2019-12-27 - The Good Ol' Days

Snow has a way of muffling noise, making the sounds of the boats moored along the dock seem distant. Some of the picnic areas have little metal canopies, and at one of the tables, someone is sitting, smoking, and watching the snowfall. He's got a little lantern set on the table, the LED a blue-white pinpoint of light casting its glow out into the gathering dusk.

Joe's gazing dreamily into the swirling eddies, as if he'd divine something in the pattern. There's the flare and ebb of a cigarette ember, illuminating his face now and again. He's comfortably bundled up in a greatcoat and a white scarf, no hat, though.

Crunch crunch crunch. Someone is walking through the snow. Itzhak, also bundled in peacoat, scarf, knit cap crammed on over his curls, and hands deep in his coat pockets, stomps along. He makes the snow go crunch under his steel-toe workboots just for the pleasure of the sensation. Stomp stomp. He's so absorbed in this he almost doesn't realize Joseph is there. Not that there's a high level of visibility. When he does cotton on to him, he's close, and he blinks at him with a real 'where did YOU come from' air. "...Shit, didn't see ya there. Can't see nothin' through this snow. Uh. Don't lemme bother you."

"You know, where I'm from, we don't see snow from year to year. It snowed maybe.....twice? My entire childhood," Joe's voice is amiable, that dreaminess in his tone. "Novelty of it never has wore off." He looks over at Itz as if the fiddler had been expected. "You not botherin' me," he adds. "Room to sit if you want. I make a point of not smokin' on the boat, and somehow I just don't feel like bein' inside yet, either there or in the apartment. There's little enough daylight I already feel like a hibernatin' animal." Talkative, in a way he isn't when Ruiz is around.

Itzhak seems a little nervous, which might be odd, considering he was a swaggering bully when he and Ruiz came to talk to Joe on his boat. He fidgets with something in the pockets of his coat, standing there, tall and thin and with a hell of a beak sticking out of his face. "New York, it snows pretty good. Used to it. Not so used to there not being any goddamn light. Like living under a blanket." He crunches closer, for ease of conversation, and produces a cigarette of his own. "Where ya from? South somewhere?" All awkward meetings can be smoothed over by smoking.

There's the clink-pop of a Zippo being lit, and Joe leans up to light his cigarette for him. He, for his part, seems perfectly at ease. If anything, maybe a little too much so. The flame's light catches in eyes where the pupils are firmly refusing to unspool, despite the general dimness. "I went to school in Boston, so I got used to dealin with it damn fast. But the idea of it....no. I'm from Savannah, down on the Georgia coast. Warm, nearly all year 'round."

Itzhak leans over to inhale the cigarette to life, mutters a syllable of thanks. He straightens up, blows a plume of smoke and condensed breath into the snowy air. Snow lands on his eyelashes and that magnificent schnozz; he wipes his face. "That's right," dat's right, "ya mentioned Boston. Irish punk. Georgia, huh? Accent's sure pretty." His own accent could curdle milk. "I'd ask what brings you to this podunk town, but I already know the answer."

The magnetic pull that Gray Harbor has for those who shine, is what Itzhak means.

Joseph gestures him to come in under the canopy, even if he won't sit. "I don't bite," he says, "Not unless badly provoked." An upnod for that, a little smile, lids drooping sleepily. "Thank you," he says. "Folks tend to like it. Could be worse - I could be some hillbilly from the mountains. You should hear those guys." He glances back out to the snow, the shifting veils. "Yeah," he says, after a long drag on his cigarette. "'s weird - I got into that boat in Savannah eighteen months ago, and I could.....could feel the pull, like a compass needle here." He taps his chest with his free hand, over the heart. "Then I got here and it stopped." A pause, and he says, clearly quoting, "....what you thought you came for is only a shell, a husk of meaning from which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled, if at all."

Itzhak sidles closer, then does sit, with a little yip and a wince. "CHRIST that's cold," he says, laughing under his breath. "Yeah, uh, them guys from the mountains, they make mountain music, I love that stuff. All the great folk music of the Eastern Seaboard, yannow? Cape Breton on down to Louisiana." He huddles in his coat, squinting into the soft bright of the falling snow, draws on his cigarette to make the cherry glow. Grunts, when Joseph tells him about the pull. Then Joe is quoting something, and Itzhak quietly listens, turning his head to catch his voice with one ear. "What's that from?"

