2019-12-13 - Souped Up

As the year closes in on the winter solstice, the nights come fast and sharp. Dante should be well-used to that, coming from where he does, and really Itzhak is too. Similar latitudes. Still, the fact that there's zero to none winter sunshine somehow makes it harder for Itzhak to take (something else Dante should be used to). All the lights in Steelhead Service Center are on, making the place glow like a lantern in the early afternoon gloom. Music plays from inside, Itzhak standing in front of his music stand, sawing on his fiddle and playing it hot. An oil space heater sits nearby, providing some buffer against the cold. Nevertheless, Itzhak's kind of bundled up, wearing a battered hoodie ("GHPD" emblazoned on it, letters flaked half away), a scarf, and a blanket wrapped around his hips like a towel, tucked in on the side.

A nondescript but neat sedan pulls up, the kind of inoffensive but comfortable vehicles favoured by Uber drivers. The man who gets out of said car is the opposite of nondescript. Dante unfolds himself from the back and straightens the camel three quarter length wool coat. His usual flare comes in the form of a teal sweater looped artfully around his neck, and a pair of oxfords with heel and toe in an antique gold, and the middle panel in a salmon-on-white paisley pattern. He doesn't really look like he belongs in Gray Harbor, but that's rather the point of his whole aesthetic. He tugs on a pair of broken in brow leather gloves as he steps up towards the garage. He doesn't say anything to interrupt the fiddle-playing. Instead, he pauses to listen.

Itzhak's grinning to himself while he plays; smirking, really, swaying back and forth, eyebrows leaping and dipping along with his bow. That's his violin face, the face of a guy who is having just too much fun. His big, long-fingered hands work the bow and hold down the strings with practiced ease. The fiddle makes a long, wailing train-whistle sound as he pulls the bow down, then he's playing in short rapid strokes to emulate the chugging of the train on the tracks.

After a few minutes, he wraps 'er up with a flourish--and THEN he sees Dante and jumps in place. "--Jesus, dude!" But he flashes him a wicked grin and points his bow at a Yaris-shaped tarp-covered lump in bay two. "She's all doctored up."

"Sorry, sorry," says Dante with a toothful smile. "I didn't want to interrupt. That's quite wonderful." He even gives some glove-muffled applause, then glances towards the tarp. "I never thought I'd miss that car, but I've grown a bit fed up with my rental. It has absolutely no power at all. Not that my Yaris is exactly full of horsepower, but the rental barely hits the speed limit on a hill when I'm nearly flooring it."

Itzhak bows Dante a elegant little stage bow, tucking his fiddle to his heart. "Lemme put this away." The violin case is lying open on the coffee table. Itzhak goes through taking off the shoulder rest and loosening the bow and tucking everything away snug in its bed. He also untucks the blanket and tosses it over one of the armchairs. Then he rolls over to the Yaris, his stride a funny kind of half-saunter, half-swagger, and pulls off the tarp. "I hear ya, them rentals got a rubber band for an engine. Not that this girl's much better, but I maybe took some liberties while I was rebuilding her engine anyway."

The Yaris is detailed to within an inch of its life, too, clean and sparkling in a way it probably hasn't been in a long time. It's not that Dante doesn't take care of it. It's that Itzhak is a bored perfectionist with a lot of time on his hands.

"I suppose I just feel a bit cheated when I'm paying by the day, versus owning the thing outright. Better the devil you know, ay?" Dante steps over, and blinks at the state of his car. "Well. You'd hardly know that it made a trip across the continent. I don't think it looked that good at the dealer." Given how he dresses though, he's certainly a man who appreciates the little details. Like the slight pattern on his scarf, or those shoes that might look clownish on someone else.

Itzhak eyes Dante as he comes close. Well, it's not so much Dante he's eyeing as that outfit. And dem shoes. And, well, also maybe Dante some too. An outfit like that might overpower another man, but Dante makes it all look quite dashing. "God I love your shoes," he mutters. Good points of being an openly queer guy: admiring another guy's shoes without any untoward shrinkage of masculinity. "You got taste. Even if you do drive a Yaris." Itzhak isn't going to stand there and give Dante unqualified compliments! It is not the way of the New York Jew. "Anyway, you wanna go for a spin? See how you like what I did? I'll undo it if you're not into it."

