2020-09-24 - Nobody Is Supposed to Be That Bendy

To call the beach near the Marina quiet today would be a misnomer of epic proportions; like referring to the Vietnam War as a minor military operation, or the Moon Landing like a media stunt for NASA to acquire more funds. The beach is crawling. Gray Harbor is out in force because it's one of those last weeks of good weather, and there are people putting on a show on the beach. The fireworks festival drew a good number of boaters into town and many of them are still around. A great deal of other people are here to see various prominent townsfolk fall on their backsides in the tug-of-war or faceplant the bar in the limbo. Some people approve of crowds and festivals and entertainment, at least in theory -- but not so much when they need to actually get into them. Ravn Abildgaard is one of those people. On a theoretical level he is absolutely in favour of all the merriment; bring your kids and a picnic basket, visit all the stands, play all the music, and drink all the beers! Be social! Meet new faces, party on, be excellent to each other!

Just... Maybe not right where he's standing. Like, can we keep the big elbowy crowd over here, and he can be over there?

There is a bench over there, and the Dane is sitting on it, eating the last bits of an ice cream cone. Dressed in his usual blacks from top to toe Ravn projects an air of -- well, to be frank, some snooty Steve Jobs-clone you'd expect to find in a Seattle Starbucks lecturing some unfortunate stranger on how he's the next big thing in whatever trade he's in. It's the way he sits, the turtle neck and blazer, and the bubble of leave me alone around him. The one that says, this bench is taken, and I will scoff at you very hard if you try to convince me otherwise.

A projected image that won't fool anyone who knows him for a minute, but maybe it'll keep away at least some random people wanting autographs off someone who is in fact not a Swedish celebrity chef. Someone who is in fact a rather introvert person who does not at all feel comfortable with a lot of people looking at him, and this is exactly why he did not sign up for any of the contests. Ravn is perfectly content to watch -- the contests, the people, the day. No one who knows him will buy the act, and they certainly wouldn't expect him to actually scoff at anyone. Some people are not natural scoffers.

Some people, on the other hand, are. Vyv is also not a huge fan of being part of a crowd -- anything that can be reasonably called a crowd -- but he does enjoy a good people-watch, especially when the people in question have reasonable odds of doing something amusing. 'Fall over' is a bit on the slapstick side, yes, but not bad once in a while, and who knows? They might do something better. Plus, 'they' includes Bax today, so it behooves him to come and support. Yes? Yes.

And so there's a Vyv, strolling along the beach to claim himself a spot on that bench as though the current occupant's air of 'leave me alone' applies only to lesser beings, and 'this bench is taken' means 'because I am saving space for an actual chef'. Clearly, the act is indeed not being bought. This being something of summer's last hurrah, he's broken out the brown seersucker for probably the last time 'til late Spring, though the brown gingham shirt, chocolate knit tie, and brown paisley pocket square are likely to see him on through Autumn here and there. As for the cream-and-dark-cognac spectators, who knows, but they get displayed nicely by the casual cross of legs as he settles in. He has not signed up for any contests either, though it's likely less because his own personal flavour of introversion eschews being looked at per se -- clearly -- and more to do with his control over what people see when they do.

"Missed anything interesting yet?" he inquires by way of greeting, "Or is it just the standard sort of milling about thus far?"

Hyacinth refers to a crowd as her entourage. Go figure. There are people to applaud for coming out and all things on behalf of that public facing. When you are Addington every moment of the day one is 'on'. Upon arrival she is the gracious embodiment of pearly white teeth like a share about to devour those broski whole when she turns that smile up to 800 watts and says simply, "You're in the wrong seat." With all the helpful informative assistance that has the undertone of I will buy out the business you work for just to fire you from it if you do not. But they leave and her content nature remains.

She greets Ravn in kind with the aplomb of someone whose afternoon is perfect... plus tourist. "Ravn, it is good to see you. Vyvvy, you don't see any of my family down there do you?" OH! she brought tiny binoculars for the event. She looks and hmmms, "Don't think so. Good!" This cheers her up considerably. That said she murmurs, 'Oh they're cute... here." She hands the tiny opera specs to Vyv. "To keep track of your things. Ravn, how are we?"