"Yeah, a fiddler would know, huh?" Joe says, with a little laugh. "'s good stuff. All the various flavors mixed together. Got no musical trainin' myself, little envious of those who do." He blows smoke out to mingle with the snowy air. "Eliot, poem called Little Gidding. I feel like a lot of his stuff fits that other place, somehow. I wonder if he knew it. Sometimes I feel pretty sure that he did - that he saw truly and well. I imagine poets tend to shine more than most."

"A fiddler would know." A faint ghost of a smile graces Itzhak's expressive mouth. He taps the ash off his smoke. "Yeah. Especially them Irish guys, right? Half-crazy to start out with." But it's fond, a fellow artist's appreciation for artistic madness. "That poem at the open mic night," he goes on, quieter. "I dunno who wrote it. Keep meaning to look it up. But..." he shakes his head. "It was about Them, all right."

A moment's pause, then he glances at Joe sidelong. "Uh, look. I was an asshole to you. More than usual. I don't even have an excuse, except sometimes, this place, it makes you act weird. So. Sorry."

"That girl didn't write it. I used'a know it, know of it," Joe's brow has furrowed, and he sets the cigarette down. There's a cheap little metal ashtray there, the nearly disposable kind. "I couldn't remember it well enough to google it, though." The musician's gotten his roman-nose profile, for the most part, but at the apology, he turns to look at Itz, bemused. "Nothin' to apologize about. You didn't hurt me. But I understand. There are a lot of influences here for those who shine, both subtle and gross."

Itzhak's huge crooked nose is still pointed out to sea, but he's looking at Joseph sideways, under thick black lashes dewed with melted snow. "Subtle and gross. Great way to put it. I...look, I know I didn't hurt you but..." His shoulders hitch. "Eh. As long as we're good."

"We're good. Believe me, I've had people be a lot worse to me, I'm hard to bother or offend," Joe's voice is gentle, as he snags the cigarette again, between first and second fingers, takes another long drag. Unfiltered Luckies, God help him. There's something almost humorous in his face, something in the lines there. "Where'd you learn to fiddle?"

"Yeah, well, if you put up with de la Vega, you must be hard to offend." A corner of Itzhak's mouth curls up. Again, there's affection there. He's just shit-talking in the Yiddish fashion, insulting people he likes. "Uh. Got into a nonprofit program when I was fourteen. Classical training. Played in a youth orchestra a while. I got kinda tired of the mishegoss of it, all you can't do this and you can't do that because tradition." Snort. "Buncha old white guys get the fuckin' vapors if you tap your foot to the beat. Got into folk music. You learn to fiddle from other old guys, but those guys are havin' a good time, and they tell ya, swing it harder, boychik! Way more fun."

He snorts, taps ash into the ashtray. "I was Navy - sailors and Marines are not known for their sweet speech or gentle manners," Joe says, and his voice is all rueful humor. "I still have to censor myself a whole damn lot around civilians. Too used to being a member of a tribe where 'fuck' is adjective, noun, adverb, command, prayer, and commentary, and thus sufficient for nearly any linguistic need."

There's that slow smile. "I'll bet. So you were trained as a violinist, but you ended up a fiddler, if that isn't too fine a distinction. Have you ever heard someone play a Hardanger fiddle?"

"Bein' from New York is kinda like that too, with the fucks." Itzhak's almost half-grinning, lopsided. "Pretty big distinction between violinists and fiddlers, actually," he adds, perking up because Joseph is asking him about the most important topic in his life. Hope Joseph wants a lecture, since here it comes. "Classically trained, you can't improvise. They teach you to be a robot, shape your playing real exact, you know? Makes clean technique, lets you play some of that stupid complicated stuff that assholes like Paganini wrote. You learn to move fast and precise. Fiddlin', it's alllll about the improvisation, the flourishes, the ornaments."

Itzhak's left hand, holding the cigarette, 'DOWN' in ink on his knuckles, starts gesturing, drawing in the air with the smoke. "Songs are only kinda written down, and weren't for hundreds of years. They're just a frame you hang a bunch of your personal style on. Fiddling is made for dancing. A lot of fiddlers call the dance, too, so you gotta be able to shout while playing. --Hardinger fiddle, you fuckin' bet I have." He's SO EXCITED, and finally looks at Joseph (but not his eyes, more at his shoulder). "I even got to play one once, but man, those things are complicated and weird! That sound though. Nothin' like it."

