2019-09-06 - What Makes A Good Party

The evening is a sticky and hot one, and the air conditioning of the pizza parlor is blessed relief. Dylan sticks out for a couple of reasons, firstly given the fact that his jeans have ripped knees, and that white t-shirt he has on? It has a faded green paint handprint on the shoulder that, despite several washings, just hasn't been able to be gotten out. Situated at a table in front of the windows in front of the pizza place, so to is it noticable that he has a sketchpad and pencil in hand. He's slowly sketching, nothing overly grabbing him clearly, for at least half of his time is just spent staring out that window and watching the people and cars that go up and down the road.

It really seems like Clarissa ought to be at some kind of upscale steakhouse based on the way she's dressed with a short, expertly tailored dark blue dress, expensive sunglasses, and an even more expensive oversized purse hanging from the crook of her arm. Her heels click loudly against the tile of the floor, "No, no, we're planning a fundraiser, not some teenagers birthday party," she's talking into her phone, which is obnoxiously on speaker and held in her hand as she heads for the counter, "I said class, Michael and that didn't mean high school. If we want to have the funds to rebuild the historical buildings correctly this needs to be perfect, do I make myself clear?"

It's hard not to hear that particular conversation, given it's had over the speaker, and of course Dylan's eyes tug to trail after Clarissa as she comes in. Up his cup is lifted - his plate empty by now - to take a long drink from his soda, and then that pencil is snapped back up. He surveys what he's started, and then he begins to add more to it, but it's all while watching that phone conversation. His mouth scrunches up when he hears 'historical buildings', those expressive features unable to hide his interest, but for the moment he doesn't interrupt that call, but it's ever so obvious just whom holds his attention.

The man on the other end of the phone stumbles over his words a bit and Clarissa pushes her sunglasses up probably so everyone can see her roll her eyes, "Just get it done, Michael." Then she hangs up on him. Turning her attention to the person behind the counter, she places an order for a slice of cheese and then leans an elbow on the counter to survey the rather empty establishment. Oh look, a skateboarder. "Yes?" She asks Dylan, tone clipped. "Did you want to say something?"

A brilliant smile is cast towards Clarissa, and even as she speaks there are more lines etched out upon that sketchpad. "Me?" He inquires with a touch of too much innocence, before she is peered at. It takes a second, but there is a look of faint recognition, like one would to a celebrity or potentially famous murderer. "Interesting. Historical." Comes the two words from the man about what his thoughts might be. "You?" Comes the inquiry back, Dylan's dark brow arching upwards in curiosity.

Clarissa was clearly waiting for that look, though whether she's pleased or annoyed by it is hard to say, "Yes, history is interesting. If you and your little college friends actually got involved in those sorts of aspects of this city, maybe the drug problem would be solved." She taps her meticulously painted fingernails on the counter as she waits for her pizza and keeps talking because she clearly enjoys the sound of her own voice, "Actually, you're what, in college?" She gives Dylan a once-over and seems skeptical. "Or are you one of those trendy dropouts? In any case, would you and your like be more interested to contribute to a fundraiser if it was more like a themed party?"

"Art. Anthropology." Comes his reply about college, a soft scoff coming as she says it would solve the drug problems. "Addictive personalities," He says, eyes rolling upwards as if there is no helping those who won't help themselves. The end of the pencil thumps against the pad as he considers that question, those eyes narrowing critically to consider just how seriously Clarissa is about it. "Not trendy," He offers up first, that pencil sweeping around to point to himself. Clearly not trendy at all. "Which theme?" Is finally his not really an answer yet, digging for more information.

"Downton Abbey. That's still hip, right?" Clarissa picks up her slice of pizza when it's slid over the counter and then goes to sit down across from Dylan, apparently not huge on other people's personal space. If she's noticed that he's speaking in one or two word sentences she gives no indication, "There's a movie coming out or something. Is there even a movie theater in this town?" She takes a dainty bite of her pizza and after chewing so that she won't impolitely talk with her mouthful continues, "Art and anthropology? You know there are no jobs, right?"

Dylan's features quirk up, scrunching at the mention of Downton Abbey. A warm bit of laughter comes from him at the mention of no jobs, one shoulder lifting up haplessly as he quips back, "What jobs," Before he motions around to the whole room, as if indicating the entire city that's been in a funk since who knows how long. "Theme party." He concludes as the best path forward, a beat of a pause before he warns, "Pick wisely." And then it's a different tactic he takes when she joins him, "Movies. Me?" That pencil goes back and fourth between her and him, as if she were asking him out. It's clearly just playful banter, however, as his chin lifts up into a regal, haughty posture that is only eased by the teasing smile. "Dinner first."

