2020-10-19 - In the Gazebo

(TXT to Gina) Ravn : I need to talk to you. Meet me somewhere your staff isn't watching? Something weird happened. You were in it.

(TXT to Ravn) Gina : You realize this sounds like a serial killer's pickup line, right? Or an undercover cop. I'm intrigued. and I'm at the park. I'll even bring a few baggies of powdered sugar.

(TXT to Gina) Ravn : Be there in five.

It's a grey, drizzly evening, fog rolling over the grounds, where colorful fallen leaves have started to transform to that half-rotting brown color that everything is eventually cast into. At the park, leaves still remain on the trees, vibrant and colorful and not at all looking like in just a few days they'll be joining their companions to rot on the ground. It's late enough most parents have called their children back into the house, though there are a few families out together on walks, some teens avoiding going back home, and, at the park's gazebo, a figure draped in black sitting on the railing, hand twirling a bit of still-living ivy in her fingertips.

Gina's outfits always run the gamut between casual, gothy, historical, and whatever the heck Gina decides. And today's no different. Her top is sleeveless black, worn with a mini skirt and ripped leggings tucked into hiking boots- but over all of that she wears a short dark brown cloaked cape. She seems perfectly comfortable sitting on the railing, there, one foot hooked arouund a pillar, the other hanging freely, an earbud in her ear - an ear which, by the way, also has an earring of a silver-and-rose-gold hanging man (like the tarot card, dangling by his foot) that nearly reaches her shoulder, and the earcuff worn with it? A waterfall of little daggers. Because Ginas.

Ravn Abildgaard is, as always, the man in black. He wanders along the raked path with determined strides, hands deep in pockets and a contemplative expression. He's usually got a very measured amount of chin scruff; today it looks a little longer, like he perhaps skipped the morning not-quite-shave. A bit of darkness under the eyes too -- one might imagine that he's caught a cold, perhaps, or feels a little under the weather. Or spent all night running through some crazy dreamscape, maybe -- this is Gray Harbor after all.

He walks up to the sitting woman and leans against the railing next to her, resting his elbows on it without taking his hands out of the pockets of the leather jacket. For a moment he's quiet. Then, at last, "I had the bloody weirdest dream. I think. I don't remember dreaming. But I remember you and the odds of that memory being real is bloody improbable."

Gina's feet are actually on the inner part of the gazebo, her back to the world, the cloak dangling behind her. It means she only has to glance to the side to see Ravn's face and expression-- which she does, then goes back to staring before her at nothing, acid green fingernails still caressing the ivy leaves and tendrils. "Is this going to end with a ring? Because I don't really believe in marriage like that." She asks in that bland, light voice of hers, before she takes a breath and leans back a bit. "But I won't stop you from explaining it."

"You tell me. Because if this is a real memory, then that was the idea at one point, wasn't it?" The Dane grimaces slightly then unpockets a hand to rub at his temple as if he somehow hopes to entice some busy craftsman there to take his hammers somewhere else. "Sorry. I may have had entirely too much vodka last night, and then I woke up this afternoon with memories I'm pretty certain aren't real. Did you ever actually go to Denmark, Gina?"

Raising both eyebrows, Gina looks over at Ravn, "You've heard memories are being fucked up all over the place since you arrived, and this surprises you?" She asks, sounding... mildly surprised, and yet so bore, as if she's only faking that surprise herself. And so she shrugs, "You can't trust your memories or your reality in Gray Harbor, birdboy." She gives a little shrug, looking away again. "But no, I didn't go to Denmark that year. I was angry at my mother for filing paperwork with the Blix-whatever name for me, so after meeting him I ran off and went to Humlebæk," Her pronounciation isn't great, but she's clearly heard it said right before, "And went to Luisiana, Copenhagan, Sweden...Lyudmila told everyone I was at boarding school or something. Don't know. Don't really care."

Ravn nods. He recognises the references -- no surprise, that. Nor is it any real surprise that if his dream memory has any kind of validity, that she'd find herself in the wealthiest part of the country, the so-called Whiskey Belt. "So it didn't actually... happen. But you remember enough to know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

He frowns and resumes staring into the gazebo, watching memories to his inner eye rather than what's actually there. "I suppose that it doesn't actually matter. Whether it really happened, I mean. Does it make any difference to you?"