He's spent a lot of his working life among engineers....and thus some of those body language quirks are familiar. Joe's looking at him steadily now, blue eyes level, smiling. "I thought it might be something like that. Two very divergent schools of thought. Glad to hear it confirmed." His head bobs in agreement. "Yeah. The drone strings make it sound really distinctive. What about electric violin? Long time ago, when I was in England, I came across a guy with an electric. Damn thing was bright purple, but he was an amazing player. Name's...." He taps his temple with a thumb. "Alleyne-Johnson. Still playing, and you can buy his music online. What's your favorite song to play?"

Itzhak wobbles that hand back and forth in the classic Yiddish 'ehhhhh'. He's lit up now, shyness forgotten. "I even have an electric violin, but to be honest, they're boring to play. No need to control the intonation, since there ain't no intonation to begin with. Mostly I use it when I need to convince a crowd they're gonna have fun and not get beat over the head with 'Culture'." Air quotes. "A real violin sings in your hands, you feel the resonance. It's alive. Sometimes a violin got pickups built in and you can plug 'em into an amp, I got a mandolin like that, but even that kinda weighs it down. In my opinion. Which is correct."

Itzhak's taking in breath to start on his next speech, but he stops, abruptly, and blushes red. "Uh. I'm sure runnin' my yap at you."

"Yeah," Joe says, smile warming. He stubs out the butt, leaves it, doesn't light another. "Wondered if it might be like that. Lacks subtlety and warmth, huh? In a digital age, analog things seem the richer for the contrast. But then, I'm biased, I'm from the last analog generation. So, you play fiddle and mandolin? Anything else?"

The pause makes him blink. "No," he says. "Trust me, you are not. You're talking about a passion, and that's never boring. Well, almost never." That rueful curl to his lips. "I mean, if you want someone to bore the everliving fuck out of you, deal with politicians. That's runnin' your yap."

Itzhak is bright red, and slews his gaze away. Embarrassment comes off him in waves. "Uh, well. Yannow," he mutters. He takes a moment to finish the cigarette and stub it out in the little ashtray. "Not everybody wants to listen to some jerk flappin' his jaw about violins. Yeah, mandolin, it's set up almost exactly like a fiddle, except eight strings instead of four. Tuned the same, G D A E. So you kinda get it as a bonus, just need to learn the picking. Your turn, tell me about..." Itzhak's eyes stray to the water. "De la Vega said you're a pilot. What's that like?"

"I like it. You're versed in a world I know very little about," Joe's voice is mild. "So don't ever feel that I'd be bored by it. I like talking to people, hearing their stories... See? I didn't know that. I know I like the sound of a mandolin, in everything from folk music to rock...."

Then Itz asked that question, and there's a hint of wistfulness in the blue eyes. He goes through the ritual of fishing out cigarettes and lighter, lighting up, before he answers it. Tone still gentle, he corrects, "I was a pilot. Now I'm retired. What I did, specifically, was fly jets off aircraft carriers. The glib simile I used to use all the time, when not in polite company, was that it's like getting to make a living by fucking and crashing cars."

The flash of a very wicked grin, a hint of the fighter jock he must've been. "See, carrier launches are catapult assissted. There's a great big thing under the deck that throws you forward like a dart at a board so you have enough velocity to be airborne by the time you're off the deck - there isn't room enough to do it naturally, like on a land-based runway. A carrier landing is arrested - carrier aircraft have a thing at the back called the tailhook, and the hook catches on these huge wires that stops you cold, so you don't just slide right forward off the deck. But acceleration and deceleration like that - it's hard on the body. It really does feel like a car crash. I loved it, though. It's the highest adrenaline flying there is." A deep drag, and he exhales through his nostrils. "Like....the movie everyone always thinks of is Top Gun. And while there's a lot in that movie that's straight up bunk, the one thing it got right is that naval pilots are a bunch of arrogant jerkasses, because we are the best and we know it."

Itzhak listens, eyes on Joe's cigarette more than Joe himself. He doesn't seem to look him in the eye much at all, not even in the face. But he is listening, intent, with a musician's keen ear. "Oh, man," he breathes, eyes wide with interest, staring at Joe's hand. "Oh man that must be amazing. I like fast cars, but I ain't ever got to ride something like that. Love that acceleration, but pullin' that many Gs? Never done it. ...Bet I could." A gleam shines in his gray hazel eyes. "I just bet I fuckin' could. I know how to be tough." ...Weird turn of phrase, that.

