2020-10-04 - What God Doesn't See

The dinner rush hasn't started yet, and the lunch rush has long finished, meaning... well, really, meaning that at the moment, there's a trucker playing some show on a tablet while he eats over at the table, headphones in, while Gina and the current waitress, a fortysomething, plump woman, seem to be both seated at a table, a metal cup with dice in it between them-- along with a few slips of paper. Gina's smirking rather confidently, dressed in skinny jeans, a cropped blue hoodie over sheer black mesh, and her purple hair tied back into two dutch braids. The music blasting tonight? Funk, straight out of the late 60s.

The guys coming in are probably not a combination of people that would leap to anyone's mind as fate bound to happen. They're both tall and thin and male. And that's probably just about all the verbs Ravn Abildgaard and Itzhak Rosencrantz have in common as far as anyone sitting at a table at the Diner are concerned(1). Here they are, though, one fair and one dark, cheerfully chatting away about -- swamp folklore string music? There's got to be a story there. Whatever these two men are - besides hungry -- they're clearly quite fond of each other and, uh, alligator folk. Because that is apparently a thing.

(1) Actually, there's one more thing. They both have noble Danish last names, much to the amusement of one and eye rolling of the other.

Itzhak is practically bouncing along in front of Ravn, walking backwards, hands flipping out and dipping and rising, talking fast and loud in that New York Jewish accent that you could use to strip paint. Like always, he's tall and skinny, topped off with a mane of black curls and a beak like unto that of a flamingo sticking out of his face. He's not always this excited, but he's talking about music and not just any music but his favorite music in all the world: the folk songs and ways of America. "They really do it, yannow! They dance with fuckin' cottonmouths and diamondbacks, I went to a tent revival when I was down there with my band. They were real nice to me and I couldn't understand a word any of 'em said."

Apparently he's talking about snake handling.

There's a curse from the matronly looking woman as she scowls and shoves some chips closer towards Gina as the cup is raised to reveal something. Gina just smirks, pushing the chips back towards her and wiggling her fingers in a shooing motion. Neither of them seem to have payed attention to the entrance of the boys, but the older woman does glance over Gina's shoulder and spot them, looks down at teh chips, scoops them all into her apron pockets and moves to head behind the counter. Meanwhile, the music shifts to something more boppy, just as Gina deigns to lean back in her seat and glance over her shoulder, listening to Itzhak gleefully discuss snakes and revivals. Both brows raise at the combination of Ravn and Itzhak, but she says nothing. Just reaches for the cup, plunking the dice back in it as she gives it a shake, rattling the dice in tune to the music, like a tamborine, as she heads towards the counter to sit there instead of the table.

Also.... while still funk... does anyone recognize Thai? Because it's currently Thai funk. Kampee Sangthong's Mai Na Lork Gun... that followed right after Lillian Hale's Don't Boom Boom. Because Gina.

"By now I'd offer to kiss a diamondback if it came with ketchup," Ravn inserts and scoops up a menu. He looks at it a moment, only to realise that the omelettes are in fact on it. Which means it is entirely untrustworthy as far as human food consumption goes. He tosses it back on the counter and looks at whichever woman is nearest. "Can we have something that's edible but doesn't have a reputation as the third most fearsome thing in Gray Harbor, topped only by Vic Grey glaring down unruly patrons and trying to find a decent cup of coffee? Actually, can we have it with decent coffee?"

"They'll sell you snake meat but they don't tell you it's real dense and got no fat and it'll turn to leather the second you show it a lit match. You gotta steam it or braise it, like pot roast. That's perfectly obvious to them, they eat swamp meat all the time. Ain't what you'd call kosher though." Sorry everybody in the immediate vicinity, Itzhak isn't about to slow down. He slings his lanky form on the stool next to Ravn's and takes a breath and he's about to go on--but the music freezes him in place. He blinks. "What the fuck is this," he says to Gina with a certain horrified awe.

Gina is totally the person closest, but she's busy pouring dice out of the cup and tucking the dice away, before putting the cup where the dirty dishes go. And she ignores Ravn, instead looking a touch thoughtful as she considers Itzhak's tips on proper serpentine cooking. But then Itzhak's asking a direction question, and Gina raises both eyebrows, tilting her head slightly to listen. "Thai, I think. Think the next one is US before we hit Toni Tornado." Gina says mildly, as if this is all perfectly normal. "Not a funk fan?" Not that she looks at all like she cares, pulling a ordering pad out and asking, "And any specifications beyond 'anything ever'?" A glance towards Ravn, and a thin, slightly sly smile. "Gives me a lot to work with."