And most of the outfit is currently covered by the camel coat and scarf, but knowing Dante, it's equal to the challenge laid down by his outerwear. "Why thank you. I have a problem with being casual. I say, why be casual when you can be over the top, ay?" Hard to tell if it's his general confidence or his accent that lets him pull off the things he does. Maybe a little of both. "Ah yes, I never claimed to have equal taste in vehicles to my suits. I suppose I'd rather spend the money on clothes?" Another one of those smiles, with too much teeth. "What did you do that requires a test drive?" That's curious rather than accusatory.

"That's fair. I spend money on cars and reptiles. And instrument upkeep." Itzhak produces Dante's key and tosses it to him. "Ain't hard to figure out, once you step on the gas. Figure I'll go along just in case." He flashes him a lopsided grin, opens the door and gets in.

Dante catches the keys and cracks a grin, eyebrow lifting in curiosity. "Did you turn my sensible Yaris into a streetracer, Mister Rosencrantz?" Amusement dances through his tone. He walks over to the vehicle and pulls the door open, then drops into the driver's seat. Since they're not that far in height, it only requires a bit of seat adjustment for him to be seated comfortably. Then once he's settled, he turns the key.

Itzhak laughs, crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes and the lines of a life hard-lived on his face all showing. "I'd hafta do a lot more to get her there. Nah, I just gave her a li'l more pep." He clicks the bay door opener in his hoodie pocket, and the door rolls up into the ceiling rack. "Just go easy on the accelerator until you get the hang of it."

"If you know anything about the average European car, you know it's all about fuel efficiency. Unless you get into luxury brands, which I never found myself doing. Honestly, when I lived in London I didn't even own a car. It was only when I came to this continent did it seem necessary." The car jerks forward as Dante does indeed underestimate the renewed responsiveness. He stops, shoots Itzhak an apologetic look, then takes things easier as he pulls out of the parking lot.

Itzhak goes "Whoo!", grinning, as the Yaris lurches forward. "That'll get ya up to speed on the freeway. I put in some beefier brakes, too. Yeah, I know cars in Europe are about havin' a three-cylinder engine and max fuel efficiency, but you're in America now, baby, and we like muscle." The bay door closes behind them as he thumbs the remote again.

Once they're on the road, Dante pulls off his leather gloves and drops them in the cupholder. Then he threads off the scarf, revealing hints of the rust coloured three-piece suit beneath. His day-to-day dress is what most men might wear a few times a year. It takes him a few blocks to get a feel for the increased power, which means he finds himself speeding and has to pull it back. "Bloody hell." And then, laughter. "I'm not used to this kind of muscle, clearly."

Itzhak sideways-looks at Dante while he pulls off scarf and gloves. Is he jealous? A little. A little more than a little. "It ain't fair that you're such a good-lookin' man and you dress like you're on the cover of GQ." Then he laughs again, too, wrapping his fingers around the oh-shit handle. "Take the road to the coast, let her run a little. Get the engine burned in. You're gonna like it."

"I've never been a car guy, clearly. When I drove across the country, that was by far the most continuous driving I've ever done in my life." Dante does as instructed, angling the sensible car with the now less-sensible engine towards the coastal road. At the compliment, he grins a little, "Mhmm, very kind of you. But in some ways, I suppose it's my armor. I feel quite naked in anything that doesn't feel stiff and make me slightly uncomfortable." He glances to Itzhak when it's safe to do so with a bit of a wicked glint in his eyes. "I suppose that makes me a masochist?"

The Yaris isn't on the level of, say, Itzhak's Corvette, or Ruiz's Charger. Itzhak didn't go that far with his tinkering. But it's got the oomf of a stock Mustang now, aroundabouts. Certainly a big step up from the previous horsepower.

The road is gleaming in the late afternoon soft-box light, evergreens and bare maples and aspens sticking their fingers into the grey sky. Itzhak, inevitably, turns red when Dante asks him that. "Uh, well, it makes you the most British guy I ever met personally," he says, grin going lopsided. "I dunno about the masochism unless you, yannow..." he waves one inked hand vaguely, like Dante should know what he means. That's pretty British in itself!