The question seems to - surprisingly - stop Gina's gaze, and she turns to stare at Ravn for a long moment, her expression... complicated. Before she bursts out into laughter. Loud laughter, that has her doubling over and trying to stifle her laughter, fingertips on the bridge of her nose, her other hand over her stomach, shoulders shaking with the force of laughter. From a distance, someone might be thinking Ravn managed to make Gina sob uncontrollably-- and, well, perhaps there is an edge to that laughter, something wild and howling and many-toothed.

Shaking her head, she finally manages to calm her breathing down enough to take a few deep breaths, a chuckle or two escaping as she does, "Дружок, do you not listen?" She says, shaking her head and turning to Ravn with a smile that's too toothy and eyes with nothing but a dark, amused resignation in them, "I told you, you can't trust your memories or reality here. I have lived here and out there my whole life. If it bothered me I'd be dead or on their side by now, birdboy. It doesn't matter. None of it does. You can only trust yourself, and I'd be a little suspicious of doing that without doubts, either. Once you start shining so they can see, reality's just another lie you can tell yourself to feel better. Some fuckers turn to drink or sex or drugs to deal with Gray Harbor. Some people get addicted to "real." She even airquotes, shaking her head. "Poor fucking bastards. Real means -nothing-."

Ravn shakes his head, and waits for the woman to catch her breath, and then for her to pause for breath again. "I get that. Reality gets retconned like a bad fan fic every other week. First I'm a celebrity chef, now I train combat seafood, and suddenly I remember getting set up for a blind date with you thirteen years ago. And you're right. It doesn't really matter because next week, it may all get retconned out of existence, or it turns out it was actually your sister, or maybe we were all in Congo, or it never happened at all. I get that. But this isn't next week. It's now, and it matters to me. You're in a position to seriously screw up my life, and that matters because you're someone who might decide to do just that if she got bored enough or pissed off enough."

He pauses and looks back at her. "So I guess what I really should be asking is, what does it take to make you not decide to that?"

Gina just looks at Ravn with a blank expression, "The fuck are you even /talking/ about, Ravn?" She asks, finally.

"I just want to be left alone." Ravn looks at his hands as they curl themselves around the railing. "Mind my own business. I'm just some drifter who ran out of Europe and got started on the next continent over, and maybe some day I'll make it to the South Americas next. It's... hard to explain. I just want to forget about all of it. If you had that same dream I did, then you met me during a time of my life I honestly wish would get retconned out."

"You realize that of those who roll deep and low the way we do, like half of them can pick up memories from shit, right?" Gina muses, taking in a breath, exhaling, breathing again, eyes closing while she wrestles to bring back her veneer of self. She leans back a touch, both hands on the railings to balance herself. "I mean-- honestly, do you really think anybody is buying you're just a drifter? I caught you out day one you were more than that." Gina points out, shrugging. "You've got too many tells. But how's this: you never, ever, bring up my mom to me or around me, I'll let everyone else figure out for themselves you're some danish prince or something."

"I am not a bloody prince." Ravn sighs and reminds himself -- she's an American girl, she literally has no idea what she's talking about and getting offended is pointless. "And yes, actually, I do believe exactly that. I've even managed to convince myself. So yes. You have a deal. Your baggage is yours unless for some reason you decide you want to talk about it -- then I'll listen if you want me to."

He shakes his head. "I know people read minds around here. I try to not give them reason to bother. But if you want to clue me in on what those tells are, that'd actually be very helpful. The idea of having tells offends my professional pride." The Dane makes airquotes around the last two words -- because, well, being a confidence is hardly a recognised profession. It certainly doesn't come with a retirement plan.

If only he knew how much Gina DOES know... and doesn't care. Or doesn't know and doesn't care. Really it's probably best he doesn't. By her smirk, though-- her smirk always suggests she knows far more than she's letting on. Which she does now. "Please. I've already told you. Just because I'm not going to calling you Duke of Denmark doesn't mean I'm going to help you perpetuate a lie, birdboy." Gina shakes her head, tsking, "Lying to my neighbors is just beyond me." She manages in an even, pleasant deadpan. "You probably already know, deep down, why you can't fit in just right. I'm not going to ruin that journey for you. Still think you're overreacting, though. Living on a shitty boat isn't going to change your past."