The not-actually-a-chef seems quite content to surrender up his privacy bubble to the actually-a-chef and the actually-a-very-important-person. He greets both with a wave of a gloved hand and a small smile and scoots off to the side to make room on the very exclusive bench(1). The bubble of go away is breached and then expands because now it contains no less than three people whose auras firmly but politely decline being shoved, dropped ice cream on, yelled at, or otherwise subjected to the bad manners of beach crowds anywhere.

(1) The bench is very proud. Until as of today it thought of itself as just a plain wooden bench. As of today, however, it will consider itself a bench worthy of a Michelin star.

"Going all right," Ravn replies. "I'm not really sure how the contests are going, but people seem to be having fun, and that's the important thing, isn't it?" It's crystal clear from his tone that this man, at least, fails entirely to see the attraction of hanging on to a rope along with ten other people, sweaty and panting, to prove -- what exactly? That the ten of you are stronger than the ten of them, and then everyone falls and scrapes knees, ruins pants and, in the eternal words of Anakin Skywalker, gets sand everywhere? "I think everyone around is still human. That's a good start too. Funny how Gray Harbor kind of makes you feel like you should bring a firearm or a first aid kit to anything that takes place in public."

Vyv makes sure Hya has suitable space, and her question has him first glancing at the tiny binoculars with a quirked brow, then focusing more properly on the contest area, where the under-12s tug-of-war has just completed. Most of the children have already run off -- though one weeping and woeful tot is being led away with the promise of ice cream and probably sand-removal -- and the adult limbo competition is starting, the festive music striking up and the first few contestants taking their turns beneath the bar. "Nnno," he decides, "no Addingtons up there that I can see. Flexibility not a family trait, mm?" She gets a sidelong look, just faintly impish, which goes a bit pleased and perhaps surprised when she offers the opera glasses. "Thank you, darling. Which are cute?" he asks, accepting them and giving the assemblage another look to see if it answers the question on its own.

"So I am told," he replies to the suggestion of just what's important, though the tone suggests he's still reserving judgement on the matter himself. He's giving the binocs a try, an arm of his tortoiseshell sunglasses tucked in beside the pocket square to keep them neatly out of the way for the moment. "...mn. Bit unfair, really. You'd think the bar should be set at some percentage of the player's height, rather than just some random spot. Look, a few of them don't even have to bend. Tch." Not that his chosen combatant is on the upper end of the range there; perhaps it really will give him an edge. "But yes. Everyone looking human, I would agree. We'll just keep an eye out for anyone going past intriguingly bendy and on into unsettlingly moebi-esque."

Hyacinth has her hair done up today in Victory Rolls pulled back into a long jet ponytail in the back that hands as orderly as the rest of her like she fell out of the 1940's today; the leg not so patriotic in something less mechanical to avoid sand in her details. To the Dane there's a quiet Hmmmm of agreement. "They are aren't they?" on the humans. Whether that's good or bad remains to be clarified. "You know there have been some days I felt it would be easier to go full Rose McGowan and have a machine gun leg like hers, but guns are gauche. There's got to be a better way like just saying...stopit." It wasn't the point Ravn was making but apparently to her it should have been when she sympathizes, "They never do, do they? You here with someone or just watching the city behave like a city ought?"

Vyv is looking into making certain her family is not embarrassing themselves by any standard, or perhaps not leaving her errant of cheering for the right people? Also unclear. "Good good." Some shade lines her eyes like mascara finely applied with regal dignity as Vyv takes the small jibe at Addington flexibility. "The agility of my family is not a concern for public record, thank you...not that several of my cousins seem to understand what the words 'personal decorum' or 'maintaining dignity' entail." Deep breath. Shiny nails slide the sunglasses back up into place as she considers answering Vyv's question about the 'who' in the eye candy category. Reluctantly though, because Vyv is family in a sense she gestures yon, "I believe yours is there. The hair is hard to miss." She is getting good at these comments that straddle observation and criticism.

Looking back to the pack she asks, "Vyv, how do you know my enabler anyways?" Call the bartender for what he is! At least she's not noting that as a tone of shame, and perhaps one of slight fondness. People that provide solutions (Ha, puns!) often fall higher on the people scale.