"Sure. Something even your employees would eat." Ravn hitches a shoulder, unimpressed with the challenge. "Or, you know, convince me for the last and final time that this place is in fact the Hellmouth and I'd rather be eating three day old dropped tater tots off the floor at the Twofer while the repair crew picks up the loose glass and the dropped fig leaf. Please don't ask about the fig leaf. Vic told me far too much about the fig leaf."

"I love funk," Itzhak says, flat dead serious, staring at Gina with the unblinking stare of his favorite reptiles. "I don't know what this is." Then he reanimates waving both hands in a frantic 'ix-nay' as Ravn attempts to order, uh, three day old tots off the floor or something. "Do not listen to this man, he ain't in his right mind, we want actual lunch and I want to actually eat it, I'm starving. Gina I'm begging you have mercy on a poor Yid stupid enough to go to lunch with a madman!"

"Culture." Gina deadpans to Itzhak, matching his flat statement with her own dead serious tone. And, as Zoey has meta-referred to them, her cold shark's eyes. Which soon flick towards Ravn, then to her notepad as she scribbles something, "Birdboy gets soup and sandwich combo of the day. You do the kosher thing?" This to Itzhak, as she continues writing instructions on her pad. An awful lot of instructions, huh. Should anyone be worried? "We do impossible burgers if that's your kind of thing." Judgement? It's... very hard to tell if Gina is judging. Best be safe and assume she is. "And don't worry, I know Ravn's just projecting." Two slips of paper are removed from the sheet, stabbed on the spike heading to the kitchen-- were both of those for Ravn? Oh dear.

"I'd ask what I'm supposed to be projecting but I'm pretty sure the answer would just be some half-baked babbledigook about every man for himself and we're all going to die anyway so doom, doom, doom." Ravn hitches that shoulder again and wanders to the nearest table. "Anyhow, I never saw anyone do the whole talking to venomous snakes thing. We have snakes and people who handle them back home, but if you ever met one, odds are he'd break down and cry on your shoulder because you actually can tell a viper from an adder."

"Gimme a double cheeseburger, actual cow, but put the cheese on the bottom of the meat so God can't see." Is Itzhak just having the time of his life ordering lunch or what? Is this turning on his charm or showmanship or just clowning in his peak New Yorker style? He seems to be in a pretty good mood. Gina's cold, dead shark eyes don't dampen his spirits a whit; he seems pleased, even, the big dumb lug. Like she's playing along. Surely he knows she's not. Surely he knows that, right? "And one a them fancy pear ciders. How's by you anyway, huh? ...Who'd cry, the guy or the snake?" That's to Ravn. "Anyway didn't druids do that or something?"

Gina writes down what Itzhak orders, sending it off to the kitchens as well, before she turns to prep the cups of coffee, "He's very pessimistic." Gina notes to Itzhak, her tone-- ambiguous. Sincere? Slightly teasing? Sly? Is she being sarcastic? "And so untrusting of his fellow men. Tsk." yeah, she just tsk'd. "Life in town must be getting to him." Is her voice perfectly audible to Ravn? ... probably. But she's clearly talking to Itzhak! And shrugs at his question about how she's doing, "I'm upgrading the dollhouse in the spare bedroom. Some of the dolls are less than happy." Gina... once more, it's hard to tell if she's joking or not. Does Gina even have dolls in her house? Has she mentioned them? WHO KNOWS. But anyway, a bottle of non-alcoholic pear cider is put in front of Itzhak - with a bottle opener, because like she's going to do that - and the cup of coffee next to it, as Ravn requested.

"Pessimistic, maybe. Spending every conversation ranting and getting starry-eyed about how we're all going to die so nothing matters anyway? That's your gig. I'm the one who keeps arguing that at least the people of Gray Harbor have each other. And I'm sorry for you that you apparently don't include yourself in that, but it's your life and your choice." Ravn settles at that other table, leaning one arm over the arm rest of his chair and watching both -- the tall New Yorker and the odd-fashioned woman.