"It's not my past I want to change, it's my future. Besides, no one who's ever actually sailed on a boat like the Vagabond would call her shitty just because she isn't fancy." Ravn grimaces slightly; duke isn't any more accurate, really, but it's probably a very bad idea to let Gina get a clue as to how much the mislabelling actually annoys him -- she'd only start doing it on purpose if she hasn't already. "I'm going to contest the idea of a lie, though. I am not lying to anyone. I'll cede that there are things I leave out when I introduce myself. Just like you, Lady Blixenskiold."

"Baron Vagabond's still a baron." Gina points out. Because she's actually totally doing it on purpose. For her own reasons, her expression now fully under her control, back to that teasing, taunting, ambiguous way of hers. "Past or future. They're both the same." Fortune Cookie Writer Gina, at your service! "Besides, I'm not Lady Blixenskiold. She never existed. The paperwork's a dead end. I wasn't Jeanette-- and nobody who know what's-his-face could ever point me out as having any relation to him. Not even his attorney." Gina gives a casual srug, "Not for the cut he got, anyway. Choosing not to live somebody else's lie isn't the same as living my truth."

"It doesn't matter if she existed. I already gave you my word that it's not something I'm going to start digging in, and even if I had not, I still wouldn't. It's in the past, across the Atlantic, just where I want it all to stay. Do you understand that, at least?" Ravn glances sideways at the woman who reminds him quite a lot of a younger, blue-haired woman who smoked pot in his mother's greenhouse thirteen years ago. "The past and the future are not the same at all. One leads to the other, that is true. But we get a say in what the future is going to be like, who we are going to be in it. Or are you one of those people who believe that everything is pre-determined and that we cannot deviate from God's grand plan?"

"Jeanette is as real as anything. A plurality of reality." Gina smirks, shaking her head at some in-joke. "She's real. Blixenbolt isn't. That never existed for me. But we're going to disagree. There's no difference between the two except degrees of separation." As for the talk of god? Gina snorts straightening again to reach up and try to touch her fingertips to the edge of the gazebo. She's not quite tall enough, by mere centimeters. "Who said there's a God to be responsible for shit? Or that we'd even exist in his grand plan? Whatever I believe, humans being some fucking special butterflies in teh cosmos definitely ain't it."

Look who's out for a walk on this misty drizzly autumn evening: Itzhak Rosencrantz, trucking along, smoking a cigarette, the hood of his battered GHPD hoodie up over his curls. He tilts his head as he hits the park, listening, and looks over at the gazebo. Altering course, he aims his boots thataway, leaving pressed-flat damp grass in his wake. The last few words from both Ravn and Gina reach him, and his eyebrows pop up, and he visibly rethinks coming over. Maybe this isn't something he should intrude on? (A very rare thought for Itzhak.)

"That's my point. I'm the only one who decides who or what I am." Ravn is focused entirely on Gina; for once, the spatial awareness of a mover is not kicking in. "I can't make Gray Harbor not retcon and rewrite reality like a teenage girl writing Supernatural wincest stories -- and if you don't know what that means, save yourself the misery of finding out. What I can do is decide who I am. What I'm going to be, how I'm going to play this game. Just like you have."

"You have a shocking amount of knowledge on teenage girl wincest fantasies." Gina notes thoughtfully. But she just smiles her usual not-smile, shaking her head. "All right. Play it your way. You do you, Viscount Violin boy. Do whatever you want. But using me as a role model's a shit idea. You're a decade too late and two decades too early. But I'll give you time to realize that yourself. Some things can't be rushed. A small shrug, "That all you wanted, bird boy?"

Maybe he should, in fact, intrude. Itzhak plucks the cigarette from his lips as he strolls his way over. "Great night for a picnic in the gazebo, am I right?" is his greeting. One forefinger flicks to tap the ash off his smoke. "Three's company, am I also right? I'm right. Gina, his violin ain't discount, it's the real deal. It ain't one of those things you get for forty bucks off Amazon. You guys wanna smoke out? Tante Itzil might have a joint if you're good."

Ravn looks startled at suddenly hearing the other man's voice behind him. He turns around and -- well, for a split second he looks like a kid who got caught with one hand in the cookie jar, or a teen who was definitely not considering making out with his cousin. All the wrong signals to send in one -- and then he manages to compose himself and assume his usual quiet, calm facade.

He nods at Gina and says, "You're not my role model. If anything, you're the opposite." Then the Dane looks to Itzhak and smiles. "Been a while since I had one. I'm still getting used to the idea that Mary Jane is legal in this state. Old habits die hard."

