2019-12-28 - Hell's Ditch

Itzhak pushes the door to the Twofer open, ahead of Joseph. A billow of freezing air coasts in with them, carrying along a swirl of snow. "You know Easton Marshall? Buddy a mine, he operates the joint. Still out of town on vacation. Slacker." Itzhak's cheerfully shit-talking his friends again, while he slithers out of his peacoat.

Joe's in his greatcoat, but he's also shrugging out of it as he comes in, to drape it over his arm. "Yeah, I met him a time or two, I think. He runs this place? Or does he own it?" The sailor seems a little vague on that front. Without the coat, he's in long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans....and he's moving stiffly, again. Definitely in need of some liquor to loosen up the joiints.

Jacob has been here for some time, a table, a bottle of Lagavulin, and a rocks glass all to himself. The doctor's not dressed in a manner that betrays his profession, just a t-shirt and jeans, but he's not exactly hiding his identity either. He doesn't stare at anything in particular, just kind of.. looking off into the distance in the bar, occasionally regarding some decoration on the wall, but not for very long.

"Uh, good question." Itzhak un-scarfs (his scarf is a thick, soft knit with a violin on the end, handsomely made), un-hats, un-gloves, stuffs all of the above in the pockets of his coat, and hangs it up. "He runs it, at least. Go on 'n order, my shout."

Kass was apparently on her way to somewhere or from somewhere, hurrying into the bar as an effort to thaw out from wherever she's been. Shaking herself off and brushing any stuck leaves from her, she shrugs out of the faded army coat and worn hoodie she's been bundled up in. Hanging up the paired items, she resettles the oversized sweater around her frame, making sure she's covered from neck to wrist. The first person she sees makes her smile, "Hey Joe!" almost immediately followed by the expression crumbling into a scowl at the sight of who is with him. "Oh. You." Making a 'tch' noise, she brushes right past the pair to head for the bar, holding that messenger bag close to her as she moves.

The flavor of the evening is apparently....bourbon, bourbon, bourbon, and more bourbon. For what Joe orders, once's he's settled himself in that gingerly hipshot fashion, is a Four Horsemen. He hangs up his coat, and his scarf; the latter white silk, as befits an aviator. Kass's greeting makes him look around with that smile. "Hey, Kass," he says, affably....only to look chagrined as she snubs Itz. "Oh, that's right," he says, with a sigh.

Itzhak gets brushed past on his way to the bar, and smirks. Very unpleasantly. A 'fuck you' kinda smirk if ever one graced a New Yorker's beaky face. He swags over to pull up a stool next to Joseph and coincidentally Jacob. The latter gets an upnod. "Hey, don't know you." So him inflicting himself on Joseph when Joe was first in town wasn't an anomaly! "Sidecar," is his order.

August steps in from outside, bundled up against the cold like the creaky old man he is. He's wearing a scarf not unlike Itzhak's, though his is a dark green and bronze brown, with a silvery, circular tree, roots bending back to the branches in a tree-of-life motif. He has a matching knit hat, a black snow jacket, denim jeans, and heavy hiking boots.

He spies various people he knows--Jacob, Joe, Itzhak--and Kass, whom he doesn't, but heads to the bar first. He's through the gauntlet of meeting his lady's parents, and now, he needs a damned beer. (He orders a black and tan.)

There is a chilly breath of wind coming in from the patio doors as they open, Cristobal stepping in through the void and quickly shutting the portal behind him. Unlike these other wise folks, he hasn't seemed to catch on that winter is in full swing, or is just poorly prepared for it. Instead, he's layered into a flannel shirt and jean jacket, sans gloves, scarf or hat as if he's clinging to the thought of warmer weather with his last hypothermic breath. He has a book in his hands, apparently bent on having a beer and a read but he spies at least one familiar face. Or at least one familiar aspect of one familiar face.

Jacob gives Itzhak a polite little wave in response to the nod. "Don't mind me. Just your friendly neighborhood doctor..man. Doctor." Hic. His bottle's about 1/4 down, and if for his not, well, experience in that department, he'd probably be a little worse off.