He glances at Itzhak, evidently finding that other topic to be of more interest. "I meant the handler. We only have one venomous snake, a viper. But it's hard to tell from a harmless adder -- you have to look for the yellow spots on the adder's head. Unfortunately, a lot of people confuse the two, which means a lot of adders get killed every tourist season for the crime of existing while black and looking vaguely like eels." He pauses for a beat. "Oh, and a lot of people also realise every year that actually, adder does not taste great with scrambled eggs, the way eel does."

Something about the way Ravn's acting finally draws Itzhak's attention. He narrows a look at him across the table--then looks genuinely shocked. "What? Oh my God, the poor snakes!" ...that's his takeaway from that story. He is sad about snakes being killed and then not even eaten. Then he remembers Ravn is acting weird, not to mention kinda going on about Gina and nihilism, and bumps him under the table. "Hey, what's with the face?"

Gina's eyes widen a fraction at Ravn's accusation, one hand pointing up towards herself. "Starry-eyed? You'll make me blush." Gina's tone doesn't change- that semi-amused, relaxed, ambiguous tone that makes it difficult to tell if she's being sarcastic or serious. She's an emoji-less 'kay' sent in a text, where you have no idea how you're supposed to read that. "Just so you know, though. Sometimes, I also give out hair tips." Dryly noted, before she reaches for another glass for herself, adding in some crushed ice before she gets starting making her own drink. Which apparently involves several types of juices and fruits and a scoop of vanilla ice cream? Okay. But Gina helpfully looks over her shoulder and outlines (her version of) events for Itzhak. "Birdboy's sore years of experience and living in Gray Harbor makes me a little touchy about friendship circles and defenders against the dark clubs being at best a joke and at worst, another fuse that can be lit on fire." She drawls, giving a very small shrug with both shoulders as her attention returns to making her drinks. "Or some shit like that. There's native species of garters, rattlers, and boas around here, no adders, I think. The rubber boa's harmless. They like being in the trees."

"Nothing's with my face," Ravn murmurs. "I don't like the idea that the cool way to deal with all of Gray Harbor's problems is to shove the guy next to you under the bus and let him take the fall-out while you walk away. The way I see it, you're either on Team Humanity, or you're playing for the other team. Had the pleasure of getting lectured by a few people on how that's pretty much the purpose of a soft ping like me, getting shoved under buses. Didn't impress me much but, not the first time I get to play the part of silly nerd that the jock picks to impress the girls, either. Now, whose leg do I have to bite to get a cup of coffee -- proper, black coffee -- while we wait?"

Itzhak, in comparison, is the string of fireworks and eggplants and underlined 100 emoji. Possibly topped off with a violin. He looks between Gina and Ravn like it's a tennis match, his eyebrows up. "Hey, whoa, wait a minute, who said that to you?" he demands of Ravn. "What the fuck does 'soft ping' mean, anyway? What's going on, huh?"

Like an overly-protective, hyper-aggro older brother, this guy is.

Gina points -- she served up his coffee, but she served it up near Itzhak, because Itzhak is the one not throwing a hissy fit (Gina thoughts!!) over trifles. But ever so helpfully, Gina finishes her drink - some sort of layered object of dark, creamy purplish liquid in a glass full of ice cubes and berries and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Gina has a sip of her drink, considers, and has another sip. She seems perfectly content to look at Ravn while she drinks her concoction, letting him have first dibs on explanations.

Ravn missed the coffee happening; but this at least is a problem that can be quickly rectified -- and he does so, because if there's one thing the Black Bear gets right, it's the idea that coffee can be just coffee. By Ravn's standards, this is practically a miracle in a country where the only thing you're never guaranteed to find in a coffee cup is actual coffee.

"A soft ping is someone like me, as I understood it. Someone who doesn't have much shine juice." The Dane settles back on the chair, fingers curled around the mug, savouring the aroma of its contents. "I'm not upset. I'm not angry. I'm just not going to pretend that I'm all right with this way of thinking -- the whole every man for himself attitude turns us into shark bait. Are we all screwed here? Yes, probably. Doesn't mean we have to be dicks about it."

"Bullshit you're not upset. I never seen you so upset." And Itzhak is going to call Ravn out on it in front of Gina, God, the Griz/Black Bear, and everybody. "Nobody thinks that." Even though Gina just said she thinks that and Itzhak focuses on her with a snap. "Do you seriously think that?"