Gina glances over her shoulder - her back is facing the outside world, feet inside the gazebo as she sits on the railing - "Rosencrantz." She acknowledges, which is more than some people get. "Tante Itzil's never going to get rid of that joint." There's a smirk when Ravn calls her the opposite of a role model, before she shifts round, legs kicking up over the railing so she can turn around and watch both the boys. "It wasn't much of a big deal in the northwest anwyay. even before it was legal. Everybody's aunt has a pot plant at home. Or feels like."

Joe's been far more of a homebody than he once was. But after the assault, being behind the relative security of a complex's gate and his own locked doors is one of the few places he feels easy that isn't the deck of his boat at sea....and with the seasons turning as they are, that latter is less of an option.

Even with that, though, he's out for a walk, in jeans, long sleeved t-shirt, and old boots. He's carrying a black umbrella where the shaft glows like blue neon, soft as moonlight. Lost in his own little reverie, expression somber, until the sound of his friend's name has him glancing over, brows up.

Itzhak's in the process of finishing the cigarette, stubbing it out in the public ashtray build into the top of the trash can, when Ravn gives him that look--that 'oh God no Mom's home' look. And Itzhak has a mom response, too: he narrows his eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly at precisely the right angle to convey that when he finds out what Ravn did, Ravn is in trouble. But this look smooths away almost as soon as it surfaces. Itzhak's not actually in the business of managing Ravn's life. "Then Tante's gonna have to settle for sharing with bad boys and girls, I guess."

He hops up to sit on the tabletop, boots on the bench like a savage, and digs out the joint from the hoodie's kangaroo pocket. It's a nice, fragrant, fat joint, redolent with sticky vegetal scent. As he's lighting it up, Joe comes along, and Itzhak's hands are busy but he waves his eyebrows at him, looking him over.

"I think we managed to reach an acceptable compromise." The Dane glances at Gina, then nods at the sailor; he knows who the man is from the bar and seeing him around the docks, though calling them familiar with each other might be an exaggeration. Then he rests his hands on the railing again and leans on them, watching the easy way that the New Yorker settles in and claims the place. Some people have that talent. Ravn is not one of them.

Gina's talent is being so distinctly herself she doesn't so much claim anything as her immediate surroundings become part of the Gina landscape. The smell of the weed has Gina rolling her eyes, reaching into her cloak pocket to pull out a small bottle of water, from which she takes a sip, before her attention flows to the approaching Joe. A moment or two before she notices the somewhat familiar but unknown face: not an unsual thing in this town. Itzhak working his eyebrow game to get Joe to come over, though? That makes Gina pay attention and sigh, "Hey. Glow-worm." That, called out to Joe, "You lose your tante? It's trying to sell us weed now." A headtilt towards Itzhak and his floral oral bouquet, clearly meaning he's the tante in question.

"Lord, they c'n smell you in the next county," Joe tells Itzhak, amused. "'s like you got half of Humboldt in your pocket." He's got a strong accent, too, but much further south than Itz's - the Georgia coast, slow and deliberate, syllables stretched like taffy. "I di'n't lose him, he's free-range. 'sides, he's right there." He takes all that as invitation, comes ambling over. There's a faint roll to his stride. Ravn gets a little salute, two fingertips to temples. "Hey, y'all."

"Youse guys know Cavanaugh, right? Joe Cavanaugh? This's Ravn Abildgaard--" Itzhak's New York accent turns 'gaard' into a blat, "and Gina I don't know her last name but she runs the Black Bear Diner. Siddown, yeah?" He succeeds in getting the joint lit, takes in a cautious draw, coughs it out, takes a deeper...better. Holds that, and offers the roll over to Ravn. "Free-range tante, that's me," he says on a cloud of thick fragrant smoke, giving a little cough-laugh at the end of his exhale. "Fuck. I need this so bad."

Ravn looks at the joint for a moment as if it reminds him of something and then just passes it on to Gina. "Cavanaugh and I have met a few times at the Twofer -- I believe that we're practically neighbours."

Another glance at Gina. "He's in the boat that isn't shitty."

Aw, lookit his hurt little feelings.