Then he snorts and he does glance at Joe's face, just for a second. "Shit, nothin' wrong with being an arrogant jerkass because you know you're the best. You got to fly fighter jets off aircraft carriers, that's way more than enough to justify bein' a jerkass."

He waves a hand, magnanimously. "Exactly," he says. "Yeah. It's about the most amazing ride there is." Then there's a chuckle from him, low and throaty. "You can get a hint of the sensation of a carrier launch at Disneyworld. In the Hollywood park, they have an indoor rollercoaster....got a rock and roll theme. And since they didn't have space to have the coaster get speed by goin' up a big ol' hill like usual, they use a modified catapult system to just sling you forward. It's a fun ride, one of my favorites at the parks."

Silent laughter as he looks down at his boots. "I dunno. We liked to think that this one skill somehow made us gods fit to decree to men. De la Vega himself has probably punched me for my lip a dozen times, let alone the rest of his brothers in the Marine Corps."

"Never been," Itzhak says, about Disneyworld, still fascinated. "Sounds fun as hell." He laughs, too, this time easier, more relaxed. "Yeah, well, de la Vega's a punchy kinda guy. That's how he says hello." He shifts position, stretching long skinny legs in front of him, crossing his boots at the ankle, elbow on the tabletop. "You'n him served together. What was he like, then?" There's aching curiosity in Itzhak's voice; he tries to ask that casually, but kinda fails.

Well, he knew this question had to come, sooner or later...and he has been trying to come up with an answer to have ready for it. "Yeah, we used to go to Disney every few years as a kid. I'm from a big family, and Savannah ain't an unreasonable day's drive from Orlando."

Then he tips his head back to blow a smoke ring, watches it be subsumed by the roil of snow. "Listen, lemme explain some things first about military culture, since I dunno if he has." He lifts a long finger, "One: he was a Marine, I was Navy. Technically, the Marines are just part of the Navy, but they get real bitchy when you remind them of that. Marines do many things, a lot of them land-based, so you'll have Marines in places you won't find Navy, 'cept maybe SEALS, but SEALS are a whole 'nother bag of chips and I won't get into them, other than to say they make fighter pilots look as humble as monks."

Two fingers, V for Victory, "Navy pilots are officers. De la Vega was an enlisted Marine. Officer vs. enlisted is the big military social divide. A brand new ignorant officer can order around the most experienced enlisted man in any given branch. We don't generally socialize, save in a few very specific situations. It's forbidden, actually, by law."

"All of this is a big, long-winded way of saying I didn't serve with him in the sense of seeing him on a regular basis. Even when we were on the same ship, which we were once - an aircraft carrier's like a small town. But big enough to be a town. Most of the times I encountered him were in shore, getting into barfights. With one notable exception."

"He don't talk about it," Itzhak murmurs. "My pop was in the Army. He didn't talk about it neither." Then he goes quiet, listening again with that intensity. He soaks up all that information like thirsty sandstone. A surprised glance when Joe says it's actually against the law for officers and enlisted to socialize. All the war movies he's ever seen didn't seem to address that. (Not to mention that apparently Ruiz got away with punching Joseph.) But he laughs quiet and rough. "Barfights, huh. Yeah, that sounds like him." His eyebrows go up, silently urging Joe to go on.

"Yeah. Basically, up to a point, all I'd seen of him was just another angry, tattooed, violent Mexican Marine. There's a whole lotta dudes in the Corps with names like Garcia and Ramirez."

Back to gazing out into the shifting veils of snow, the lights of the dock and its boats shimmering through the lowering dimness of the afternoon. "The exception, however, was when I had to eject over Afghanistan. I was in a very remote part of the country, and the nearest American force were Marines. De la Vega was one of them. It's not an exaggeration to say that he saved my life many times over. A pilot on the ground ain't much use in a fight, much as it galls me to say it, and we were in real hostile territory. I was wounded in the descent, no less."

"Oh shit," Itzhak says, impressed, eyes big. "Wow. Just. Fuckin' wow." Refocusing, he looks at Joe's face and away, again, just taking in some data. "I mean. It was probably pretty fuckin' bad while it was happening. Not to sound like you nearly dying is the coolest thing ever." Except it kind of is. "Man, you lived a life. You and him both. When did you retire?"