"What else would you call somebody with more glint than glimmer? A lot of people would trade in a heartbeat to be a soft ping instead of a DJ booth blasting at eleven." Gina muses, tapping her fingernails against the glass of her drink. Is she focusing on the wrong thing on purpose? Probably.

But not for long.

Gina turns her attention on Itzhak, then - dark eyes, sharp eyes, half-mocking eyes - though herself or the world, who knows. Flat eyes, for all they're so sharp. "That everyone's out to get me? No. That we're fucked?" Gina shrugs. "My bones will rot in Gray Harbor and my blood will dry to dust here. I retired from as much of the Deep Beat as I could without leaving, and I'm probably still fucked." Gina doesn't seem to... well, she doesn't seem upset about it at all. It's just plain facts to her. "I don't like people. And experience has taught me depending on them is stupid as fuck. Something always breaks. Usually the other person, when they can't hack it."

"I am not upset. I am disappointed." Ravn looks up from his coffee again. "Once, I'd just have kept silent, nodded and smiled. Spent too many hours in therapy being told to be honest about how I feel. So that's it -- I'm disappointed. I don't expect anyone to do anything about that. I'm just not going to pretend otherwise, either."

"Look, we're all screwed, we're all gonna die, and that don't excuse us from nothing. Life sucks, so what, we gonna sit around and cry about it or we gonna put some fuckin' work in? Also I want one of them things you're drinking, that looks delicious." Itzhak really has a solution for everything, doesn't he? Not good solutions, but solutions. He reaches over to knuckle Ravn in the shoulder. "Show me how to do that thing you do with the quarter."

Distraction is clearly the solution here!

"... It's a Euro cent." Ravn can't resist a small smile at that. "I had two, still, but the other one -- beats me, must have dropped it somewhere."

He doesn't dip into his pocket for a coin, though. The sugar packets remain unstolen as well. What he does do is reach over to the counter, pick up a few glasses, and stack them. Just, not very carefully. In fact, don't breathe too hard at his little pyramid of glasses. Several wobble precariously, but there they sit on the tablecloth.

Then he yanks away the tablecloth.

The glasses remain where they are. Wobbling. In a pyramid. Not falling.

"Distraction enough for you, Mr New York?" Ravn's smile lingers.

Gina just shrugs, "I put my work in. I'm tired. And I'm done." Said simply, before she has another sip of her drink. Both eyebrows rise when Ravn goes behind the counter to collect the glasses -- but Gina doesn't say anything. She also doesn't say anything else except, "Ask, next time, or you might lose a hand." But she doesn't sound particularly... threatening? Scary? Caring about it? Just smirks at Itzhak's request and turns around to prep another version of what she's having - something certainly not on the menu.

A stage magician couldn't ask for a better audience; Itzhak watches, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, as if he's trying to figure out where the card gets palmed or where the doves are. Ravn stacks the glasses, clink tink, and Itzhak watches Ravn, and then--et voila!--the glasses are still standing! And Ravn didn't even cheat, which Itzhak himself totally would have done. He laughs, clapping once, the lines on his face all showing from the way he's grinning. "Love it." And he aims the grin at Ravn in a way that says he knows Ravn knows that he was trying to tease him out of his mood, and Ravn knows that he knows that he knows, and so forth.

"Don't bite his hand off," he tells Gina, "who else is gonna play Brahms with me in this town? You can bite my hand instead."

"It's a pretty simple trick if you know how to do it," Ravn admits and starts plucking glasses off his pyramid again, so that they can be returned to where he nicked them. "It looks like the hard part is removing the tablecloth but the actual trick is how you stack the glasses. If they're positioned right you can shake the table quite a lot without them coming down, they sort of distribute the momentum among themselves. The misdirection lies in making the glasses look like they're all about to fall, of course -- they're really not."

A stage magician who actually explains his tricks? The ghosts of generations of carnies and grifters are probably going to turn up any moment now to stab him in the eye with the nearest fork.

