2019-12-13 - Dreidel

After a quick text conversation it was deemed better that Itzhak drop off Sutton's bike at his place. He lives just off Elm and the 'b' in the address is the second floor garage apartment. Expecting the mechanic's arrival, Cristobal is leaning out on the balcony porch of his place beneath the overhang, smoking a cigarette while he waits for the other man's arrival. Dressed in a flannel over a white tank and a pair skinny jeans, he looks like he could've come out of the Grunge movement from Seattle if not for the dusky hue to his skin that marks him more decidedly from the South.

A big orange pickup parks out front. It's towing a trailer with a motocycle-shaped lump covered in a tarp that's lashed down. A long tall drink o' water of a Jew swings out of the cab, steel-toe boots landing on cracked, wet asphalt. He's wearing a big black peacoat, scarfed and hatted and fingerless-glove'd, but that nose is impossible to mistake.

Squinting up against the drizzle, he lifts a hand to Cris. "'Ey. Got ya bike." That accent can't be mistaken, either.

"There she is." Referring of course to the motorcycle instead of assigning a feminine pronoun to Itzhak. He twists to flick his cigarette into an old pot he's using as a butt can before he turns and pads down the stairs that run down the side of the garage so he can greet the man and examine the work that was done to the vintage Indian. He's barefoot even though the concrete of the drive is wet from the rain. It's like the boy doesn't own a decent thing against this cold weather yet. "Hey, man." He greets when he's joining Itzhak at the end of the drive, going to slap one hand into a shake and the other clapping Itzhak on the shoulder amicably. "Let's get her unloaded and rolled into the garage. Surprised you passed up on the chance to drive 'er over."

Itzhak amiably enough claps his hand into Cris's. "In this weather and risk droppin' her again? I'm a professional. Anyway I rode her when it was clear for an hour or so." He grins lopsided, not sorry at all. "Jesus, dude, you're making me cold just looking at you, put some shoes on would ya?" Here comes the kvetching, as Itzhak unlashes the bungee cords and hauls off the tarp. The Triumph is practically glowing with mechanical good health, paint perfectly matched, scratches buffed out of existence. Itzhak really is a professional. "Whaddaya think?"

There is low whistle from Cristobal, "If I didn't know better, I'd say she was mint off the showroom floor in '66." And it sounds honest instead of mere blowing smoke up the other man's ass. But his shoes are back in the apartment and he's not about to retreat to retrieve them, so that just earns a little middle finger in response. "I've got some warm Sangria going on the stove. Get the chill right out of your bones." He's clapping his hands together and giving them a good rub, surely just because he's exited the bike is being delivered and not that he's cold!

"Got somethin' for me?" Itzhak echoes, kinda surprised. He's distracted by the Fairlane on the way through the garage. "Why ain't you brought your girl there around? Ya holdin' out on me." Mostly he's kidding, and he jogs upstairs after Cris, unwinding his scarf, slipping off his gloves and thick, soft knit cap.

"Because every time I've been to the garage, I've been driving something that's not mine. How'd that last job go, by the way?" He means of course the recent Chop he brought in, not any bodies Itz may or may not have been involved in helping dispose of. The entirety of the apartment can basically be seen by standing in one place, but it suffices for a bachelor pad. He moves to the back corner where the kitchen is to grab two mugs down from their pegs and ladle in the deep red liquid that has bits of fresh citrus floating in it, setting the steaming things down on the counter near the stools.

Itzhak slows way down in the process of stuffing scarf and etc into his peacoat pockets. He comes almost to a halt, hands suddenly moving through something much thicker than air. Then he speeds up again, finishing shedding his coat. An envelope sticks out of an inner pocket; he fishes it out and tosses it to the kitchen counter. "That's how it went." It's a thick envelope, stuffed with cash.

Cris looks down at the envelop for a long moment as it sits there on the counter, almost hesitant to pick it up or whisk it away. Finally, he just opens one of the drawers in the cabinet and sweeps it in. "I'll pass it on. Didja take your cut?"

"That is your cut." Itzhak wraps his long violinist's fingers around the heat of the mug. When he takes a sip he has to tilt the mug a certain way so he doesn't just dunk his nose in it. "And yeah. I did." He says it flat, no inflection, which for a guy whose voice is entirely inflection, sounds pretty weird.

Cristobal's top lip curls briefly but instead of spitting out any words, he just nods. "Fine." For a man so confident in public, here and barefoot in his own kitchen the scratch to the back of his neck almost seems a little sheepish. "Might as well dispense with the rest of business upfront before I give your Hanukkah gift. So, what else do I owe you for Harry's bike?" Because he still is intent on paying for the entirety of it instead of the EMT.

"Hanukkah gift?" Itzhak squints at Cris over the rim of the mug. "You got me a Hanukkah gift? ...We're square. What you gave me covered it." True or false? Whichever, Itzhak's certainly presenting it like the truth. He's not relaxed, standing stiffly, like something might happen any second. But he's drinking the sangria, which helps. It's tough to drink good mulled wine and be on your guard.

"Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, I'm not going to attack you." Cris says as his eyes tick over the tension in Itzhak's form, quickly crossing himself and digging out a little golden cross from around his neck and giving it a quick kiss for the blaspheme. He seems slightly irked as he goes to a basket on the counter that's filled with little bags of wrapped confection tied in red and green but Itzhak's is tied up in blue foil paper instead. "Here." He says a little more brusquely than he intended as he plops the package down on the counter, about child fist sized.

"I know you're not," Itzhak snaps, but does he? Does he? "Anyway I could kick your ass," he mutters into the mug. He watches Cris kiss his cross with a certain bemusement. Gentiles, man.

He picks up the package, setting the mug down to do it. Cris wrapped it in blue foil for him, and that, of all things, makes him smile a little. He goes ahead and opens it.

"Yeah, well maybe we'll get a chance to see how lucky you are in the ring at the next Fight Night. Kelly might put me in, if the rounds are light. See if we can't test that theory of yours." To cover up any anticipatory reaction to Itzhak opening his gift, Cris hides his mouth by drinking from the mug. As Itzhak folds the foil away from the gift there is another layer of what looks to be an old embroidered handkerchief for padding to safeguard the gift from any damage. It's a dreidel, hand carved but decently weighted. "I was going to put cuss words on the faces, but I went with the traditional characters instead. Uh, nun, gimmel, hey and shin, right?"

Itzhak realizes what the shape is before he's got it entirely unwrapped, and his face lights up in anticipation. He plucks the dreidel free from the embroidered hanky, turns it over in his clever, calloused fingers. "Yeah. That's right. Nun gimmel hay shin. They're the first letters of the words. Nes gadol haya sham. A great miracle happened there. Wow. It's beautiful."

He's just got to give it a spin, so he does; he sets the tip down on the counter and gives the stem a practiced, hard little twist. The dreidel blurs into a cylinder as it spins.

"Sweet, my Google-foo did not fail me." Cris shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, making them ride a little lower on his hips with the weight. He glances away as Itzhak plays with it, like he's afraid it might wobble and tip over instead of spin which would just be wholly disappointing. "Anyway, a child's toy or whatever. And you probably get a dozen of them a year, but I needed something to keep my hands busy and making that was a nice distraction. Anyways. Yeah. Happy Hanukkah or whatever."

But the dreidel spins merrily away, then clatters to its side, showing 'hay'. "That means half the pot." Itzhak glances up, at Cris, his smile tucked into one corner of his mouth. "I ...actually didn't have one. Not a real one. I got some plastic ones for having Hanukkah at my place, but this is a real one. We had a carved wooden one when I was a kid. Was my grandpa's, came over from the old country. I left it at home, for my niece. Thanks." He's studying Cris now, not sure what to make of his body language. "You know how to play?"

Cris apparently relaxes a bit as Itzhak seems to appreciate the gift, because he's leaning and resting his elbows on the counter between them. "Not a clue. Seriously, my education on dreidels sort of starts and stops with my very impressive memorization of nun, gimmel, hey and shin. This like, some sort of gambling thing?" Hey, he said 'half the pot', but then again they give these things to kids. Maybe they teach 'em young? "Gonna teach me, Rosie?"

"Yep. Gambling." Itzhak spins it again. The dreidel topples on 'shin'. "That means you gotta put into the pot. We invented dreidel when we were forbidden to study Torah or even say that such a thing as Torah existed. So the men would get together and study and talk, and when someone would come around, they'd get out a dreidel and gamble. Cover up their illegal activities, right? Hanukkah's the celebration of the rededication of the Temple, when we were free again to live as Jews, so that's why we play dreidel on Hanukkah." He snorts at the nickname. "'Rosie'. Well I been called worse."

There is a little 'huh' from Cris, because he apparently learned something. And it didn't suck. Looks like he actually finds that tidbit interesting, "You ever see The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The invented a whole book club and a disgusting bit of culinary to cover up the fact that they were congregating to talk about the war. Not quite as cool as, you know, hiding an entire faith. Amusing watch. Or read, if you prefer the book version." He smirks as Itzhak says he's been called worse, and he sort of drags his gaze away again, and flips on the asshole so he doesn't seem so sheepish again. "Yeah, well, I coulda went with Sugar Tits, but that works better for girls." Look! Sangria. He starts ladling more to fill their mugs. "I got a change jar, why don't we sit on the floor and play."

"Ain't seen it, but man. Jews, we know how to hide. We have to, when every hundred years or so some guy gets a bug up his ass that we're the source of the world's problems. We been exiled from every country in Europe at some point or other, let alone being exiled from Israel." Itzhak snorts again, eyes Cris. "You can call me that if and only if you want a knuckle sandwich. Sure, dig out some pennies and whatevah." He picks up his refilled mug, dreidel cushioned in his palm, and sits on the floor. Those long long legs fold up pretty neatly. "Hardly any rules. Nun, nothing happens, next person goes. Gimmel, you get the whole pot, then everyone pays into the kitty. Hay, half the spot, and shin, you put in one. You play until you're dying to eat the chocolate we usually play for."

