2020-08-08 - A Poor Man's Pour

It had been an... interesting couple of months financially for the Gyre’s. Mariah’s sudden disappearance had left Maggi in a lurch job-wise, but she’d come to Leon with a possible wish. Leon thought about it, and had tried to work it out.

He already owned a business, so trying to get more small business loans on top of that to take on a bar, completely unrelated to his locksmithing business, would likely had been a hassle. The liability shared between them would also pose issues, different licenses needed, different insurances. Logistically, it would be a nightmare. So talking to an accountant, he’d had to work it out a different way.

He created a company, Gyreworks, LLC, (Maggi’s name suggestion) with himself and Maggi as owning partners, and basically bought his own company. This meant he could create a separate company, using his financial collateral and both his and Maggi’s credit to then buy the Pourhouse. This meant both companies could hold these separate things they needed, but wouldn’t interfere, but if one company needed money for a renovation or for inventory or tools, money could flow back and forth using the overarching holding company. No one had probably noticed the bar had changed hands, it functioned just the same as it always had, just with Leon having to pitch in here or there, and Maggi sometimes managing other people?

And that’s how Leon and Maggi somehow became corporate owners of two businesses, and why Leon was sitting at the Poorhouse (Yes, he hadn’t noticed) early on in the afternoon, tucked into a booth with a laptop and some books, going over the financials for the second running month of their collective business. It wasn’t going the best, but it was handled. They couldn’t afford the new floors Maggi had wanted, but maybe in a few months they could do some cheap renovations.

He picks at a plate of cheese fries, a finger of bourbon poured for him, but untouched so far.

Though she had finally graduated, working with the residents of Gray Harbor had shown Maggi that the town was much more in need of a kind ear and cold drink than traditional therapy. This wasn’t a place with traditional issues. One such issue was the fact that she was pretty sure the name of the place wasn’t what she had originally filled out on the paperwork. The files reflected the sign and vice versa but something felt...off. Not that she minded the name on the sign anyhow.

Finishing school and running a bar had kept her rather occupied over the last few months. Maggi had finished her last few courses online to give herself more working hours, not wanting to let Leon down. She was the type to only ask for help when desperate, far past needed. In the summer heat she still sported black jeans with ripped knees and flame embroidery above the distressing. An equally black tank stating ‘Rebel with a cause hung on her torso. The side of her hair had been freshly shaved making her mass of long grungy locks look almost Mohawk like in a ponytail.

She was working on inventory for the week and tending bar. In all honesty she should probably hire someone else to do one or the other, but her generally distrustful nature paralyzed her on that front. The only people she trusted outside of herself were Leon and Abitha, and Mac had...her own problems at the moment.

“Are you sure nothing seems strange about the sign to you?” Maggi comments absently to Leon, looking up from her clipboard.

The sign on the door says OPEN. Maybe that is why some tall, blond man wanders in with an expression that manages to achieve curiosity, concern, and more than a hint of I hope I didn't just walk into somebody's living room, all at once. He's definitely not a local; from the looks of him he's more likely some escaped New York art director or one of Seattle's many hopeful Steve Jobs-wannabes. He's dressed in black boots, jeans, blazer and turtleneck, and to top off the picture, black kidskin gloves -- in summer. In a place like this he looks displaced just by breathing. Almost guaranteed to be a tourist.

The fellow, whoever he might be, pauses to take in the interior of the bar, reassuring himself that he did in fact not stumble into somebody's residence. Then he wanders towards the bar, pausing to glance at some of the old photographs on the wall but evidently recognising no one. When he does in fact make it across the room the stranger looks at the girl behind the counter hopefully and murmurs, "I really hope you can sell me a beer and settle a bet." He speaks with an accent, one that sounds like it wishes it qualified for the BBC but probably isn't actually British.

Married life meant Leon was more liable to give Maggi an odd look that spoke volumes than actually having to verbalize, and the lowered eyebrow and slightly flat lip was saying, ’I don’t know what you’re on about.’ Or maybe it was, ’Am I really expected to eat this?’ They were still working out the kinks, it hadn’t even been a year.