"And risk knowing where that hand's been? Please. No." Gina says flatly, putting the same purple drink in front of Itzhak that she has in front of herself. If Itzhak takes a sip, or examines the fruits floating around, he'll taste coconut milk, blackberries, blueberries, a hint of lime and the vanilla bean as it melts from the ice cream into the drink. Creamy and sweet with a touch of sour! She abandons her own drink momentarily, in order to put away the glasses as Ravn takes down his tower. She doesn't look impressed: maybe she knew the trick. Maybe she's hiding her newfound awe of Ravn. Maybe she's just glad the glasses didn't fall and make a mess! "That goes for both of you."

"You ain't actually told me how to do it," Itzhak informs Ravn, just in case Ravn thinks he got away with that. "But you know what? I don't wanna know. It's more fun to watch you do it."

The luxurious purple drink Gina sets in front of him, he admires for a moment, then samples. "...hell yeah, that's good." He licks a smear of purple ice cream from the corner of his mouth and smirks at her. "Well how do you know you don't like where my hand's been until you try it?"

...so, he's flirting with her now, that's a thing that's happening. If that's what he considers flirting.

Ravn's grey eyes sparkle with amusement. "No, I didn't. You have to join a secret society of gypsies in a ceremony involving at least three stolen chickens, one fine for sleeping in a Copenhagen park where Romas are not allowed to gather, four stories of police oppression, and at least fast lie told with a straight face. Also, don't ever call Romas gypsies unless they use the word at you themselves. I did tell you I made my living as a carnie for a while, that'll have to do. Secret code, man."

Fast lies are possibly still being told. With a straight face.

He settles at the table again, after returning glasses to the counter and the tablecloth to its original position, and picks up his coffee to watch his friend ply his particular brand of magic. This is going to get interesting.

Gina's brows both rise at Itzhak's comment, and she-- still maintaining the same apathetic expression-- leans forward, leaning her weight on her elbows over the counter. "Because those hands haven't been around me, obviously, so how could they've been anywhere good?" Gina tells Itzhak, so very very dry. "Though sorry, I'm too busy being madly in love with someone I'll never have and watching my crush sleep at night when he's not with his girlfriend. Can't fit time to teach you anything good in my schedule."

"Hah! Change chickens to cars and Copenhagen to Central Park, and bruddah, I qualify." Itzhak's grinning like that at Ravn, the many crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled, just extremely pleased with life right now.

Then Gina's returning fire, and Itzhak's eyebrows go up, slyly impressed. He leans in, too, though not far, not enough to actually push anything. It's a bit of showmanship--acting like he's shoving into Gina's space, when he isn't. It's all in the motions of his big bony shoulders, dipping and rising. "Nothin' good, huh? How convenient I ain't interested in anything good." He catches the straw of his purple drink thing in his mouth and performs the world's most ludicrously seductive siiiiiiip, all flirtatious eyebrows and hooded looks.

"I'm thinking of naming my violin after all," Ravn murmurs with a casual air, as if a thought just wandered past at random and knocked on his skull to be let inside, and there is absolutely no correlation to Gina's observations about her crush's sleeping habits, whoever her crush might be. "Think it would be over the top to name her Girlfriend? That way, next time somebody thinks I'm panting after their significant other, I can just smile prettily and talk about spending the night with my girlfriend. Might save me a bit of trouble here and there."

He's such a smart cookie. Or at least, a cookie who can run his mouth with an air of assumed innocence that probably works quite well when one is in fact a bloke of the kind that some people consider too pretty boy to be possessed of much mental capacity. And blond, to boot.

Then he laughs because how can you watch that exchange and not laugh? Gina and Itzhak, absolutely playing off each other, in a display worthy of -- probably better than -- most comedic shows. Definitely a popcorn moment, this.

Gina doesn't back away-- instead, her fingers link together as she maintains her position! But she just smirks at Itzhak's words, her eyes sliding over towards Ravn as he decides to name his violin. "You might as well. Doesn't seem like you know too many significant people anyway." Her eyes slide right back towards Itzhak and give him a once-over - telling - before her smirk increases just a touch. "That's the problem with you guys. Always liking the bad girls, just not interested. Breaks a girl's heart." Gina drawls.

Wait, wasn't she just trying to shoo him off? And now suddenly the story is he's rejecting her?