That's the funny thing about Dante. When he's the one dabbling in innuendo, he's all shark-smiles and twinkly eyes. But when he stumbles into it or someone kicks it back, he's the one turning red. Right now he's in smile mode as he presses on the gas. He does have to pull it back a few times, because his previous gas-position is too much for the new power. "It's a good thing I didn't have this power on my cross-country trip. I would have been pulled over more than once. And my accent only gets me out of tickets so many times." He will, kindly, let any talk of masochism lie.

"I did. Drove from New York in my Stingray. Mayyybe got pulled over more than once myself." Itzhak's eyebrows are up, fondly reminiscing. "I can't help it, I see a long flat road hundreds of miles long and my foot just hits the floor. God that was good. Truckers'll watch out for ya if you respect 'em, flash you when they know Smokey's lying in wait." He slides another sly sidelong look at Dante, gauging. "So whaddaya think?"

"Smoky's lying in wait? The police?" Dante lilts over the slang word like it's a totally foreign thing in his mouth. As for what he thinks? He keeps the speed up into the lazy curve of the road and feels the responsiveness. "What do I think? Well, it's considerably more than expected. I was thinking it would just be something that would take me to get my groceries."

*"East-bound and down, loaded up and truckin',

We're gonna do what they say can't be done!

We got a long way to go and a short time to get there

We're east-bound, just watch ol' Bandit run!"*

Itzhak's bursting into song! His voice is very good, rough and rock'n'roll, tuneful, on-key. "Yeah, the police. The ones who know idiots like me with a fast car like to open the throttle." He nudges Dante with an elbow, bony under the layers of hoodie and shirt(s). "We got a lotta country out here worth drivin' through. Seriously, if it's too much I'll take her back down. I was just like, man, as long as I'm tearin' her apart...you know?"

Dante laughs. It's a happy-amused sound rather than at anything in particular. "I'd sing along if I knew the words. My repertoire is mostly old jazz standards and an embarrasing amount of nineties music." He revs the engine as they take another corner. "Oh, I'm not complaining. It'll just take a little getting used to. I supposed I should learn how to handle American...cars." There's a wee bit of a pregnant pause there.

Whoosh, Itzhak turns red again. He's more responsive than the damn car to such tiny suggestive pauses. His fingers flex like he could really use a cigarette, then he stuffs his hands into the hoodie's kangaroo pocket. "So, uh, you plannin' on staying? This town does that to ya." But he perks up when Dante mentions embarrassing amount of 90s music. "Yeah? Whaddya like? You like some U2? Michael Jackson? New Kids On The Block?"

Dante's little devil's smile twitches upwards, but as before, he doesn't point anything out. "Mhmm, it seems your town has a hold on me. I've asked about a longer term lease on my flat, as a matter of fact. Something brought me here, and that something seems like it wants to keep me." As for the question of nineties music? "Radiohead. Cranberries." Crahhn-berries. "Smashing Pumpkins. Nirvana, of course. Beastie Boys, though there's some argument to whether the eighties really lay claim to them. Oasis was hard to get away from on my side of the pond."

"My town, it ain't my town. My town's New York City. ...Except, it's my town now," Itzhak admits, grumbling. "Stupid fuckin' Gray Harbor. I wasn't plannin' on staying. Except now I am. Oy gevalt." He frees a hand to rub his forehead in a most chagrined fashion. "You can't get a chorizo burrito past nine PM, there ain't no public transport to speak of, and the wildlife ain't just bears and deer if you know what I mean. And yet here I fuckin' am." He shrugs with eyebrows alone in the Yiddish way. "Met people I can't get along without, here. Crazy, huh?" Then he's digging out his phone and pulling up music, popping open the glove compartment to rummage for a quarter-inch cable, like it's HIS damn car.

"You can't get a good curry anywhere. The grocery store doesn't sell lamb. There's practically nowhere to buy anything designer. And there's no theatre." Then Dante chuckles and shakes his head. "Wow, that made me sound like a very particular type of person, didn't it?" His glove compartment, like most of the things in his life, is perpetually neat. He sees what Itzhak is after, and pops the compartment on the armrest to reveal a neatly coiled purple cable that feeds into the stereo system from there. "Should I turn round soon? Lest I be accused of kidnapping you."