"Castro. Gina Castro." A local who has a lot of childhood rumors attached to her, none of which are entirely favorable, but that's all just kids stuff from back in the day. Surely. "I was raised around here." Because that immediately puts her at the top of the local small town heirarchy. She accepts the joint and gives it a sniff, taking the lightest possible pull from it and passing it on to Joe, "None-shitty boat, huh? Guess you've got some sense. What's up with Rosencrantz that he's pulling out shit this range-- or is he just at that level?" Gina smokes rarely enough this would probably have her giggling and cuddling or some nonsense like that - best leave that to Itzhak and the others.

He accepts the joint, takes a couple of puffs, hands it on. "No, my boat ain't shitty," he agrees, mildly. "Li't sailboat called Surprise. Been here coming up a year, just about. 'leven months, maybe? I mean, I don't live on her full-time no more. Not now." A fond glance for the fiddler. "I dunno," he says. "What is up with you, Rosencrantz?" He hasn't missed the hoodie the other man's wearing. Then he nods at Ravn. "We are. You're a few slips down from me at the docks. Heard you're rentin' a trailer from Vic, now."

"Castro. Gina Castro." Itzhak tips his head towards her. "Local fashion icon. Look, ya both up a boat on me." This is Itzhak's attempt at making peace. This, and apparently getting high in front of God and everybody. He draws off that thing again, holds his breath as long as he can, eyelids drifting shut. Then he exhales, leaning his head back. "Ehhhh, yannow. I gotta call my ma. Tell her some stuff she don't know about me. I'm just freakin' the hell out about it, don't mind me." Hence, surely, the self-medication.

"The Vagabond needs to be dry docked for the winter months. I had to find somewhere to hang my coat until spring. Never thought I'd be spending the winter here so I didn't give it much consideration in due time." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "Figured I'd be halfway to Los Angeles by now but things kept coming up. It's got a bed and a shower which is a step up, I suppose."

He glances at Itzhak but seems to decide against asking. Instead, his gaze wanders to the trees and bushes of the park, still vibrant in their autumn colours but not many weeks from losing their finery. "Same. Pounding hangover, confusing dream. Don't mind me either."

"Hey, could be worse. Your mom could be right in front of you when you havee to tell her some shit." Gina points out, leaning dangerously back, but her arms are there to balance her. "Lucky for me, I just grabbed my dad's place when he downgraded and retired to California. Not sure I could live on a boat. Sounds too much like a cell or something." A pause, and then a look towards Itzhak, "I can't imagine you on a boat for very long. Feels like yuo'd fall in."

"Pleasure, Miss Castro," Joe says, a little belatedly, offering a smile that's almost bashful. Then he gives Itzhak a look that has more than a hint of exasperation in it. "Lemme guess. Gotta tell her that you're queer an' shacked up with another man. A Mexican cop, no less? Honey, she ain't stupid. She's known what you like for years, I guar-an-tee you."

Then he turns his attention to Ravn, coming to sit on the other end of the picnic table from Itzhak. "No shower on your boat? I c'n help you install one, I bet. You could refit her. But yeah, that's smart, findin' somewhere dry to sleep, come winter. What kinna dream?"

To Gina, he says, "I lived on her for a year and a half. And maybe if you just moored her somewhere and had to never move, that might be bad. But it's hard to feel confined when you got the whole ocean spread out before you. It was occasionally cramped in terms of storage or maneuvering, but I never felt imprisoned. That said, I was kinna conditioned, 'cause I spent years in the Navy and had to live in super close quarters. So my standards aren't those of most folks."

The blush spreads inevitably across the bridge of Itzhak's huge crooked nose. He gives Joe a sideways look but he's rapidly growing too mellow to sustain a really good glare. "Yeah, something like that," he snips back at him. "Though the Mexican ain't a problem. We're part Sephardim. ...Roen said the same thing," he mutters, turning his gaze down to the joint he's rolling idly in his fingers, fidgeting. "That she's gotta know. Ugh. Just, fuckin' ugh."

He hikes his eyebrows at Gina, clearly re-running what she's said through audio processing, then snorts a laugh. "Yeah but I got great balance. That's an autism thing, weirdly great balance. Anyway butt-hiking is totally a thing, Roen showed me how." It's Ravn he looks at, then, sensing his friend is not having the best of days. "Won't mind ya. You sure you don't want a little puff? The littlest? Help that hangover." Joe asked what kind of Dream, and Itzhak waits for the answer to that one, quirking one eyebrow to flag that he's interested in it. Seriously, the amount of communication the guy does with those eyebrows.