Not everyone does well at the Limbo though in their defence one might argue that anyone who even has the guts to sign up for a Limbo is kind of doing better than most of humanity. Ravn, for one, is pretty certain that with his own 6'3'' of height, he'd be face planting the bar at 4' -- at best. Or never make it to the bar in the first place because there'd be a hundred or more people looking at him and he'd probably be impersonating an ostrich somewhere. Burrowing into a shallow, sandy grave, never to be seen again, because anything is better than having a hundred strangers staring at you, studying your body, and trying to determine how flexible you might be.

A dark-haired girl is winning that contest by a mile. He's seen her before -- at a bar shortly after coming into town, and here on this very beach, throwing fireballs at the walking dead. He's not very surprised that she doesn't consider the limbo bar to be much of a challenge. Someone who can throw fireballs at zombies probably isn't very afraid of strangers looking at her butt as she bends. Ravn can't recall her name, but he has a vague idea he ought to, that it's important to him somehow.

He files the inquiry away for later, though, choosing to reply to Hyacinth's question instead. "I'm on my own. I'm not really a crowd person but I figured I wanted to at least catch a bit of the mood. It's pretty fun to watch, as long as no one tries to get me down there. Grant will just have to do all the things for me too, I'm all about cheering for Grant. Met him and Vyv both in one of those dream experiences. We were all fish." He probably has no idea who most of the other people are -- there are a fair number of familiar faces but oh so many who are not.

"Gauche, but often effective," Vyv says, watching the Limbo combat through the glasses. That bartender has the benefit of being short, but it's surprising how well a couple of those tall guys are doing. Two rounds before even the biggest of them succumbs, a faint smile greeting that and increasing a touch for Byron's, though it's Isabella's collapse that gets an amused wince. That was a good one. "Awkward if you went anywhere that forbade them, of course. And yes, it is, isn't it?" The hair, that is, hard to miss. "It's very well done." Has he missed the implied criticism? Surely not. Is it being ignored? Absolutely. "He's doing well himself, isn't he?"

That next round takes the field down to five, proving the point. "As he says... we met in a Dream. Though I'd say we were more merpeople than fish per se. Ravn was tuna-based, I think? Bax was something sleek. August was something frilly and tropical-looking. I had a betta tail." Fish identification is not his forte, really. "Hm. More flexible than I'd've guessed," he remarks, as Alexander's disqualified. "And then we had revenge sushi and a chat." A tiny pause. "Seaweed had tried quite hard to kill us," he adds as something of an explanation.

And then the next round takes out Grant, and he makes a disappointed noise, lowering the little binoculars. "Last four, though, not bad at all. How is that tall one still in? And what is he wearing? Did he escape from a production of Fame?" Certainly not the least touch of sour grapes there... though to be fair, he was probably thinking it regardless. "...decent legs, at least," he adds, grudgingly.

Hyacinth flaps a hand with a grin, "That is Dahlia. Justin's little bestie." Someone on a nearby bench turns to look at Hyacinth as the tabloid gossip is all on about Hya's new actor husband is cheating with her, oh shame, poor Hyacith, yadda yadda. If there's any word Hya has a volatile reaction to it's poor and any association with herself in any capacity. Her smile grows sharp and doesn't look at the spectator looking like they might have something to say in support of Hya is cut off by the woman herself. "Say one fel word about that woman and I'll take your tongue and slap you with it. Go back about your business." She's not up to listening to people talk shit about Dahlia either apparently. Wide-eyes they turn around. Nope they weren't about to say anything really! problem resolved.

There's a hrmm as her company's contender make it near to the end. The three legged-race is ridiculous. "They're like little fledgling crabs trying to figure out 'forward' aren't they? " Crab and humans taped together are not adept at this are they?

Ravn shoots a look at the people on the next bench (not that they notice, on behalf of absolutely not looking in the direction of Hyacinth Addington, no way, nope). Then he looks at Hyacinth herself and conceals a small grin behind a gloved hand. She's formidable, with a tongue like a rabid viper that's spent all night ingesting caffeine and developing a grudge against reality. Sometimes, just sometimes, that sort of tongue lashing is entirely appropriate and warranted, and this is one of those moments. Ravn doesn't want to get stared at, and he doesn't want to listen to tourists slagging off anyone else, either.