And dammit if Cris now suddenly doesn't seem sorely tempted to call him that just on principle. "Careful there, that's like promising me foreplay." He yanks open the drawer that the envelope disappeared into, looking sorely tempted for a moment to grab that and split it between them to gamble with, but in the end he palms out a jelly jar filled with pennies and walk over with his mug in hand to join Itzhak on the floor. "So 'shin' is the sucky one. Got it." He makes quick work of divvying out pennies pushing over a pile towards Itzhak's knee, laughing lightly. "Man, I can't remember the last time I played a..." Wait. Yes he can. He clears his voice and his mood seems to darken slightly. "So which one means you lose a piece of clothing?" It might be becoming clear, even with the different way that Itzhak is wired, that the worst comments always seem to surface as a defense mechanism.

Itzhak shows Cris the letters he'd inscribed. "You probably know 'em pretty well by now, but: nun gimmel hay shin." He turns the dreidel to show each side, then counts out twenty or so pennies (half from his, half from Cris') and sets them aside as the pot. And shakes his head, laughing in a chuff when Cris breaks out the helpful suggestions. "Strip dreidel ain't unknown, but I'm way too old and way too sober for that. Spin."

"You're only as old as your underwear, and I bought these beauties yesterday." Cris leans back, thumbing up a waistband that says PUMP in bright blue letters on the elastic band. He snaps them back down and leans forward to grab the little stem of top. He's spun it before, he's had to in order to make sure it seemed to be weighted properly. It's not made of the finest wood and seems lacquered instead of stained and sealed, but he was working with what he had. He gives it a quick twist and lets it go spinning a little wild, the dreidel skipping before it spins and quickly starts to wobble on its point, eventually kicking over with 'hay' facing up. "Haaaaay." Cris says it in his best Queen impersonation, including a snap for good measure.

Itzhak snickers, shoves pennies towards Cris. "Half the pot." When he spins, he gets half of what's left. "See, nothin' to it. It's a lot more exciting when you're a kid and got a pile of chocolate coins." He hands the dreidel over, drinks a slug of warming sangria.

Cris makes a noise of protest mid-sip of his own drink. "You didn't do it right. Queer dreidel, it has been decreed. C'mon." He gives a little uptick of his of his chin and his lips quirk wryly, waiting before he'll take the pass off. "What happens when there's nothing left in the pot?"

"Usually long before that ya parents called you to dinner." Itzhak doesn't do the haaaaay thing, either. "And they yelled at you for sneaking chocolate when you weren't supposed to be." His grin is nostalgic. "If the pot's empty, then whoever's got the most wins. Then everybody pays in and you play some more."

"Spoil sport." Cris mock glares at him before spinning again, but it ends up in a chuckle as he watches the top trace invisible swirling lines on his hardwood before topples over again on Nun. "Well ain't that some shit. Yeah, this is either missing the chocolate aspect or the Man threatening to take us down." But he's not exactly complaining either. This is probably the most normal thing he's done in a long time, out of no where saying the word, "Quaint." As if remembering something that cause him to smirk.

"Quaint as fuck." When Itzhak spins, the dreidel lands on gimmel. "Whole." He sweeps the pennies over with the edge of his hand. "Game over. I think we're about equal. Now you know how to dreidel. Mazel tov." He toasts Cris with the mug.

"Mazels." Cris says, straightening up from the game but leaving the pennies scattered where they are for moment. "And thanks again for the spit shin on Harry's bike. It looks damn good. I should let you get out of here before I pour any more spiced wine down your throat and I try to have my way with you."

Itzhak stands up. Way up. Whew he's tall. "That bike don't deserve no less." Draining the mug, he sets it on the counter, and smirks at Cris. "You're hot, and you know it. Go find someone to take all that big-dick energy out on, huh?"

Cris leans back on his elbow, stretching out on the floor and tracing Itzhak's movement with a glimmer in his eyes. "Sometimes half the fun is chasing after the forbidden fruit, but if I actually turned on this 'big-dick' energy, you'd be pudding in my very capable hands. And I'd make sure you were fucking spoiled with it. But something tells me you'd be too nice to suit my particular...needs. But come on over anytime you wanna spin the dreidel again. Quaint as fuck was fun."

Itzhak gets a funny look on his expressive face during all that, but particularly when Cris says he's 'too nice'. A funny look indeed. Then he sniffs, shrugs, and gets his coat to pull it on. He drops the dreidel in a pocket. "Yeah. Well, see ya around."

There is no need to see Itzhak to the door, it's a small enough place that just by laying there on the floor he can see the man out. He has to congratulate himself as he flops onto his back and pillows his head on the crook of an arm to stare at the ceiling. He knows how to screw things up juuuuust enough. Safer this way.