"Made you sound like an incredibly gay person," Itzhak says, snatching up the cable and plugging it in and closing the glove compartment all in the same rapid motion. Fiddlers got fast hands. "But you oughta know I don't mind that none." Not when he's been responding to Dante's flirting like he has, it's pretty obvious. Then he glances over, setting the quarter-inch jack into the headphone port on his phone, and half-smiles a little. "Couple songs, how about that? You can bring me back by curfew."

Dante chuckles warmly. "Well, yes, that. Though I do know some straight men who would have the same complaints about this town, thank you very much. But yet, here I stay." He gestures, while keeping his hands at ten and two. Because he's a responsible driver. He sidelong glances as Itzhak plugs in his phone. "Only because I'm curious what you're about to choose for Carpool Karaoke: Gray Harbor edition."

Itzhak scrolls through his phone, tapping and flicking. When he hits play, it's 'Creep' that queues up. The classic.

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry...

For answer, Itzhak sings along, crooning through the lower parts, lifting his voice to a soulful cry for the wailing parts.

Dante tosses his head back and grins at the song choice. He joins in. There's something old fashioned about his voice, which explains partially why he angles towards old jazz standards. It goes a bit nasal at points, but he hits the notes well, and sweetly. His voice is too old fashioned and sweet, in fact, to suit with the original, edgy version of the song. But the proper grunger emotion is there - even though he's impossibly far from one of those in a three-piece suit and a camel wool coat.

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
And I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special

Itzhak swings into the chorus. He's got no problem grunging the place up, rough edges in his voice suiting the song perfectly. But he doesn't just sing along. He harmonizes with Dante, picking a register that lets Dante's sweeter voice shine, and he does it with absent skill. Dude can sing!

But I'm a creeeeeeeep I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here...

The Pacific Northwest sun sinks away, somewhere beyond the gloom, and the sharp border between afternoon and night creeps up the road, and there are no stars.

Dante may not have the most sophisticated voice, but he has control over what he has. And he can croon the falsetto with a surprising amount of skill. The harmonies are strong, too. It sounds like someone who was raised singing in choirs - but someone who wasn't content to be in the background and wanted to stand out. Which is, in fact, accurate.

I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special...

Test drive karaoke! Itzhak sings that song aalllll the fukkin' way through, with all the flourishes and whines and croons and groans, which he can really get his nose into. Like a resonance chamber is that thing. When it fades, he laughs in uncomplicated delight, those crow's-feet showing again. "Aw man. Awesome."

On Dante's part, it was a bit like hearing a member of the Rat Pack sing Radiohead, but he does his best to make it work. And it's clear the song is a favourite, because he knows all the words. When the last note sings out, he says, "You're very good. That song was definitely better suited to your pipes than mine."

"Hey, thanks. I dunno, though, you ever heard this kinda smoky jazzy cover by a band called Postmodern Jukebox? Your voice reminds me of that. I couldn't sing like you so it all comes out in the wash, that's a thing British guys say, right?" Oh no, sing along with him and Itzhak suddenly goes downright garrulous. He's got a loud mouth to start out with, and now he's switched it into high. "Done a lotta backing vocals in my time," he's saying, scrolling through Spotify, "got dece at it. Hard to play a fiddle and sing at the same time, but I got used to it. The Cajuns know a lotta little tricks to free up your throat, too. You sing in a choir or something?"

"Oh yes, I've binged my share of Postmodern Jukebox when I should be writing. And I think more than us Brits say that." Dante looks up ahead, keeping his eye out for a spot to turn around since they're getting quite far out of town at this point. Then, "Guilty. Yes. First at Eton, and then at Oxford. And yes, I'm aware of how horribly cliche it is that I attended that pair of schools. But that's what happens when you've got a musty old name and you've a father who is hell bent on maintaining tradition."

"Is that cliche?" Itzhak asks in honest interest, gray-hazels flicking over to Dante from his phone. "I dunno what Eton is, but even a New York public school kid like me knows what Oxford is. I couldn't point to it on a map, though." The road here is empty, although the shoulders aren't wide, but there's enough room to safely turn around. The road goes up and down, hill after hill, lined with evergreens. "So tell me about it."