“I have been to this bar since before I was able to drink here. I think I would know if the sign was different. And we can’t even afford to change it, so...” He shrugs, double checking something and making a note about something else. Good, he’d be able to order that stock for his van without making them end up short. He looks up as he hears a voice and sees a new patron, an amicable grin on his face, “Pretty sure they opened a casino for that second bit, but we’re not opposed to a little game or two around here. Whatcha need?”

He looks to Maggi and makes that motion like ’I’ll get up unless you do, which is fine either way.’ Ok, so maybe it just looked like he was going to get up. Body language is fluid.

Maggi’s piercing eyes shoot Leon’s momentum driven form a look of ’Don’t you dare get up’. She bites the inside of her lip at his flippant reply, being beyond certain the sign had said Pourhouse not that long ago. She too was a native, but in all honesty it wasn’t worth the argument.

Turning to face the newcomer with a sarcastic Cheshire grin, her attitude shifts to one of acceptable customer service. “Beer we have plenty of, just give me your preferred type. Settling anything else? We can see if we can help you.”

The clipboard is set down behind the large bar, pocked with divots. Icy eyes flick to Leon’s massive frame. “If you get anymore serious right now, I will in fact have to put gummy bears in your cheese fries just to lighten the mood.”

Grinning at the blonde man once more, she seems a bit playful. “All beers are local, so no questions on ethical or organic please, that has been googled.” She winks.

The foreign guy returns the grin. "Hell no. I didn't come to the US to get European beer. Let me try something wheat beer, IPA, pilsener, whatever you got and recommend. Let me have something I haven't had before." He leans against the counter and looks around with an interested air before glancing at the seated man and nodding. "Well, it goes like -- friend of mine insists this place used to have a different name. Me, I've never been here before, so I wouldn't know. But I owe her a couple of favours so I figured I'd go ask the horse itself."

The way the skin near Leon's nose lifts into slight disgust, one can tell there's probably a reason Leon was the one that did the cooking. "Look, I know you were saying you wanted to add some things to the menu, but... Maybe just soak them in vodka and not ruin anything beautiful?"

And then Ravn was reigniting the name debate without even knowing what he had walked in on.
"Oh jesus, do not get her started. She's been on that all morning." He shakes his head, deciding now was the appropriate time to take that sip of his bourbon, letting a breath pass, then turning his attention back to his laptop.

Maggi clasps her hands to her heart in a faux hurt gesture at Leon’s commentary on her cooking. No audible protests leave her though, she is in fact a terrible cook. She had nearly burned down his kitchen no less than three times, and had agreed not to attempt cooking at the bar as a liability issue in both safety and her relationship. She taps her chin in a dramatic pondering gesture at the across the ponder.

“Elysian Immortal has English influence, but they are Seattle based.” A practiced hand pours a sample of the IPA and slides it towards the man who is too stylish for her establishment. “More or less the name depends on who you ask I guess. Not nearly the weirdest thing you’ll see.”

Her slight frame pauses watching both men, one in wait of patronage, the other in challenge. The name change wasn’t massive, but the original was far less openly classist than the current sign. Was she going to have to get it replaced? If the veil changed it, then it could have at least fixed the portion that was out. That would be the decent thing.

"My friend insists that it used to be the Pourhouse," the foreigner nods with an apologetic smile to the seated man; the look of one man who realises that he just stirred a beehive, to the man who has to live with the beehive. He accepts the beer with a smile and reads the label before paying (and, apparently having looked up American tipping conventions, doing so as well, alien as the idea is to a Scandinavian). "As did her other friend. Myself, it is my first time coming here so I certainly have no opinion. Nice place, though." He looks at some of the photographs again and, from his posture, seems to mean it.

Oh sure, Maggi, make this a meta discussion of the financial struggle of the quickly widening gap between habitual bar patron and the bourgeois. Everyone loves a sociological debate. Leon, of course, was not actually privy to Maggi's opinion of the name, but the building frustration of arguing obvious, verifiable facts seemed to be wearing on the big locksmith.

