2019-05-19 - Getting To Know You

It is a quiet afternoon, but there's no rain today, just gray clouds that hang in the sky. It means that Violet can keep the door to the shop open, letting in some natural light and fresh air that calms the otherwise musty smell in the cramped shop. She sits behind the counter that is far too tall for someone so short, almost completely obscured by it except for the top of her pale gold head. She's dressed in clothing that could be classified as 'granny chic' - a fuzzy cream wool cardigan over a silk collared turquoise blouse, a long skirt and nylon stockings. She doesn't wear shoes, but her feet are tucked under her as she sits in her swivel chair, idly paging through a book and waiting to see if anyone comes in today.

Someone comes in today! Admittedly, it's someone who often elicits a soft groan of dismay from local shopkeepers, but hey, this time he had an invitation. Alexander looks underslept and slightly strung out, as usual, dressed in a battered Metallica t-shirt that appears to have been made in the actual 80s, under an overlarge army jacket with all the insignia ripped off, faded jeans, and battered work boots. He looks a lot like an aging roady got lost. He pauses just inside the doorway and looks around, expression blank until he sees Violet. Then he heads in that direction. "Miss Whitehouse." He stops a bit out from the desk, and frowns down at his feet. "I was invited." It's sharp, defensive right off the bat.

With the door wide open, there's no bell that rings overhead. It means Alexander's entrance doesn't immediately trigger a response, though Violet will end up peeking out from over the top of the too-tall desk when she hears someone shuffling through the maze of clutter and shelves towards her. There's owlishly wide eyes behind thick glasses, but once she registers who he is, a faint smile twitches there at the corners of her mouth. It immediately dissipates at his defense though. "Oh. Er. Yes," she slaps her book shut and picks herself up out of the chair; even standing, she only comes about a head above the counter. "Hello Alexander. Do you.. want some tea?"

"I like tea." Alexander still sounds a bit wary, but his shoulders relax into a more normal (for him) sort of slouch at the question. "You seem well." He looks away from her, studying the shelves and clutter around them with dark-eyed interest. "You always have a very comprehensive selection, Miss Whitehouse. One of the better shops for unusual findings." It's rattled off in a near monotone, but he reaches out to gently touch a couple of the items on the nearest shelves, so maybe it's also sincere.

"I do, too," replies Violet of tea-enjoyment, though she does not immediately set her (bare) feet into motion. Instead, she catches the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth, leaning towards the lip of the desk to watch him as he turns his attention to the shelves. Her gaze is intent - she's not being subtle about the fact that she is studying him. "I get everything at estate sales and thrift shops. And sometimes other places. People don't really know what they throw away," she frowns at that, and finally shifts to slide across the floorboards on her nylons, to a counter where there's an electric tea-kettle and cups. "Sometimes, things speak louder than people do."

"I think the concept of one man's trash being another man's treasure applies," Alexander says, his fingertips tracing the corner of a small jewelry box. "Sometimes throwing a thing away is the only way to deal with the memories it carries. But others can pick it up, and enjoy it without the weight. Or with the weight, if they have the way to pick up the residue it leaves behind." He turns back to watch her move to the tea kettle. "I go to estate sales when I can." He studies her in return, his stare flat and assessing.

"Mm," Violet hums the sound across her lips, but it seems out of place. Like a sound that doesn't belong to her, and is instead an imitation of another's contemplative phrasing. The part about the estate sales makes her brows climb though, and she pours tea into two mismatched cups. "Why?" she asks, as she walks over one of the teacups to him. "Do you go just to look? Or do you go to learn?"

"Learn. I suppose." Alexander frowns down at the tea cup for an overlarge amount of time, before finally taking it. "People hide many things that only come out after they are dead, and their heirs or the state put all their things up for auction - it's surprising how many of the deaths of 'heart failure' were clearly suicides once you read diaries and old notes. Or maybe not surprising, considering the stigma." He takes a sip of the tea. "And sometimes there are books. Or photos. Interesting things." He looks at her with slightly narrowed eyes. "You got inside my head, Miss Whitehouse. Why."

There's a few blinks of too-blue eyes as he explains, but Violet seems to agree with what he says if the nod of her head is any indication. She takes up her own teacup and starts back to the desk - and then abruptly retreats into her swivel chair when he narrows his eyes at her. It takes a moment for her to form the words, but they come out in a rush. "People don't like you," it's not accusatory though, because she follows up with: "They don't like me either. We're the same, I think, but different too? You're... brighter," and that makes her frown. "They must bite you. A lot."

"I'm not a very likable person, but that seems to less be your problem," Alexander says, without notable emotion. He takes another sip of his tea, watching her flatly over the steam rising from the cup. "I have been bitten," he admits, slowly. "You, too, I suppose. And your sister. There seem to be a lot of people, of late, who...stand out. Reminds me of flies around a pitcher plant. Wonder how many of them will end up as statistics."