Regardless, he stands, collects his bottle and glass, and transfers over to a stool close to Itzhak and Joseph. Not immediately beside them, mind you. The unspoken rules when it comes to the men's room apply in the bar as well when it comes to people you don't know. When he takes a stool, he flags down a bartender for some fresh ice. It's all melted, and this place doesn't have the fancy ice rocks that don't melt (due to not actually being made of frozen water and all).

"How are you doing, Joe? Cold bothering?" Kass responds to Joseph with a smile and glance towards him with a lifted brow. She doesn't even acknowledge that Itzhak is there after that first muttered 'greeting'. August, when he enters, gets a considering look. They've met. And not in any sort of pleasant way. She glances around, looking almost fearful for a moment before shaking her head and turning to stare at the bar. When her turn comes around, she orders whatever beer on tap is cheap.

"Yeah, botherin' me some," Joe allows, without hesitation. "But I'm here to warm up," he adds, with that reckless grin. The question is how warm he'll end up. "You all right?" He doesn't seem disposed to try and push Itz and Kass to a reconciliation. August gets a lifted hand in greeting. "You really are the welcoming committee, aint'cha?" he says to the New Yorker, amused.

"What's shakin', Doctor Man," Itzhak says to Jacob, stretching over a long damn arm to offer a knuckle bump. "Rosencrantz. Nice ta meet ya." August comes in and then Cristobal and Itzhak stands up to wave them over. "Yo! Guys! Ya met Joe? This is Joe. Joe, that's Cris and Roen." Then he laughs, flushing a little, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm just rude, there's a difference. What'll you guys have, I'll spot ya a round."

Nodding, Kass flickers a brief smile towards Joe, "Sure. I was on my home from visiting a friend and needed a pit stop to warm up. Its gotten nasty out there." Lifting her beer, she practically spews it out when Itzhak claims to be 'rude', swallowing it and giving a snort. "Rude is putting it mildly."

August gives Joe and Itzhak an up-nod, raises a hand to Jacob. His expression flickers towards concern for the later briefly, but he's distracted from it by Kass' considerstion. He pauses a moment, seems to recognize her after a moment. He snorts at her comment about Itzhak, moves to join Itzhak and Joe, settling in next to Itzhak. "Yeah, we met briefly when you were schooling those brats the other night," he asides to Itzhak. To Joe, "How're you finding the town?" He unwraps his scarf, pulls off his hat, makes a cursory attempt at straightening his hair out.

Jacob extends his own arm to meet Itz's, though he goes for the handshake at first, having gone to return the more automatic gesture, but he manages to change to a fist bump at the last moment before making contact. Which is when he notices Itzhak's knuckle tattoo! "Wow, knuckle tattoo, huh? Impressive. You know how many nerves you got in there? It's a lot. Of nerves."

He pauses for a moment as he takes a drink from his glass, studying the man's face a bit longer. "Hell of a nose, too!" August's hand in greeting towards him gets one in return, as well to Cristobal as he enters the bar. "Hey, how's your head feeling? Looked like you had your bell rung pretty good the other day."

Cristobal heads over at the wave from Itzhak, but it's Jacob he's greeting first by whapping the man on the shoulder with the book he's holding, written by none other than Grey Harbor's own (on loan from England) Dante Taylor. "If it isn't my favorite doc who prescribes brownies for bell ringing. Head's right as rain, but my ribs still sound like breakfast cereal when I breath. That's normal, right? Snap, crackle, pop?" The others get a little upnod in greeting.

"Hi. I've seen you a couple times. I think? You were at the, uh... the holiday thing at the Kellys', right?" Kass offers to August with a small nod. She doesn't mention the other one. That one isn't for polite company. Instead, she takes a deep drink from her glass before turning towards the greetings for Cristobal. There's a brief smile and a lift of a hand for him. "Hey Cris." Him she knows from work. He helps make sure the customers keep their hands to themselves.

"Glad to see it," Joe says, gently. "Buy you a drink?" Since Itz is buying his. "Yeah, it's a mess." A darting glance between Itzhak and the redhead, but no commentary.

Then he nods at August. "I gave up and got an apartment in Bayside," he admits, almost shamefaced. Like he feels guilty for not heeding all the warnings he's been given. Cristobal gets a bright-eyed, curious look, and a lifted hand. It's a small town, and it makes sense that everyone knows each other.....but the way these things sems to come together bemuses him.

