2019-11-07 - Devil's Playthings

August is really glad the Masquerade is over, because it was hectic as hell. And now, it's November, which means they need to prep for Thanksgiving, and that means prepping for Christmas. A business owner's work is never done.

The poinsettia orders are in. August refuses to carry Christmas trees of any kind ('They can buy a damned fake tree from Target'), but he always stocks a gorgeous assortment of wreathes for all of fall and through winter. The 'harvest' set have just come in and he's helping Thoma get them arranged in the shop proper. They've also got the various amaryllis everyone loves for winter forcing, in red and green and white; those are set to one side, ready to be placed once the wreathes are organized and hung. He's in a dark blue, waffle knit Henley, black jeans, and his workboots, with a dark gray cable-knit cardigan over that. Casual Urban Fall Man look is go.

Typically working nights, Cris' days start relatively late for the normal person thus he typically gets all his errands done right before a standard close of business hour. His first stop on the list today is stopping by August's nursery so the car full of marigolds doesn't start to wilt by the time he's through with the rest. He's already toting two in his arms when he comes into the shop, which have manages to remain relatively healthy through the holiday he purchased them for. In a black hoodie and a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and a bit more scruff on his face than when he last saw August, Cris finds August in the shop and in a gruff clip of a voice asks, "Where you want 'em." In lieu of a proper greeting.

August glances over his shoulder, sees Cris, gives him an upnod of greeting. "Hey. Counter right there's fine." He discusses a couple of things with Thoma, who nods and gives Cris a curious once over before returning to the set up task.

"Hope they served you well," he says, swiping at the checkout tablet so he can pull up the transaction and apply credit. He glances up at Cris, back down to what he's doing. "Get a chance to enjoy any of the Masquerade?"

"No." Cris answers brusquely as he sets the plants on the counter as directed, which can either be a reply to how they served him or about his participation in any Masquerade events. He doesn't clarify which. His blue hued eyes tick down to August and his tablet, "Don't want a refund. Don't want store credit. Just don't want them to fade away in my apartment. There's about fifty of them left in my car."

August stops his swiping, arches an eyebrow at Cris. His expression holds just a faint hint of curiosity. He studies Cris a moment, then nods. "Alright then. I'll help ya get 'em, let me fetch a cart."

There's a couple of the little carts used to ferry larger purchases to and from the shop by the front door still, waiting to be moved back into the storage area for the night. August takes one of these and tells Thoma, "Be right back," then he nods out the door for Cris to lead the way.

As soon as they step back outside to head to Cris' '66 Fairlane, the man pauses and fishes out a cigarette. Apparently he decided a nicotine fix was more important than setting immediately to the task. "You still thinking about doing that community garden bullshit, or are you going to pussy out until spring?" He mutters around the filter as he bends to the flame of his lighter.

August sees Cris getting out the light and puts his hands in his pockets. "Pussy out?" he repeats, amused. "Not thinking--doing. We've got the area marked off and we're renting a bobcat to get it dug open so we can break up the clay and get some proper soil in next week, before the freeze hits." He manages, through an effort of will, to not sound too smug, or to inject a note of 'so there smart ass', but it's right there in the gleam in his eyes. "Still want me to keep you marked down for one? I'm not putting them up formally until the soil's in, but I was keeping you on the list."

"Fuck yeah, you think I lost my balls in the last week? I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty." Because that's all that gardening requires, Cris. His frown intensifies as his eyes go out into the street, not focusing on anything in particular other than specifically not August's face. "You ever hear the phrase 'idle hands are the devil's playthings'? Well I'm Diablo's fucking marionette right now." Maybe what Cris really needed tonight, was not to drop off some plants, but just to talk to someone and August drew the short straw.

"Well that's good but you can use some gloves if you are. Some people, they hate the feeling of shit getting under their nails and I've gotten a few nasty splinters over the years so I don't judge." August narrows his eyes, studying Cris curiously. It'd be the short straw for many other people, but something August got quite comfortable with in all those VA group therapy sessions was listening. "Oh yeah. Been through plenty of that myself." He arches an eyebrow. "If you want, we can pick one out for you right now. Hell, you can dig it yourself instead of waiting for the 'cat, if that helps. A couple of areas don't really need the tractor, you could dig 'em out with a spade if you wanted to put in the work."

Cris flicks a glance over to August, that sweeps from eyes to mouth and back again as if to get a read on the other man's expression. "Isn't a spade the little tiny hand shovel? I'm not that much of a masochist. Yeah, shit. Let's go look." He takes one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks the only partially spent thing into a puddle where it lets out a dying, satisfying hiss. The bouncer certainly is in a different mood tonight, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he waits for August to lead him somewhere. Normally he leads with his chest, but tonight he's all shoulders and his mouth seems to have every swear word rolling around in there, ready to be spit out.

"That's a trowel," August says, and turns to head through the front garden, along its path, which leads to the outdoor collection. From there, through the back gate, the come into the rear of the property, which has been marked off with stays and twine into a staggered series of squares. As they walk, August continues, "The confusion's understandable. Spades are rectangular, so you can use them as a flat cutting edge. Shovels have a rounded point so you can dig in with force on the point." He moves to a specific pair of plots that are closer to the small, private greenhouse at the back. The soil under them looks much less rocky and hard than some of the others. "These two," he says, pointing, "could be dug out by hand. But," he looks out over the other 14 sections, "the rest, there's too much crap. It'd take weeks. Easier to drop some money on a rental, get it done now. Let the winter water up the soil really good."