"Look, you know I love you, Magpie, but it's the name." He attempts to look conciliatory towards Maggi before turning to Ravn, "Place goes back to the sawmill glory days. All the weirdness and unsolved crimes, it drove men to drink. The wives would joke their men were just taking them straight to the Poorhouse, and it stuck."

At least that's how Leon thinks he remembers hearing it. Could be total bullshit, his shrug seems to say.

"But if you really was rebrand for one letter, we're gonna have to change a bunch of paperwork." The foreboding look that idea brings to his face already some to what his idea of that would be.

Maggi cashes out the patron, but does not pick up any remainder pushed away from him. She considered picking up tips in front of the customer a rude action, the money belonged to them until they left. Instead she listens to Leon’s protests with her back turned, fiddling with her phone to play a song that struck her through the speakers behind the bar. ’One Scotch One Bourbon and One Beer’ begins to play and she seems to have centered herself with the return to tunes. Though she mutters something about the other side needing to pay a lawyer under her breath.

Waggling her head back and forth she seems to be bouncing the juxtaposed ideas in her brain. “Temperance was not as effective a movement as it was supposed to be, not taken as seriously until prohibition. This place was built prior to women’s discontent being taken on any merit. I stand by ‘Pour’ like the man before you has. Regardless I don’t hate the change. I can roll with just as many punches as the pre-prohibition ladies took.”

The casual reference to spousal abuse is said in crass jest. Dark humor being the women’s specialty. She moves on from the apparently sore topic, though makes a mental note to bet with Leon behind closed doors. She was going to get a pet cat out of this.

“What are you doing in Gray Harbor, Casanova?” Maggi asks the man with the beer. She had a habit of giving patrons nicknames in the computer, his verbalized due to his lack of tab.

The foreigner raises his eyebrows at the nickname, then chuckles at it. "Asking questions and settling bets," he replies good-naturedly, then sips his beer.

"This is quite good. Anyhow, I'm -- staying for a while. Getting to know the place a little, making some friends. Hoping to finish this beer before any old ladies with a hair bun and a hatchet walk into enforce that temperance idea, too. I'll tell Lyric that the issue is apparently undecided -- one vote for, one vote against." He seems pretty amused by the idea of a communal vote on the name of the place.

There’s a side-eye given Maggi from across the bar in his booth as she calls Ravn ‘Casanova’. Leon gives Ravn a look soon after, but the smirk on his lips tells him its not so much a jealous one.

“Ok, but not hating the change means anything changed at all. Like, you want to talk about change?” Leon points an arm down the street in the direction usually traveled to the diner, “Look at Gina changing the Grizzly to the ‘Black Bear Diner’? Like for one, it’s not even good branding. Just sounds boring.” Branding is apparently pretty important to Leon, what with the van that was likely parked out from emblazoned with his own name. “That was a change. It’s always been the Poorhouse, poor like no money.” Which is what they would be if she wanted to try to change it back...

Catching Ravn’s historical reference she laughs genuinely. “You’re pretty good! Tell Lyric Maggi says hello!”

At the remark from her husband Maggi looks at Leon incredulously, then to the direction of the Grizzly, then back to Leon. “It’s the same shit babe. Same conspiracy. Probably fluoride involved.” The last part is in jest, but she was fairly certain these things were connected. What she didn’t understand is why he could tell one and not the other. She narrows her eyes, watching him in disbelief.

“I don’t see Gina renaming the place willingly...” She trails off, just offering an idea for him to suck on. That women was very decisive, and a little intense. The name matched the service. There would likely not be a restaurant change as controversial as this to rival other than the time they upset the regulars by adding Brie to the menu for a charity event. Slowly moving her gaze back to Ravn she stops her hard look.

“Anyway...you are more likely to find a pearl clutching Addington than an axe wielding soberist.” Everything was totally normal if you pretended it was right?

"You know, at this rate I'm going to start walking into places and going 'Lyric sent me'. Not only does the woman seem to know everybody -- everybody seems to like her, too. She is very likeable, admittedly." The foreigner looks intrigued, sipping his beer, and then thinks back on an earlier conversation elsewhere. "Addington -- the local founders, aren't they? I believe I ran into a young lady in a very fast car earlier. She was indeed not carrying any hatchets."