"Fuck yeah it's a lotta nerves and I swear that needle hit every goddamn one of 'em." Itzhak laughs as Jacob compliments, MAYBE?, his nose. "Best schnozz in town." He gets his sidecar and sips it, his gray-green-brown eyes bright. Yeah, small town, plus so many people shine. People who shine are drawn to each other, whether they actually like each other or not. "Bayside? I'd rather live in the murder hotel," he mutters. "You gettin' into trouble, Cruz?"

August arches an eyebrow at Kass as he has an initial reaction of 'Kelly's? Hell no'. But then he remembers the Jello Festival (how could he forget given the chaos?), and nods. "Yeah. I was there for that." A nod for Cristobal as well.

He makes a low sound at Joe's admission, smiling rueful and sympathetic, raises his newly delivered pint of Guiness and Bass. "Hell's empty, the devils are all here," he says, and has a sip.

Jacob snaps his fingers! "Right. Rib. My bad. I was thinking about the dude with the long black hair." The whap hits him real good, making him blink. "I mean, you kinda got your ass kicked in there, so I'm not surprised. Should heal after a while if you take it easy, or see a doc sometime. Should probably do that anyways, but that's just my opinion."

The doctor raises his glass in a pointing sort of gesture towards August. "Tree you donated for the auction looks amazing in the office. Very generous of you!" There's a sloppy, drunkard grin on his face with this.

The mention of the Bayside by Joseph makes him lean towards the.. sailor? And he gets out, "I've heard that the Bayside's pretty murdery too, but I'm still around. Not sure how true that is with all the security and all." he shrugs, and clinks his glass against Itzhak's with a laugh at the claim, jest or not. "Wouldn't surprise me if it was."

"Sure. Bourbon, neat. I'm not picky on the label." Kass responds to Joe with a smile, not about to turn down a free drink. She glances towards August and gives a small nod, "Thought so. Nice to meet you properly this time." Not that she's actually introduced herself. Leaning back, she looks towards Jacob and corrects, "That was Everett that took the blows to the head. But he's doing better, too." Leaning back in, she takes another drink from her beer, apparently quite happy to just sit and warm up and chat with people here and there without really engaging.

"Hey Kitty-Kass." Cris is much more easy smiles and paling around in public than he as at the club, where he's downright focused and stone faced. But today outside the dark rooms and neon he looks a little sad around the eyes as he lifts his book and taps on the author image on the back by way of answering Itzhak. "Little too much, looks like, Rosie. Another one bites the dust." He tosses the book onto the bar, then crooks a finger at the bartender to order a shot of bourbon with a beer back. "How's my plot of land, August? First thaw I'm headed over to start building the raised bed." In typical bar fashion, conversation jumps around like a frog on a frying pan, so to Jacob, "That mean you're volunteering to give me a physical, Doc?" He asks over, but his eyes are on Joe, as if still feeling the other fellow out.

"Bourbon it is. A lady with taste," Joe says, re: Kass's request. To August, he wonders, "The Bard, right? The Tempest? I don't think I qualify as even a minor devil. Lost soul, sure..."

Then he slants a look at Jacob. "Is it now? Well, it's the only place in town with an indoor pool, so I guess I'll just have to make do. I thought it seemed pretty secure." He seems ignorant of Cris's scrutiny....but comfortable in the company. Well on his way to becoming a regular here.

Itzhak squints at Cris, absolutely not picking up what he's laying down. This is all a bit too subtle for him. He gets the book, turns it over in his calloused, inked hands, investigating it with all his senses. The weight and heft of it and the way it displaces a certain volume of air and how it's made of fragile things only a little pressure from his will would break. "Well," he says to Cris, "order a fuckin' drink already, would ya?" Whatever's going on there, he can at least provide that. Then he snorts as Cris flirts with Jacob, giving Jacob a 'can you believe this guy' kinda hoist of his eyebrows. He hands the book to August.