There's a frank guffaw from Joe at that. "Yeah. It was definitely one of those things that's just hell to live through but makes for a great story after. I gunned my hardest for those guys to get medals and I think some did, they all deserved it. See, that's the thing. De la Vega an' me, we're not friends. We don't send each other Christmas cards, and if you asked him, I bet he'd still say I was a bitchy princess with an ego the size of Texas. It's not a matter of likin' each other. But much as people like to flap their gums about what a brotherhood service under fire creates, they ain't wrong. I owe him, much as he hates the idea."

He finishes the second cigarette in one long pull, grinds it out again. "Three years ago. Really, four. I was in a wreck and got all jacked up - that's what. You can't fly if you can't take the Gs anymore. Spent about a year in therapy, then I got my medical discharge...." His gaze drops to the dark waters of the bay - there's that remoteness there again.

Itzhak snorts, taken by surprise at 'bitchy princess', and laughs against the back of his hand. "Also sounds like him. Well, if you ain't friends, and I believe it because he is not friends with a whole lotta people, at least sounds like you know him pretty good." He digs out another cigarette, himself. It's fucking cold and he needs something to do with his hands. Grimaces, then, risking another look at Joe's face. Remoteness returned. Bad topic. Itzhak should change the subject. "So whaddaya do with yourself now?"

He runs a fingertip along the line of an eyebrow, presses in where the nerve runs over the orbit, at the inner corner. "Well, when I got out...." And his voice has slowed, the drawl heavier, "I was in bad shape, even after the therapy. And....mentally, not great. I had some brain damage from the wreck, too. I started to....lose touch with things, to wander in to dark places. I know now that it was Them, at least, a lot of it was, 'cause I was new to Glimmer. Then, I just thought I was goin' crazy. Tried a suicide attempt, ended up in the Asylum."

"That's when you started singing?" Itzhak nods. He doesn't light the cigarette just yet, flipping it over in his long calloused fingers. "People talk about a shine, but I hear a song." He taps one ear, then--spits three times to the side, ritually warding off the mention of Them. "Yeah," he mutters. "They can hear you when you're messed up. Come sniffin' around. Easy prey." The thought makes him fidget, one boot beginning to jiggle.

His hazel eyes flick to Joe's forearms, when he mentions his suicide attempt. Yeah, he'd recognized those scars when he'd seen them on the boat (and studied them to his cranky heart's content, too). "Fuckin' sucks," he mutters. There's no pity in him, none. Only an acknowledgement that life fuckin' sucks. "You got out, though?"

IT takes him a long moment to reply. For a moment, he's somewhere else entirely. Thgen he looks over. "Yeah. They found me, had themselves a grand ol' time. And then moreso in the Asylum." He looks haunted, that's the only word for it. A bob of his head. "Yeah. They drank me dry or whatever, let me go. I rested in Savannah a while, still got a lot of family there...."

Itzhak grunts in response. His, it must be said, isn't a comfortable presence. He's all sharp, prickly angles and too-keen interest and not nearly enough sympathy for anything. Not a comfortable man to be around. Nonetheless, he seems to know how to let Joseph have that moment, and more moments too if he needs. Itzhak lets the silence stretch. Silence is as important in music as notes.

Joseph visibly shakes himself out of it. "Anyhow, I set sail, and here I am," he says, more briskly. "Listen, you wanna go have a drink somewhere? I swear to god I won't end up sobbing into my beer about the good ol' days in the Navy." So, Ruiz hasn't said what Joe really ended up doing. Which means there are still maybe two people in town who know about his secondary (and tertiary, really) careers.

"Love to," Itzhak says, tucking away the unlit cigarette. "I'm freezin' my goddamn beytzim off out here. Lemme get you back, since you got me one last time, yeah?" He's relieved to get up, and shivers dramatically. "Hey, I asked about the good ol' days," he adds, dryly, quirking those expressive eyebrows.

Back to the usual smooth good nature. "Where you thinkin'? Two if By Sea?" he wonders, as he gets up and dusts himself off. Turns out the ashtray is an Altoid tin he takes with him, as if leaving no trace were important. "And I don't mind if you do. I promise I'm a cheap date," he adds, with a crooked grin.