It's about now that Clarissa seems to realize he wasn't just being short earlier and this is a pattern of speech thing. She looks at him a bit more critically as she has her next bite, "The idea was that people could purchase a ticket on a sliding scale and have to come in costume dressed as that level. So everything from housemaids right up to the Queen. That way people could splurge if they wanted a really nice costume, but if they didn't have the money and still wanted to contribute, a black suit or apron isn't hard to come by." She has yet another bite as she regards him and his date insinuation, but she's so old she doesn't do anything adorable like blush or bat an eye, "You've got me on the jobs thing. This town remains the worst. This pizza is the closest thing to a New York slice I've been able to get since I got here. But don't flatter yourself, kid. I've got at least ten years and a husband on you already."

"Too predictable." He says when she talks about paying more to be Queen, or just a bit to be the maid. "Flip it." It's one dark brow that lofts up at the proposal, a shoulder lifting up into a hapless shrug as he returns to that sketching, "/Already/ poor," He states as to why he wouldn't be interested in getting to be a butler on the end of the totem pole, but that the reverse might be interesting. It's laughter that comes from him at her last words, his eyes sparkling with delight before a very serious and solemn nod comes, that pencil pushed towards him in indication. "No husband." A heartfelt sigh is pushed out, clearly staged, as if all his hopes and dreams had been shattered. "Which buildings?" For restoration, one would presume, based upon that earlier call she was on.

The 'no husband' gets him a sharp look, as Clarissa clearly takes that another way. She lets it slide however, perhaps well aware that she bristles all too easily at things like that, "That's actually an interesting idea, skater boy," she picks tiny pieces off the crust to eat rather than taking larger bites, "Rich people do love slumming it and more of the people that don't make a respectable income might be willing to contribute if they got to dress up. They'd have to pay for swankier costumes, though. Does this town even have a costume shop?" She muses, leaning back on the plastic bench. "Oh," she says to his inquiry, "The ones that blew up. Turns out they had historical significance and as the head of the historical society, I intend to make sure that they're rebuilt properly. Which costs money that the society doesn't actually have yet."

Dylan must be the eternal optomist, or is just far too used to having to deal with weird situations given his lack of speaking, for she's just flashed that warm and charming smile. "Always am," He says of being on to something. More lines are added on as he listens, chiming in a "Provide rentals." As to how they can manage to get those particular costumes. A low 'mmmm' of understanding comes bout blown up buildings, no doubt familiar with this given he's lived here. Up a hand lifts, a single finger extending out in a, 'Just a Moment' expression before he reaches down to the messenger bag by his side. There are even more sketchpads in there, and one is finally pulled free. It's pulled out, pages flipped through, and then slid over towards Clarissa.

It's several drawings of a 'slice of life' of Gray Harbor, long enough ago that it also captures those particular buildings that came tumbling down. It's rather good, all things considered, finely detail and shaded, showing there is at least merit to why he's majoring in Art.

Clarissa sets down the crust, which is mostly untouched what with being carbs and all, and looks at the pictures he's got, "Wait, are these the buildings? The ones that aren't actually there anymore?" She looks from the drawings to him to the drawings again, eyebrows going up, clearly impressed. "We have some pictures but none from this angle. Is that a keystone?"

A firm nod is given up as she asks, Dylan lifting a hand up to rest his cheek against it. "Yup." He coos out with triumph, a glimmer of amusement coming to his features. His head dips down to peer at the askance of the keystone, before he confirms. "Yes." It's there his brows furrow up, trying to recall, before a little sigh and puff of breath is let out and upwards, tossling a few strands of his hair. "No interiors." He concludes, never having actually captured anything inside of those buildings. "Dylan. Rink." Either sounds acceptable to call him, his pencil lifting to stab the blunt end of it against his chest in indication he's, of course, referring to himself.

"Well, Mister Rink," Clarissa pushes the pictures back towards him, careful not to get any pizza grease or crumbs on them, "You ought to talk to Miss Hyacinth Addington about this. She's been the one spearheading this whole project and every little bit helps. There's some architectural details you have there that I don't think she's accounted for in her planning so far." And belatedly, while checking her phone she adds, "I'm Clarissa Robbins. But you probably knew that."

"Ms. Robbins," He returns out, and there isn't a hint of distaste for how that name rolls off the tip of his tongue. It's the suggestion that has him intrigued, considering it for a moment, before he lets out a teasing, "Art pays," in reference to her earlier comment. "Hyacinth Addington," That name is repeated to help be memorized, before finally he leans back in his seat, arms spreading out wide to rest on the table before him. This time those features all become lax, sincere, with that one simple word speaking volumes. "Thanks."

Clarissa gestures dismissively with her hand, a very 'don't mention it' gesture while she moves to stand, "Missus," she corrects distractedly and mostly out of habit as her phone rings and she puts it on speaker, "Michael, if you're calling to tell me that you booked the school gym and not a functioning hall with chandeliers and a grand staircase you can forget any kind of Christmas bonus this year," and then she's moving to the door, talking on speaker phone again to annoy everyone she passes.