Jacob squints at Cristobal, taking a drink from his glass of Lagavulin. Wait, didn't he get a bottle of Glenlivet 12? No. Bottles don't suddenly change brands on you. "I mean. It's what I do for a living, you know?" He wavers back and forth slightly in his stool. Okay. Maybe time to slow down on the drink for a bit. Oh wait a sec.

The doctor waves down a bartender and orders some of those tater tots. Probably won't need to catch them in his mouth this time, not that he's in any state where he could, but they sure seemed pretty tasty on trivia night. And he could probably use something in his stomach to soak up some of that whisky.

Leaning back towards Joseph, "That's what my real estate lady told me, anyways, only place in town with an indoor pool. A shame! Nice enough place though.

August chokes a little on Cris' question for Jacob, cuts a look at Jacob that makes a lot of assumptions. He accepts the book, reads the back, then the first page. He mmmmms, sets the book back down. "Doing fine. A few folks got their pre-freeze plants in, but mostly they're waiting for Spring."

A shrug for the 'murder hotel' comment. "Gotta live somewhere. If you don't mind being a ways from the water, there's those cabins. Unless Thorne locked you into a lease." He nods at Joe. "Ariel, quoting Ferdinand." He tilts his head at him, looking thoughtful. "So, you sailed in, you said? is that what you do, then--boatwright?"

The book getting passed around makes Cris a little uneasy for some reason so when August sets it back on the bar, he reaches over to pluck it back up, folding it partially in order to shove in his back pocket. He gets his beer and bourbon and toasts Itzhak with the latter before shooting it down and spinning the empty shot glass back onto the bar. "No offense, Doc, but I'm not sure you could tell my elbow from my asshole right now." A pause, "Boatwright. That's a ten dollar word right there. You a 'boatwright' Joe?" Cris echoes August's question.

Shrugging, Kass looks back to Joe and offers a wry half-smile. "Not so sure about the taste, but thanks." Then the most dreaded thing happens. Her cellphone goes off, the refrain from Jungle Love by Morris Day and the Time, making her groan and drop her head onto her arm. "And that would be work." Sighing heavily, she looks towards Joe and offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry Joe. That means I get to wrap back up and head back out and trek my way to Platinum. I'll owe you a bourbon next time we meet, kay?" Paying for her beer, she settles the sweater and moves to go squirm back into the hoodie and surplus store army coat.

"You want me to call a cab for ya?" Joe's momentarily distracted by Kass's impending departure, before he realizes that he's been asked about his profession. "I sailed in, yeah. On the Surprise, she's a li'l thirtysix footer. But I don't build boats, no," he says, shaking his head. "I'm retired Navy. Got my pension, goin' where the wind takes me." He doesn't look old enough to be retired, but if he went in in his teens...

Itzhak twists his head to watch Kass go, with a genuinely puzzled expression. Men: We Don't Know What We Did. Then he turns back around with a little hitch of one shoulder and one eyebrow, and drinks. "He sails that thing all by himself!" he says to Cris, August, and Jacob, enthusiastic that he knows something about Joe.

August watches Cris reclaim the book with a hooded look. He nods at Jacob. "True, the cabins are a little less posh. Cheaper, though. And, no murders." Not yet, his tone implies.

He coughs a laugh at Joe, then Itzhak. "A little thirty-six footer," he echoes. "Okay. That sounds like it's not really small, but then, Navy, I guess an aircraft carrier is more your idea of big." He has a drink. "Army, myself. A couple of decades ago. Thinking about using that GI Bill for a little college time? Never too late."

Jacob waves a little at the offer of calling a cab, which he presumes is for him. "No, I'm good." The ginger doctor and his beard head on over to the washroom, pressing inside and disappearing for some time, whisky bottle left unattended on the bar.

"Gentlemen, that's what we call The Purge." Cris claims Jacob's abandoned seat, you know. Just to keep it warm for him. With his elbow on the bar, he's smirking a bit as he claims the beer he ordered and lets it dangle in his grasp. Smirking is never a good sign. "Really, you're telling me he handles the whole 36 all by himself. Sounds like he could use a few more capable hands if you ask me."

The look Joe turns on August is utterly guileless. "Well, as sailboats big enough to live aboard go, thirtysix feet isn't big at all," he insists. "But yeah, I served on carriers, so....my sense of proportion is a little skewed." Then he grins, the lines deepening around his eyes. "Oh, I already got my degrees on the government's money," he says, cheerfully. "Where'd you serve?"