If anything has changed, he at least has not noticed. Then again, one might wonder if a tourist would -- it's not like he has some kind of reference. "The Black Bear," he says, partially to himself. "Right. Place to avoid the omelette. Good food otherwise. Keep telling myself to go there some evening but this town certainly keeps me running around. So much for the sleepy Washington coast indeed."

“Ok babe,” Leon was trying, really he was, but there was that slight hint on condescension in his voice that was more than likely going to earn him some ire. “I know you like your conspiracy theories, but the fluoride one is like the oldest and wildest.” He does agree wholeheartedly with both hands raised and an emphatic nod to the fact Gina wouldn’t change the name willingly... then he stops and shakes a finger at Maggi, “I dunno, I can see her doing it just to be weird, though.” Stormy blue eyes swing to Ravn, “No complaints about the food, it’s always damn good, but the owner is um... Has anyone heard from James in awhile?” There’s a joke in there, a smirk and a look given Maggi’s direction.

“Yeah, Addington’s are like the founding family around here. Some of ‘em are... ok.” The last bit took some effort to wrap his head around the word. Leon

A side eyed squint goes to Leon at his sarcastic rebuttal. It was a lot like seeing a tennis ball being whacked back and forth across a net of the bar. Maggi chooses to simply ignore the toss and allow the ball to land out of bounds.

“Lyric is just easily likable and kind, her, Hera, and Abby are impossible to not adore.” Maggi does contemplate when she last saw Hecker. Taking a cloth from behind the bar, she wipes down where another customer has vacated. “I haven’t seen James, Gina May have killed him.”

“How long you been here Casanova?” The name was going to continue until she learned his, possibly beyond.

"Please tell me that you are not implying that the owner of the Black Bear ate her husband," the foreigner murmurs with obvious amusement. It's quite evident that no, he does not consider that to be an actual option -- but the way it came out nonetheless inspired a few mental images the sort of which would be quite suited for a horror story. Something which is of course quite silly as the very last thing Grey Harbor needs is even more horror stories, but maybe some bloke with an accent and a Steve Jobs-wannabe wardrobe is not aware of this.

He nods at the observation about the Addingtons, though. "The lady I met told me as much. I suspect she did mostly because I mentioned that I am a bit of a historian and she thought I might find it an interesting thing to know. Hera, on the other hand -- she was the first local I met, and I believe I may have developed a special bond with her cat, Queso." From the tone of his voice he's one of those men who doesn't mind in the slightest getting cream cat fur all over that black blazer. "On the whole, Gray Harbor seems a very welcoming community."

Leon was halfway through a sip of his bourbon when he coughs loudly, a spray of the fine amber liquid marking the air before him. Then quite loudly the coughs transform into incredulous laughter. It was loud, boisterous, affable laughter. “Her husband -aaahhhhaha...”

You get the idea, Leon was basically paralyzed by laughter. Once he gets it out of his system, those little groaning-sighs of amusement still trailing off as he wipes a tear from both his eyes, he gets back to it, “Oh fucking lord, NO. Gina is quite expectedly unmarried, and I think James was seeing someone named...” Look of curiosity/confirmation toward Maggi, “Diana?” Shrug. “There’s just some weirdness where it seems like she’s stalking James, but maybe it’s just for kicks? No one can really tell.”

Another little guffaw and sigh, “Ah, Jesus, what else were we talking about? You met Hera? Yeah she’s good people. Love to see her outside her gallery sometimes, but I swear that place is her castle.” Another look over to Maggi, “I miss Hans, we should visit.”

Maggi for her part remains composed, though a bemused smile does cross her lips, she nods as Leon does in fact get Diana's name correct. "Their destinies are simply intertwined." Maggi muses at the relationship between James and Gina. She certainly didn't understand it, but hey it worked for them. "Also she may have eaten him anyway, haven't seen him in a bit." She had seen genuine fear in the man's eyes once or twice when Gina had been brought up, so roast James was an actual possibility.