The green belt is blazing gold and red with maples and oaks and aspens in full fall color, interspersed with deep black green firs and brilliant, blue green spruce. They can hear the little stream off the Wishkah, thin with the water freezing in the mountains, burbling in the distance. There's a glimpse of a meadow full of autumn-dead grass beyond that.

"Look at me, already learning the terminology. I'll be a regular goddamn Julia Childs in the garden in no time." Cris' booted feet draw up next to August before he pauses, looking out at the expanse of land with an expression that looks like it's getting angered just at the sight of brilliant view. "Well isn't this picture-fucking-esque." It's almost as if he's disappointed that August didn't walk him right into the middle of a bog or something. He finally turns to survey the two plots that August suggests. "What if I want one of those raised garden bed things. Will that work up here or does it get too cold, so it's best to keep low?"

August frowns at the analogy, decides not to question it. "Greenbelt," he explains. "Illegal to make any changes past a certain part of the property, even though that part's technically on it. It's why nothing's ever been developed along this stream, they can't. Make the property worthless for anything real estate wise." He shakes his head at the notion of it getting too cold. "Raised beds are fine. They're really good if you want to grow things that like the soil to stay drained, or want to keep the base of the plant above the regular ground line. Also nice for keeping invasive roots and some pests out." He moves around to the opposite side of the two plots. "So. What are you thinking--flowers? Food? Herbs? Little of it all?"

"Fuck if I know." Cris grumbles and pulls his hands out of his pocket, only to band his arms over his chest and thread his hands into the warmth near his armpits. It's a defensive posture, to match the lowering of his eyebrows. He seems to be thinking hard on an actual answer to that question. "Flowers, if they're the kind you can cut and throw in a vase. Some staple food and common herbs. Nothing fancy. Shit you'd actually use instead of just bragging that 'oooh, look at all the fucking ginko biloba I grew'. I'm thinking a 'u' shape so there is a path down the middle. Like, yay big." His hands swing down momentarily to his hips, setting them about six inches wider on each side.

August watches Cris as he moves and thinks. He's patient, in no hurry to encourage answers. "Irises, lilies, poppies, roses even--all good for a little plot like this. Can grow plenty of food, too. Chives, carrots, onion, thyme, rosemary, oregano, basil. All stuff you can use right out of the ground. Cabbages and lettuces in winter." He nods at the layout. "Lot of people do a U. Some doe a single aisle. Just depends on what you want to do, really, and how you want to work with it." He tilts his head. "Want me to grab a spade and you can dig in now? Or you want to wait until tomorrow or something, so it's not too close to dark."

"I'll start now." Cris is quick to answer, "I'll need a spade, gloves. Eventually the lumber and hardware. Hammer. Start a tally for me, and I'll pay out the tab each time I come in, in cash" Must be one of those types that doesn't trust credit/debit cards. "And I'll need to rent some of your space for storage. Might want to think of some kind of shed rent share situation, so people don't have to haul their shit down here every time they want to work on their plot." He rolls his shoulders and shakes his hoodie down his arms, apparently assuming he's going to get too warm doing manual labor, even with this chill. "That, uh, friend of yours. Itzhak." He says the name like it's hard for his latin tongue to parse, "He owns a mechanic shop, yeah?"

August nods, unsurprised at the decision to start now. He begins to move towards the shop to fetch the items requested, saying, "Yeah we're gonna add a shed for folks to bring things in and out of, of they don't have a place to keep it and don't want to haul it. Lockers, probably."

He pauses, though, gives Cris a narrow-eyed look at the question about Itzhak. "He does. Steelhead Service Center. Good work, I take all my trucks there." Now he waits, to see where that's going. Because it's not like Cris couldn't have looked this up online.

Cris looks momentarily at a loss, like he forgot where he was going with that. "Is he, uh..." He rolls his head, like he is inwardly chiding himself for something, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he mentally switches whatever question he was going to ask. "Does he work on motorcycles? Friend of mine had to ground hers the other day, told her I'd find some place to buff out the scratches and touch up the paint job."

Both of August's eyebrows go up at Cris' altering of the question. His mouth twitches in a near smile. That only lasts a moment, then he's contemplating the question actually asked with all due seriousness. "I haven't seen him work on one," he admits. "Doesn't mean he can't, bikes aren't nearly as common up here with our weather. But you'd need to ask him." He nods at the shop. "Be right back."

Cristobal only partially seems to be paying attention to August's answer, even for all the seriousness contemplation he put into the giving of it. There is a little, "Mm," vibration in his throat and he gives an upnod to August as the man turns away, the bouncer busying himself with tying his hoodie around his waist and digging out his phone. After checking the time, he throws on some classic rock music and shoves it back into his pocket, the material of his jeans muffling the notes but still leaving it audible.

August returns a few minutes later with the spade and gloves, and a bottle of pear cider. The gloves are a heavier, leather work glove, the kind that go beyond the garden and venture into handyman territory. The spade's shiny and new. August sets the cider down closer by, offers over both. "Tab's running, like you said. You're our beta tester for that bit of software, congratulations and thank you." He nods at the shop. "We're open two more hours, so feel free to dig away until then. You can pile it right here, I'll use it to mix up the final soil for everyone." And with that, he heads back into the shop, glancing back over his shoulder to watch Cris get started before he heads in.