At Cris's comment, he shakes his head. "Nah. I've spent too much of my life living with others in close quarters to want anyone under foot again. I do alright solo - got a lot of stuff mechanized, so I don't need but the one pair of hands." Don't ask him about his six months in white collar space jail.

"Drink that beer before you die of thirst, Cruz," Itzhak tells Cris, leaning on all the little inflections and tones that turn the statement into an insult, Yiddish-style.

August shrugs, says, "I was a forester for over a decade. It wasn't like I was carting around a four-man tent. I got used to a pretty small space. The waves, though...not sure how you sleep with the water moving." He watches Jacob go, sighs in agreement for Cris' comment.

It's a question August knew was coming, has been working on being less prickly about. "Bosnia," he says, and has a drink of beer. He cuts a look Cris, one corner of his mouth twitching in wry humor. "I'm sure he does. Know anyone who has some?"

At least that means Itzhak caught that innuendo, and with a press of his tongue quite literally into his cheek Cris raises his glass to his smirking lips and takes a long pull of it so he doesn't bust out in laughter though he comes close to snorting beer out of his nose at August's question. The resulting swallow is harsh, so his voice comes out a bit hoarse. "Just so happens..."

"Yeah, they don't exactly equip y'all with the fancies thing Coleman makes, do they?" Sympathy in his tone. "You get used to it. I've lived on her for a year and a half, and it's just....it seems natural. Honestly, I'm findin' it hard to get used to sleeping on land." Then August relates where he served. "Me, too!" says Joe, visibly surprised. "It's been a long-ass time since I met someone else who served there. I was part of Deliberate Force, flyin' Bombcats off the Roosevelt." Then the entendre in the air around him has him really looking at Cristobal for the first time, expression going a little dry.

Jacob strolls back over to the bar after a few minutes, looking down and zipping up his fly about halfway back. He doesn't look any worse for wear for the trip. But then his seat's occupied. With a grunt, he moves to give Cristobal a gentle little pat on the side, right where he's pretty sure the man got got in the ribs. Not a lot of force to it, but enough to be cause at least a twinge of pain. Unless otherwise stopped, he takes the next stool available, dragging his tater tots and his bottle a little closer to himself (though he caps the lid on the bottle), popping a few tots in his mouth and getting crumbs in his beard.

Itzhak rolls his eyes, mutters something about thirsty queens into his drink. But he's smirking a little, too. Especially when Jacob comes back and gives Cris's sore ribs a lil nudge. ...Joe says he served in Bosnia and Itzhak looks over at him in surprise, then at August, eyebrows up.

August lifts a should at Joe. "It's just the weight's too much. Sure, I was younger, but you don't want a sixty pound pack when you're running around by yourself. Tent's one of the biggest weight costs."

He grins, bites his tongue as he makes Cris cough. Gotcha, that look says. It fades a touch at Joe's revelation, and he pauses noticeably.

"Ah, Deliberate Force was after I was already out." This is the awkward part. He has another drink. "I was in the 502nd, part of the group they sent in with the MASH units. Defending hospitals and the road to the airport. Went in late 92." He stops there. Joe no doubt knows what that means, and he's not interested in getting specific otherwise.

He eyes Jacob, interested in the tots, orders some for himself.

Cris jerks away from Jacob's little pat with a hiss, nearly spilling his beer in the process. "Ah, la polla!" But he's chuckling even as he calls Jacob a prick and he's sliding off the stool to direct the good doctor back to his original seat. He'll pull around one for himself to keep in the midsts of conversation. Interestingly enough, it's as if it's so Cris can keep a half an eye on Jacob to make sure he doesn't pass out. "Props for your service, men." And this time he doesn't even mean service in air quotes!

By the way Joe's smile fades into a kind of measured blankness, those dates mean a very great deal to him. He nods once, and lifts his drink in wordless salute to August, visibly not prying further. That's not the kind of service that conjures up sloppy memories for cheerful reminiscence. A glance at the others, who might not read the runes of those dates, so to speak, and he forges on, "I got my discharge about three years ago. Got jacked up a year before that in that wreck - spent that last year getting therapy." An amused look for Itz.