"Queso is in fact the best thing on this planet." Maggi states matter-of-fact with an unwavering expression. "We should get a cat." This is said as though it had not been brought up almost a thousand times since Maggi had met Queso, whom she may like better than even Leon. "We can ask Hera where would be best when you turn in another batch of photo's."

If they were going to be poking sore points, she may as well lick at the cavity than the tooth around it. It had been a stressful few months. The golden blonde was not being combative to the point of embarrassment, but the banter had a small amount of bite. "Be careful with those Koolaid drinkers Casanova, the Addington's are a different breed."

The foreigner's mind picks up, a little belatedly, on the fact that he was asked a question which he ignored. It taps him on the shoulder, figuratively speaking, and reminds him to rectify this, and he glances at the woman at the bar. "I've been here a bit more than a week now. Figure I'll be staying at least until the end of the tourist season -- though to be fair, I'll probably end up staying the winter, maybe longer. I've got nowhere in particular I need to be going, and I am finding that Gray Harbor is full of likeable people and interesting stories." With an amused glance towards her he tacks on, "My name is Ravn. Casanova is a first -- I've gone by Nerdboy and similar to friends in the past, but Casanova is new." The name is pronounced something along the lines of Raown -- offering very few clues as to how it's spelled. Probably with letters you'd find in an Ikea catalogue.

"Hera seems like very good people. She offered a complete stranger a couch to sleep on, out of the kindness of her heart. Not many would, and I certainly appreciated it." He can't help a commisserating grin at the seated man's response; at least the laptop did not take the full brunt of the whiskey spray -- small mercies. Then the Scandinavian glances back at the bartender at her comment on the Addingtons, and murmurs, "Ah, because they seem to be quite well off? I can't say I move in those circles, no. I imagine that their social rules are... quite different from what I am accustomed to."

Leon was in the process of saving and shutting some things down, large hand lifting to pull the laptop screen closed, then starts to gather up their papers and such, as Maggi was now bar-centered. He moves to stand and ambles over, setting the Poorhouse's (Yeah, YOU READ IT HERE TOO) portion of inventory and bookkeeping toward Maggi to stow when she got a chance. The rest was tucked under one arm.

"I'm waiting for your birthday," he seems to offer dismissively, which is probably new to the thousandth or so trades of the subject of feline ownership. He offers his free hand to Ravn, seeming to make note of something with a bit of a down-up, measuring look and a grin, "Well, that explains the black." Whatever that meant, "But in good company. Leon Gyre." He had a strong handshake, but not one of those 'I'm competing to see who can break the others' finger bones' sort of grips. He makes a tip of his head in the bartender's direction with a wink to her and a grin, "My wife, Maggi. If you moved into your own place, feel free to give me a call, I'm the local locksmith. I do security systems too."

He makes a step toward the door, though does offer, "I'm not gonna comment on Addington social circles, because while it's rare to see one set foot in this bar, I'll be heading out, and would hate to summon one by speaking their name. But you are right, Ravn." And he can somehow pronounce it pretty well, for whatever reason, "There are a lot of good people here." He offers a gentle wave, holds up his phone to Maggi in that universal, 'Call me, text me,' sort of motion.

Ravn's grip when he returns the handshake is firm but indeed, not finger breaking, either. "Good to meet you, Leon Gyre. I might drop by again. I like this place." He does look a little puzzled at the comment on his favourite attire but decides to let it pass; this is Gray Harbor. Stranger things, indeed, all the time.

When he does leave, in not too long after, Ravn has reached a conclusion; the Poorhouse -- Pourhouse? Not going to argue with Lyric on this, let her have it -- isn't much to look at. Which suits him fine; the best bars in Copenhagen are absolute shitholes from a tourist point of view, with sand on the floor and bar tenders who stare at you like you're some kind of weasel from outer space, provided you can see them for the cigar smoke to begin with. It reminds him of student years and of home.

Which really only goes to prove that indeed, Gray Harbor is home. Look, it's even got a bar that would fit right into Nyhavn.