"Eton was the kind of school that Hogwarts was modeled after. Well," Dante head-wobbles, then navigates the car so he can turn around safely. Then he eases the car back onto the road and starts them back towards Gray Harbor proper. "Schools in general in the UK, really. But it's what you'd call a private school. Boarding school. With houses and robes and funny traditions. Except Eton is an all-boys school. There are many other schools that are co-ed though."

"Oh, yeah, like in Harry Potter." Itzhak, like so, so very many Americans, only knows what boarding schools are like from that series. "Always struck me as a pretty good opportunity to get with other guys, to be real honest. God knows if I was in high school and had to live with a bunch of other guys, I'da got up to something. And your whole school was guys? Man. That sounds crazy to me. No girls around at all?"

"Some of the staff were women, but no women students, no. But it's not like we were cloistered." Dante remains mum on the comment about 'getting with' his fellow students. But there's a little grin on his face, visible even in the darkening car. "It's a peculiar place. It was set up by King Henry the sixth, and it's been a place that's nurtured royalty and prime ministers. So most of the boys were from stuffy old families. Like mine, but we've been broke for a generation. I got in on scholarship, and I had to work for it. Taylor men have been going for hundreds of years, and if I hadn't gotten in with financial assistance, I think my father's heart would have split clean in two."

Itzhak grunts. "Like my pop if I didn't get bar mitzvahed. Nobody asked me if I felt like goin' to Hebrew school. Not that it was bad, just boring and they made me sit still a lot. ...Hundreds of years, man, there's hardly anyplace in New York that old anymore. Aside from New York itself, but it's like a snake shedding, you know? Same underneath, outgrows the old layer, sheds it off, seems brand new." Despite running his motormouth, he's listening with genuine interest. Maybe he likes the sound of Dante's voice (he does), maybe he likes stories (he does).

"The whole history of my schooling is slightly embarrassing, really. It's all so cliche' and stuffy." Yes, Dante is embarrassed by going to an elite private school and an elite university. He doesn't always hear himself. "I'm not a fan of carrying on traditions for their own sakes. But I can understand why it would be important in some circumstances. But if the stuffy English establishment is under threat, it's rather because it deserves to be." Then, "What part of New York are you from? I don't know the city well, but I've an idea of the relative location of the boroughs."

"What's embarrassing about it?" Itzhak says, curious. He really is curious, too. "Like, what, did you get sorted into Slytherin or somethin'?" Like he knows ANYTHING about British schooling, because he doesn't. But he's happy to talk about his home town, too. "Manhattan. I'm from the Lower East Side, that's by the bridge, across from Brooklyn. Used to be one hundred percent Jewish there, but when people started getting money in the sixties, lots of us moved out. Mostly Latino types there now, along with my family and some other Jewish families ain't been able to run off. Dunno for how long, though. The gentrification there is bugfuck nuts."

"What's embarrassing is that my entire history of schooling is gentrification," says Dante with a self-deprecating sort of half-chuckle. "Take the Martha's Vineyard-going WASPs who send their kids to Yale and Harvard and add in hundreds of years of history and ties to royalty, and you've got the sort of environment I come from. But imagine that WASPy family lost most of its money a generation ago but are in denial and still want their kids to go to these fancy schools." He exhales and shakes his head, casting a sidelong look at Itzhak. "Perhaps we should have stuck to crooning hits of the nineties, ay?"

"Ooh," Itzhak says, eyes going wide. "Oooookay, I get ya. Yeah most of us don't like them types. Synonym for 'douchebag'. I get it." At...least he's honest? That same honesty informs his tone when he says, "What, why? This is super interesting. ...I didn't mean to call you a douchebag. Obviously you're not. If you were a douchebag you wouldn't bother even askin' some schlub mechanic about where he comes from. Uh, but if you want, I can queue up some Beastie Boys."

"Ah, even if you were, you wouldn't be the first one. I have a thick skin, no worries. You don't go to the shop in a three-piece suit and not expect a bit of judgment." Dante sends a warm look Itzhak's way, with a smile that's meant to be reassuring. "Some good friends of mine have called me a douche at one time or another." Then, "I feel as if I've been talking about myself a great deal. When really, I should be a proper inquisitve writer and ask you more about yourself." And then, a beat, "Oh, better not. You really don't want to hear me attempt to rap."