Itzhak doesn't know the dates--like any American kid who grew up during the decline of the public education system, he doesn't know shit. But he doesn't need to. He knows August, and he knows something of what August went through. So he knows what the unspoken words between the two veterans mean, even with his difficulties reading subtext. That much, he knows. They seem to be handling it though, even if it's the kind of handling one gives a live grenade, so he looks back at Joe and hikes his eyebrows, returning the amused glance. "And now ya washed up here. Lucky you."

Jacob snickers at Cristobal's reaction, but how, precisely, the man curses the doctor passes a little over his head. "I like mine deep fried, myself." It sounded enough like 'pollo' to him, which is basic enough, but the actual meaning of the insult isn't grasped.

He doesn't really have anything to add to the military discussion, but he does offer a few of the tots to Cris in something of an apology. It was a little mean, maybe, but he DID steal his seat.

Cris dips his fingers into Jacob's basket, plucking out a few tots and tossing them into his mouth. Seems the way to keep Cris quiet is by occupying his mouth with something other than talking. Because damn, it looks like he wants to say something, but he's too busy chewing.

August mmmmmms at Cris, a low confirmation of the thanks, if not quite a 'you're welcome'. He glances at him sidelong, to make sure it's clear he doesn't mind, even if to his mind it's not a thing worth thanking him for. He raises his glass to Joe in turn, has a drink. He bobs his eyebrows at Itzhak. "The kind of luck he could maybe do without."

He chuckles at Jacob and Cris, gives Itzhak a mild look of 'get a load of this'. His brows gather in a frown at Joe's mention of an accident. "Sorry, that's awful." His eyes go unfocused as he does some math. "Were you still flying? I figured they'd bounce pilots out of their planes by mid-30s." What would he know; he might have been Airborne, but that doesn't mean he knows a damned thing about pilots.

Handled like a live grenade indeed. "Not so much. Got out of carrier jockeying," Joe allows, quietly. "Instruction, test pilot stuff." He's not, strictly, lying. He's just dancing around the center. "Though fighter pilots can stay in the saddle longer'n you might expect." To Itz, he says, "Not so much luck as Fate." He seems to be dead serious.

Itzhak eyes Joseph for a long drawn-out moment when he says Fate. The look is tough to interpret, but...maybe there is pity somewhere in Itzhak's cactus soul, after all. "Goin' for a smoke," he says, swings off the barstool and saunters his narrow ass outside.

Jacob picks through the remnants of his tots, cramming the last few into his mouth, getting yet more crumbs into his beard before reaching up and brushing them out with his fingers. "Think I'm gonna take off. Catch you folks later." He speaks to a bartender to settle his bill, and then pats himself down, looking for his car keys. "Oh, for fuck's sake, not again."

Cris literally groans this time at Joe, "C'mon man, you're making this way too easy. Fighter pilots. Saddle. It writes itself." There is a tick of his chin up as Itzhak excuses himself for a smoke, likely in parting as Cris isn't planning on sticking around long enough to wait on his return. "I'll give you a ride, Doc. Need to get myself in bed with a little light reading anyways."

Jacob eventually finds them tucked into a back pocket. How'd they'd get there? Probably because it's close enough to where there's a pocket in his lab coat for the office. The offer gives the doctor pause though. "Fuckers want a grand to replace the fob for this thing.. y'know, I'm probably not great to drive, actually. If you wouldn't mind, I'm at the Bayside."

If August notices the waltz Joe is taking around the topic, he pays it no mind. A nod for Itzhak as he steps out to smoke. "Test pilot. So, the fun shit." He's thinking skunkworks and the like.

He gives Jacob a stern look, is about to offer to drive him when Cris saves him the trouble. He bobs his eyebrows at Cris in an unspoken thanks. "Take care of yourself, Doc. Glad you like the tree. Generosity's easy when it's a charity the money's going to. Save a little scotch for New Years." He snorts about the 'jockey' and 'saddle' comments, says, "Why Cristobal, you know you don't have to play coy with a pilot, they're handling sticks all damned day," his tone as dry as a Death Valley summer. He chases that with a bob of his eyebrows.