"I'm not very good with people. That's Alice's thing," Violet admits quietly, her frown deepening as she takes a sip from her tea. She doesn't have a response for whether or not she's been bitten - the involuntary flinch is clear enough. "It does seem like the town is getting... brighter and brighter," she admits in a small voice, looking down at her tea. "I don't know if there is safety or danger in numbers. At least when it comes to.. Them."

"I know nothing about not being good with people. I have many, many friends and no one thinks I'm a psychotic Satanist." It's perfectly deadpan, but there's just the slightest upward tick of one corner of Alexander's mouth as he watches her. It goes away at that flinch. "You seem all right to me, Miss Whitehouse." He takes a sip. "I realize that isn't reassuring. But the ones I have met so far seem...interesting. I have tried to warn them about the city. I am not certain it was understood. I am often not understood." A glance around the store. "Have you been watched recently? Or attacked?"

That was a bit of a low blow, the 'psychotic Satanist' thing. It makes Violet roll her shoulders back and straighten there on her chair. "That must be nice," she mumbles under her breath, setting her tea aside and putting her hands primly on her lap. It means that she's in close contact with the edges of her cardigan, to fuss and fidget with the buttons while he talks. "I.." She thinks on his question, abusing her bottom lip with a few heavy bites. ".. Yes. More than usual," she admits, dodging a glance around the store before she settles her look back on Alexander. "But I'm not worried about me. I.. my.." she searches for the right word. ".. Alex. Not you, Alexander, but Alex, the man at the bar. He.. I worry about him."

Alexander's brow furrows. He clearly recognizes that something has gone wrong, but it takes him a moment to rewind and figure out where. "Oh." A long pause. "I was being sarcastic. I have no friends, and most people think I am a psychotic Satanist." He looks down into his cup and mutters, "This is why sarcasm is fucking stupid." He raises his head. "Alejandro. Yes. I remember him. He seemed upset."

"Oh," Violet remarks when he amends his statement. "I just thought.. I'm sorry, I figured you heard what .. people say, they talk so much. Always gossiping," she lifts her slim shoulders in a shrug and tries on a smile that doesn't quite fit her face. "It could be worse. People could think that you're married to Satan and live with fifteen cats and cast spells in your loft." See, Alexander? It could be so much worse. But the talk of Alex makes her frown again, and she nods her head. "He was. I didn't understand that woman at the bar."

"People say a great deal of stupid, meaningless shit, Miss Whitehouse. Unless it's about interesting crimes, I try not to pay much attention to it. And being married to Satan, having a great many cats, and casting spells isn't illegal - although I suppose it IS interesting, if it were true. And you seem too intelligent to commit open infidelity in a relationship to He Who Hath Been Given Dominion Over Earth, so you're probably not married to Satan. I could be wrong." He seems mildly intrigued by the possibility, and studies her with more interest. "The fish woman. Yes. She seemed upset. She makes good fish, however."

It's the kind of thing that should make a person laugh, but while there's the faintest of twitches to the corners of Violet's mouth? She doesn't so much as stifle a giggle. "I think being married to Satan would be... hot," she remarks, an oddly poor-timed joke, especially since she follows up with an explanation: "Because. You know. In Hell, the temperatures are pretty extreme. I think, I mean, I've never been there, actually, so I wouldn't know, and.." Alexander, meet Violet. She rambles. At least she shuts herself up, biting down on the tip of her tongue and giving her head a quick shake. ".. Nevermind. She's a.. fish.. woman?" That makes her blink. "She didn't have a tail."

Alexander doesn't seem put off by the rambling. He listens intently, as a matter of fact. "Theories differ as to the actual temperature in Hell," he murmurs, at last. "Depending on the texts, it may be that the eternal Pit of Fire is only a small part of the Infernal landscape, while other areas are frozen. Dante's work even posits that the first circle of Hell is an inferior version of Heaven, and thus likely pretty pleasant. But Satan probably wouldn't live there, so your hypothesis remains viable. You would have to wear very light clothing." It's said very solemnly. "And yes. Not a mermaid, Miss Whitehouse. She sells fish on the Boardwalk. They're delicious, and you should get out more. Do you believe that she is a threat to your Alejandro?"

"I suppose that is a decent way to sell it, if the first circle was a miniature Heaven. It's like coming up to a haunted house where the lawn is freshly manicured and has a beautiful garden. It makes it feel inviting, even if the inside is... well. Hell." Violet replies with a few owlish blinks of her eyes. The quiet bit of laughter that arrives from her words is just a few seconds too late, seemingly out of place in the conversation, considering his next words are particularly solemn. She clears her throat and shakes her head. "I get out. I've been to the fish restaurant, I like the boardwalk, did you know the Ferris wheel isn't the original one? The original one fell over and killed about twenty school children out on a trip.." There's a little darkness for your day, Alexander. The talk of Julia makes her frown though, and she gives her head a vigorous shake. "No, no. The fish woman, a threat? To Alex? No. He was just ... mad. Because she upset me. He was being protective. It's just that.. he's.. he's new here, Alexander. He doesn't understand the town. Or.. Them."