Let's be honest, Itzhak was always going to lose this game, and when Gina drawls 'significant' and gives him that once over, his ears turn red. Stupid capillaries! But he's still in, though he totally has to swallow too fast and lick away a trickle of melted ice cream from his thumb. "If you don't know how to be a bad girl, I'll be happy to teach you. It's real easy. You just be yourself, except you have more fun." He smirks back at her, convincingly for how red his face is turning.

The smile on Ravn's face doesn't diminish at Gina's jab. "You're right. I don't do significant people, at least not if I see them before they see me. That's why I'm eating here and not at Sitka, after all." Beat. "Well, that, and the fact that you don't make me feel like I should wear a tie. Bloody well hate wearing a tie."

He hitches a shoulder and looks toward the kitchen hopefully; food can't be miles off by now. "Jokes aside, though, it really is. Absolutely can't stand the posh scene. Itzhak can testify to how much I whined about having to dress up if I want to see him perform at the Eighty Eight. Probably didn't help that I was already half drunk at the time he came within whining distance in the first place. Next time I am very much going to picture you in a bad girl costume while you're playing, Itzhak, that'll definitely help me keep my cool."

Was that a spark of amusement in Gina's eye when she managed to make Itzhak blush? Surely not, just a trick of the light, she's still cool as a cucumber. She pretends to think about Itzhak's words, but then says, "...Guess I'll just have to live without being a bad girl. Having more fun's good, but there are laws against those kinds of games somewhere they serve food." Really, there are deserts damper than Gina's tone. But she looks towards Ravn at his comment about 'jokes aside,' shrugging. "Not a people person. Parties irritate me either way. Most parties are shit-- at least at the posh ones, people keep their distance and keep their mouths shut if you don't matter to them." She looks back at Itzhak a moment, judging "--he'd look pretty cute in a bunny girl costume, too. Could always imagine that." Why, why oh why is it SO HARD to tell if Gina is joking or not?

"He whined," Itzhak sotto voces to Gina, like Ravn is not sitting right there. "It's a shame, he looks fantastic in a suit." But then Ravn says that thing about picturing him in a bad girl costume and Itzhak blushes from scalp all the way down his neck. Suddenly he looks like he was dunked in jam. "Shit," he mutters, laughing because he knows he's lost this particular round. "Youse guys don't know how good I look in a dress." Surrendering, he drinks his purple fruity concoction.

Ravn glances at Gina and quirks an eyebrow slightly; for once she said something that he actually takes to be more than just, well, Gina being Gina. She's very obviously the kind of person who will say whatever she feels like in order to get a rise out of somebody, or just make them get out of her face. He knows she's as good at cold reading or better than he is, and from his observations so far, she plays people like instruments for her own amusement. And then, suddenly, in between the manure and the ribbing, there's a glimpse of something very familiar.

A slight nod, almost sympathetic in nature. "Or they don't keep their mouths shut, which is usually worse."

Thin ice. The Dane looks back to Itzhak and laughs softly. "I hope you just realised that now I'm going to make sure to get to find out. Can't say something like that and not follow up on it -- although you got my absolute sympathy too because bloody hell, the amount of times somebody tried to convince me back in university that with a face like mine, I'd make a great drag queen."

A ding sounds just as Gina opens her mouth, perhaps to add to these observations, and she glances behind her - two plates. Turning, she saunters off, returning with two plates. Itzhak's is, of course, the burger: two substantial patties, well-cooked and perfectly juicy, resting on a triple layer of lightly toasted bun. Sesame bun. There is, in fact, cheese hidden beneath the burger! And all the necessary toppings layered just so on the burger. The fries that accompany the burger are thin ones, crispy and generously sprinkled with some home blend of spices and the ketchup, mayo, and mustard samplers that accompany the plate of food all look suspiciously homemade.

As for Ravn's plate... a bowl of some sort of barley, bacon, and vegetable soup, the vegetables all diced into perfect cubes to form a colorful spoonful whenever scooped up from the dark, delicious stock. It tastes hearty, flavorful, and quite easy to finish. The sandwich is turkey, brie, and... pear? Yes, pear. It works surprisingly well, and the bright and lighter tastes form a nice, harmonious contrast to the barley soup. And it even comes with a fresh, crusty bit of bread and butter on the side should he have extra soup before the sandwich is finished!

Neither looks poisoned. And Gina just sets both plates down casually before she picks up her drink. and takes a long sip. Unworried.