Joseph gives Cris a look in return that's just utterly blank. Surely he can't be that much of a naif, at that age? "Have a good evenin', y'all," he says, pleasantly. Then Itz is skiving off, but he doesn't seem really surprised. Content to keep propping up the bar for now. Then he snorts, as if he'd finally gotten the entendre.

Cristobal gives a little snort of laughter at the Stick comment, tapping August on the arm as he's passing by, probably to say goodbye. Nope, it's to gain his attention so he can mutter, "Gotta pay in gas or ass, right?" Because that's just the sort of dickhead thing that Cris would say about his magnanimous offer of giving someone a much needed ride home. Then louder, "C'mon, Doc, I'm not a fucking Uber, let's roll."

Jacob nods, and follows Cris out, the last half of his bottle in tow in his hand. More quietly, he says to Cristobal, "Can give you some cash if you want, or fix up that rib situation of yours. Not here though." He throws one last wave up to those remaining before heading out into the cold winter night.

August almost--almost--coughs on his beer when Cris says that. He shakes his head, eyes narrowed, waves a hand to the two as they depart. He drums his fingers on the bartop, arches an eyebrow at Joe. "Fate, you said, about how you wound up here." He flicks his eyes over him in a once-over that's casual, like he might do to take in Joe's clothing, except that's not what he's looking at. "Would that be because of the, ah, sheen you've got to you?"

"Yeah," Joe says, without hesitation, not mincing words in the least. Who pays attention to tall tales spun in seaside bars, right? Who might overhear? He slants an unreadable look at the arborist. "I've been headin' this way the past year and a half. Didn't know quite what I was looking for or why....but once I got here, I knew this was the place."

And really, why mince words with someone like August; he's as bright as Itzhak and plainly knows him, so even if Joe's never seen August use his power, it's obviously there, in some way or another. August relaxes a bit at that confirmation, then, since it means Joe isn't new enough to the whole situation to freak out on him at the bar. Well, maybe. "That's what it does to you," he agrees around a drink of his beer. "I drove through on my way to Olympic one summer, and I knew if there was anywhere I'd get answers, it was here." He leans back against the bar, looking out over the patrons in their quiet murmur.

"Have you found them?" Joe's voice is low, conspiratorially so, and he's all but forgotten his drink. "The answers? Any answers. This place is fucking thick with the bright, but I haven't found any consensus." Oh, back on this hobbyhorse, someone trained as a scientist and an engineer confronted with something that thumbs its nose at all the rules he knows.

"Mmmmm...some." August smiles at Joe in a 'because that's how life fucks scientists--gives them partial information' sort of way. "It pulls us here, traps us here, like a surge plain. I know some think of it like a black hole, but..." He shakes his head. "We could get out. We just don't want to. Calling it a black hole's an attempt to ignore our own culpability. For better or worse, most of us chose to stay, even once we saw the ugly side." He shrugs helplessly. "There's no shame in that, and I'll admit I'm a curious guy. I want to know more."

He pauses, fingering his pint glass. "I had the Art, the Song, from a yonug age, though. Not a lot--just enough to get into trouble with it."

He shakes his head. "Not me. Didn't show up until the wreck, and that was four years ago. I was fortysix years old, and while we had rumors of the Sight in our family, I always figured it was just stories..."

The pilot shrugs a shoulder. "Though I wonder if it didn't explain some of my aptitude for flight. If it translated, somehow. But I want to know more. 's why I'm here." He doesn't bother to deny it....and there's that fanatic's gleam in the blue eyes.

August grunts, nods. "Better that way," he says. "I mean, not your wreck. That's pretty awful. But, getting it late..." He gets a look on his face, shakes his head. He tries a different tack. "A lot of people seem to have to have it happen like that--moment of grievous injury or stress, that sort of thing."

He considers the question of it influencing Joe's skills as a pilot. "I guess it's possible. Maybe even, ungerminated, just a seed inside you, it was still molding you." Yet another thing they don't know. Speaking of which... "I'm happy to discuss what I do know, but I'm still new to all of this. I mean, in terms of, understanding anything. I might have had it early on but I had no fucking idea what was gonig on."