"I heard that, about the Ferris Wheel," Alexander says, brightening. "I never could locate any documentation on it, other than the newspaper articles, which are minimalist at best. If you have old police reports or something here, I will buy them off of you. Probably. Depending on the price." A slight frown, as Alexander realizes that his addiction to eating regularly and his morbid hobbies might conflict. A shake of his head; that is a problem for Future Alexander, hopefully a Future Alexander with a pile of vintage autopsies. He refocuses. "Ah. Yes. That is a problem. He stood out. Things will find him interesting. Is he receptive to the truth, or in denial?"

Violet is very sorry to disappoint but, "I don't have any old police reports," she says with a frown, gnawing on her bottom lip before she hops out of her swivel chair. "But I do have a very good book. It's not entirely about the Ferris wheel, but it was written by a townie many years ago. The Addingtons lost their minds when he came out with it, they ran him out of town and banned the book from all the stores." She steps out from around the counter and through the maze of shelves, knowing exactly where to go in this hoarder's dream of a store. A book is plucked from a case, and she holds it up to him, revealing the title: 'Gray Harbor, A Bloody History'. It looks self-published. "It's my only copy. Would you promise to bring it back, when you're done?" As for Alex, she just frowns. "He was in denial. But now .. now he is not."

Alexander smiles. A genuine, real, pleased smile. "That sounds very interesting, Miss Whitehouse. You'll let me borrow it?" His eyes focus immediately on the book. "I would take care of it as if it were my own child." Even his voice has more life to it, and it takes him a moment to refocus back to Alex. When he does, though, there's a little frown. "Something happened, then. Unfortunate." A glance back to the book, then to her face. "You seem to be angling for some sort of aid, Miss Whitehouse."

"I'm not a library, Alexander," remarks Violet as she steps back through the maze of shelving to him. "But I will let you buy it. And sell it back to me when you are done." The smile that she offers is polite, as she extends the book to him. "There's a lot of good things in here. About the Ferris wheel, and the sawmill. The abandoned one, in the forest. But I don't think the writer was like us," she admits. "At least, not entirely." As for his last point, her brows climb, and she shakes her head. "Not aid, Alexander. Friendship. I don't have.. a lot of that."

Alexander takes the book, looking both hungry and wary at the same time. And also like he wants to /hug that book/. He manages not to, but pets the spine a little, instead. There, there, who's a good murder book? You are. You are. "At the same price, I assume?" His features are more animated than they usually are as she speaks. "And one doesn't have to stand out in order to realize something is deeply off about our lovely little town, Miss Whitehouse. One could argue that the observations might even be more accurate, unclouded as they are by," he taps the corner of the book against his temple, "distractions." Her last remark, though, makes him frown, and narrow his eyes at her. "Friendship? I don't object. You might. I am not always well."

Violet lifts a hand and wobbles it in the air when he suggests that she'll buy the book back at the same price. "We'll work something out." This is a business, after all. The price-tag is on the front corner of the book: $25. "If you listen to the people in this town, I'm not well either," she says quietly, retreating around her counter and sitting primly on her swivel chair. Out comes the ledger, and she plucks a pencil from its place, making a note in the lines. "It would be nice to have someone here. That can.. relate," she frowns a touch. "Alex understands, but only to a point. And Alice..." her gaze goes distant, and she shakes her head. "Will you be paying in cash? You will need to. I don't have anything to take credit cards."

"I've touched it, so I suppose I have to buy it," Alexander mutters, because the only way he's giving up the book before he has a chance to read it NOW is if they have a psychic knife fight right here and now. And that would be rude. So he tucks it in one of the oversized pockets of the jacket, juggling the book and his tea around until the tea loses the battle and is placed on her desk. He retrieves a battered wallet and carefully pulls out a few bills. He frowns at the diminished stack that is left, and winces, but pushes the money over anyway. "I don't relate well to much. But we will see."

Violet only takes twenty of the twenty-five, pushing the other back to him. "The price tag is wrong," she murmurs, makes a note in her ledger, and folds up the bills to put them in the little metal case that counts as a 'safe'. As for relating, Violet lifts a slim shoulder, blinking up to him with those too-large blue eyes. "I suppose we will," see that is. She offers a faint smile. "I hope you enjoy the book, Alexander."

Alexander stands there and stares for a while. Then, like a neuron firing he says, "Ah. Thank you. I am sure that I will. It will be nice to be...friends...with someone." A jerk of his head towards her, and then he slouches his way out the shop, one hand protectively settled over the pocket holding the book.