Itzhak frowns over at Dante, seeming actually puzzled. "Judgement, why? You seen what Byron Thorne swans around in? I fix his Rolls. Hya Addington is a damn work of art, with that leg of hers. And my girlfriend, Bex Carr, Christ can she put together a look. And they all come to the shop. So don't worry on that account." He observes the smile, then returns it, a little bashfully. "Okay, no rap, then, but...I mean, statistically speaking a lot of people are from New York. Not so many people are English upper crust types. That's pretty cool."

"Ah, just some assumptions about what type of person I might be, because I put money into my clothes. I understand it," and Dante honestly doesn't seem bothered. "But it makes me feel good, so I do it. It took me awhile to come to that. My agent had me in cable knit sweaters with mussy hair and always wearing my glasses because she said that made me look more like a horror writer." He takes a corner and grins a little at the way the car is performing. He's getting used to it. "And trust me, if you were to come to my hometown? You'd be the exotic and fascinating one. I'm just out of context here."

Itzhak may have, while he was at it, rebalanced the tires and given the whole shebang a hell of a tune up. The thing drives like a new car. "Aww," he says, grinning at Dante and obviously picturing that look. "Bet you were adorable. I like your normal look better though. What's a horror writer supposed to look like anyway? That don't make no sense." He snorts half a laugh, looks back at the dark road. "Not gonna lie, I'm kinda exotic here too. They never seen such a good schnozz in this town." Playfully he taps said schnozz, which really is a magnificent beak of a protuberance.

"Just pick up an older copy of my first couple of novels and you'll see the look in all its glory. I think they wanted me to look like I lived in Maine and was neighbours with Stephen King. Which is foolishness, because the moment you get me into an interview, especially early in my career, you could tell I couldn't even point out Maine properly on a map." He glances over and smiles, then taps his own - which is not exactly tiny but doesn't win the schnozz contest by any means. "I appreciate a good nose. Certainly put to good use when you sing."

Itzhak tips his head, one shoulder, and one eyebrow, in a 'yeah well' kind of gesture, the corners of his expressive mouth turned up. "You are way too handsome, maybe they thought you'd get screaming fans mobbing your house if they showed you how you usually dress. Had to let the heat die down." Now he's teasing him back. Sweet revenge!

Dante angles the car up and into the parking lot of the garage from whence they came. It's hard to tell in the darkness of the cab, but there might be a little colour in his cheeks. There is sort of an aw-shucks look on his face though. "Well, one of the looks is authentic. I don't really do casual. I'll put on a suit to work at home. Yes, I'm that sort of weirdo."

"I like weirdoes," Itzhak says. He unplugs his phone, whips the aux cable into a neat circle, and puts it back in the console. "So that's okay by me. Bex does too. Weirdo." His tone is so fond. Thwapping Dante lightly on the shoulder, he quirks his eyebrows at him interrogatively. "So whaddaya say? You wanna keep her?"

"Weird people are the most fascinating. And mine is a business of characters." Dante chuckles and raps long fingers on the steering wheel. "I suppose I must. And I find it rather amusing that I've ended up with new car in all but basic form. At least the seat is moulded to my arse?"

Itzhak grins, and this expression is satisfied. Aw yeah. Another potential devotee to the church of the V8. "Don't go spreadin' it around to any other mechanics. They get jealous." He hops out, turns and ducks to peer at Dante. "Was good doin' business with ya. You wanna get a drink sometime? ...Not as a date," he has to add.

"Well, no danger there seeing as I don't know any other mechanics. Shall I drive this new Yaris off the lot before you tell me the damage?" And then, there's talk of drinks. Dante shakes his head and chuckles at the addendum. "Certainly. And considering you mentioned a girlfriend, I wasn't going to misinterpret that."

"Hah. Nice try, but I got your email and your credit card number. I already wrote you a quote, anyway." Itzhak thumps the roof of the Yaris. "You got my number. Text me." Then, in a fine display of New York manners, he shuts the door and jogs up to the garage without a backwards glance.