Joseph taps his temple with a fingertip. "I had bad, bad brain damage....and so I thought the changes in perception, the ability....were just signs from that. Knockin' things over because my proprioception got fucked. I'm just grateful to have a place where people understand that this shit is objectively real."

"Ah, yeah, that'll..." August's voice dies, then he shrugs, has some more of his black and tan. "Honestly at first it was the same with me. After Sarajevo I was a wreck, and I figured I had just some...serious, PTSD coming on. So I took a medical discharge rather than stay in. Wasn't hard to convince them, considering. And, I did, but," a sidelong look at Joe, "it wasn't just that. Didn't sort that until about three years ago, though."

His takes a tater tot from his basket, rolls it around in his fingers. "It's a hard thing, not being able to trust your own mind anymore." He pops it in his mouth.

His gaze darts down and away, and he's white around the lips, for a moment. "Yeah," he says. "That's still.....I was in the Asylum, and I feel like it's still hurting me. Like....I don't know what's just age or legit brain damage or if it's poisoning memory but...." Then he shakes his head. Less in denial than an attempt to clear it.

August blinks, slow and surprised, at Joe. "You were...there?" He sits up a little straighter, eyes Joe anew. Starts to say something, stops. "I was just there. Not, as a patient. We were checking something out." He licks his lips, shakes his head. "Damnedest thing is I can't hardly remember fuck all about it. I have to concentrate like crazy just to dredge up small details."

Joe looks back again, tight-lipped, and nods. "For six months, two years ago." The look in the blue eyes is utterly haunted. "I think it does that. Like some sort of protective thing. The memory....human memory isn't meant to hold or understand it, so it damages itself in an attempt to do so."

"Yeah, that could be," August murmurs. He rubs at his eyes, gives Joe a look that's as sympathetic as it is apologetic. "Six months, and I'm assuming not for employment." He says it like he doesn't really need or expect confirmation; more like he wants Joe to be aware that's where his assumptions are. "Well, you made it back. And you're here, so maybe you can get some answers of your own."

Again, that looking away, the veiling of his eyes, before he admits, "Yeah. I was a patient. I ...there.....I tried to commit suicide, and somehow my family found out about it. I survived, obviously. I hope there are answers a human mind can hold...." He sounds dubious about it.

August winces visibly. Not for the suicide attempt, but when Joe talks about his family finding out. Is he doing some reading between the lines on that statement? Yes, yes he is. "Shit, sorry." He sighs, a little sad, because even if Joe's family had only had the best intentions in mind, they'd stlll handed him over to Them, complete with Gift Wrapping.

Well, he's not going to ask after that subject. "I mean, now we know this much: that it's not just patients. It's anyone. I don't know who else has been able to go willingly, and come back under their own power. But we did, and it still did that." He scratches his beard. "I figure there has to be. Just, we'll have to approach it from some other angle."

One needn't be a Mentalist to read those thoughts, and Joe nods in confirmation. The best intentions, paving that road to a personal hel. "I want there to be," he says, simply. "But yeah, I overheard people talking about going. Can you talk about it, or will it hurt you?"

August pulls a face. "I can...try. Honestly not sure how successful it'll be; every time I dig up something it's like pulling teeth." He sighs, shakes his head. "I figure, all of us who went, we should try to gather up what we know. That way we can keep track of it without," he nods at Joe, "hurting ourselves, like you said."

He finishes off his beer, pulls out his phone. "I should get going. Need a lift anywhere? I've got a bit of a drive back to my cabin, so nothing's likely out of my way."

"Nah, I'm gonna sleep on the boat, so it's only a little walk down to the dock but.....yeah, I'd be interested in helpin', if you wanted. If there's help to be done," Joe says, slowly. "You okay to drive?"

"Yeah, I'll be alright in a bit here. Got a walk back to the car anyways." August gathers up his scarf and hat. "You ever want to talk about that stuff, feel free to come on by the shop." He gestures out towards the road heading out of town. "Branch an' Bole, got a sign out on the road." He drops his money on the bar under the empty glass. "Good talking with ya." And then he's off into the cold, tugging his gloves back on as he goes.