for it, too.” He tips his head back up, raking his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, that might be a better idea than sittin’ around by myself, too. Thanks.” Trib nods. "Well, I owe him a thank you, next time I see him," he says, almost as if he /resents/ owing such a simple thing. But, there's a bit of warmth in his gaze, so the signals are mixed. He quirks a grin as Micah accepts, and motions for Micah to proceed him in following the hostess. "I hope you ain't put off by bad table manners," he rumbles with a small smirk. "Or guys who eat like they're starvin'. 'Cause that's me all over." Then he's quiet as they're seated at a table, only offering a grin as they're handed menus. Then he's a rumbly meal companion, offering an almost pleasant accompaniment to fluffy pancakes. Turns out, his table manners aren't /that/ bad, after all.