On some level she reminds him of his mother. He's never going to tell her this. But he is definitely going to continue to laugh to himself about it.

"That's Aidan Kinney," Ravn says instead, nodding in the direction of the Fame escapee. "Should see him in a sarong. Though I guess it'd be hard to limbo in one of those."

"Mm, yes, I remember her. That charity dinner last year. You'd taken her gown shopping, hadn't you?" Vyv asks a touch absently, and being somewhat less interested in the last of the limbo now, he does look at the spectator Hya isn't. A very faint arch of one brow at the expression of imminent attempt-at-solidarity, and the reaction to Hya's instructions elicits a near-silent breath of a laugh before he looks back toward the official show. Yes, there are appropriate moments, indeed. The likelihood that he thinks there are rather more than Ravn does doesn't preclude being in agreement on this one.

"Oh," he says at the identification, giving Aidan a still-dubious look, "I think that's the one that--" Yes, there he and Grant are having their legs tied together for the beginning of the race. The height contrast is a bit silly-looking, but dwarfed by that couple with a good foot of difference. "Ah. Courage is admirable, but some people could really do with less. And, yes, a sarong would probably be less than ideal for a three-legged race, too, so there's that." He winces faintly as the pair nearly fall early on, and less faintly but with more enjoyment when a pair he knows actually does crash out. "Sand everywhere, I'm sure. I suppose we know now why nothing in nature moves quite like that."

Hyacinth answers tersely, "Yes, and I'll not be having people giving her grief. We had enough of that when we lost our parents in the same week and had to put on a charity ball for the downtown restoration." She smiles sweetly to Vyv for remembering, "When you had to throw cutlery at our assailants... overall except for the dead family I'd say that was a memorable event." If people are talking it's a good party. In order not to be a manicure loss she just forfeits the binoculars to Vyv to take pride in good representation for Team Him(tm) and that, really, is quite alright with her. "Ravn, if you are interested there will be park tours coming up with the harvest. If you're inclined to go I'd be happy to fill you in on the details of it."

"I am interested. Americana is not my field but I am here and I'd hate to miss out on learning the land that I walk on, so to speak." Ravn winces slightly at the commentary about charity balls and lost parents -- perhaps some of it strikes a nerve, or possibly he's just one of those empathic people who don't take pleasure in someone else's misfortune. "I have a feeling that I'm going to end up buried here. I'm not sure I entirely mind but at least I want to know who my neighbours in the cemetery are."

Vyv only takes pleasure in the misfortune of people he doesn't like. Or if it's quite funny. His best friend's relations' murders don't qualify on either count, so there's a very faintly sympathetic "Mn," and a nod. "The cutlery worked surprisingly well, considering the whole mirror thing," he says in a tone of absent agreement, the opera glasses raised to watch the tug-of-war. It's actually rather exciting, with all those reversals! People yelling at each other! That big guy stumbling! And Grant's lack of shirt while all that hauling is going on doesn't exactly hurt, either.

"Well, try not to end up there for more than a tour anytime soon, mm?" he suggests distractedly, "But details rarely go amiss... Ah!" The glasses are lowered, his expression pleased. "They've won," may not be strictly speaking a necessary announcement, but there it is regardless. The little binoculars are offered back to Hyacinth, and an upward quirk at one corner of his lips to both his companions. "Think I might just go offer some congratulations. Dinner after?"

Hyacinth takes the binoculars an says to Ravn, "Not something to be taken lightly. That's what wills are for." Hers or perhaps a legal writ. So many strong wills in the Harbor. Looking back an eyebrow arches, pleased. "Ah, so they have! Yes go celebrate and we'll head out for dinner." There's a pause knowing this may include the possibility of Vyv's 'pet', but she manages a slightly put on roll of her eyes with a sigh agreeing, "I'll behave." With a pause, "If I must. Ravn, you're joining us." Well that's cheery as it is imperative. And so concludes beach battles for 2020.