"The Vagabond isn't large enough to have room for a shower," Ravn murmurs. "She's not a house boat, she was never meant for anyone to live on. Room enough for a single bloke without much debris, though. Got two sleeping areas, cat's claimed the other."

He shakes his head at the lingering memories of the previous night (and probably the hangover resulting from trying to clean the Poorhouse out of paint stripper level vodka, too). "Not one of those murder dreams, just unpleasant memories. And oddly enough, it involved smoking weed so I'm a little off it at the moment. And, you know -- hangover. Whatever you do, don't try to keep up with Seth Monaghan or Maggi Gyre on vodka, just don't."

"I'm a local. I don't like places without enough easy points of egress." Gina -- doesn't fidget enough, when she's still. Some might notice this, some might ignore it, but when she decides not to move, she simply just... doesn't wriggle in her seat or adjust her arms or flex her fingers nearly enough. There is a sidelong look towards Itzhak- "Shit for tastes." Might be murmured as she looks away again, eyes facing skyward. "I ride my bike most places. Helps with my balance. Keeps me humble." She reaches for the joint, slow and easy, before facing Ravn, "Dreams aren't real enough to matter, half the time."

"Well, Roen's right, an' you'll be fine. My money's on her bein' so glad you finally settled down," Joe says, with a serenity no doubt assissted by cannabis, as he holds out a hand for the joint. His own concession to the weed is a certain louche droop to his lids, and the hint of a Cheshire grin.

Which only broadens at Ravn's confession. "I could take 'em," he says, with utter assurance. "They ain't Russians. Rosencrantz can vouch for me there. And I'm not talkin' 'bout a separate shower, Surprise don't have one. But you can refit your head in such a way that a sprayer sink can be used as a handheld. I'll show you, sometime." Gina gets a wry cock of a blue eye rapidly going red-rimmed. "Other half'a the time they'll fuck you up proper."

"Gina, I'm too high to understand ya insults. Dumb 'em down so a poor Yid can really appreciate 'em proper." Itzhak took the thing about 'shit for tastes' as an insult but he has no idea what was actually meant by it. He's grinning at Gina, though, as if tickled by how cute she is, insulting him. It's different on him when he's taking in big hits of fine-quality THC, gives him a laid-back quality normally he just does not possess. Ravn gets a sympathetic flick of Itzhak's hand. "Ehhh, yeah, s'fair. Joe could probably take 'em. I tried to drink him under the table once. Once."

Speaking of whom, Joe gets another Look. Then, he murmurs, "Well, ya pop took it pretty well. Wouldn't think it to look at him."

"I'm not a heavy drinker." Ravn doesn't look all that surprised at the idea that someone with a background as a sailor and stationed to Russia might hold his vodka better. It's a bit like suggesting that a duck might float better than a ten pound lead brick. He glances at Gina, shakes his head and adds, quietly, "You decide what matters to you, I'll decide what matters to me."

August comes a-wandering through the park, dressed for work, from the look it: heavy hikers, flannel shirt in red, white, and black over a plain gray tee, denim jeans, heavy hikers. His boots have dirt on them, and there's a bit of grass and leaves in his hair. Probably he's been working on the garden set up for this year's festival; it's just about done, the lights and vines visible in the distance. He angles towards the group once he's spotted them, gives an up-nod. "Hey y'all. How's things." He's favoring his right-leg just a tad, but the brace is off, at least.

Gina shrugs, that slight, sly smile on her face and touch of ambiguous amusement still in her eye. Like she knows a secret she won't say, but leaves it alone as she looks away from Ravn and out towards Itzhak, both brows rising, "Why do you think I'm insulting you? I could be saying sweet nothings." She deadpans. She breathes in the smell of the joint without actually puffing on it, before passing it back to whoever would like it - Joe, perhaps? Because he gets it. "Like getting fucked up ever matters." But then there's August, coming around, and Gina raises both brows at him, before she grins just a liiiiittle too broadly and says, "December. You doing okay?" How...solicitous.

There's a little flick of Joe's brows, a tilt of his head, as if to try and regain his modesty when it comes to claims about his drinking abilities. "Well," he says, after another couple puffs and handing the joint on, "Helps that A. de la Vega's saved my life a couple times, B. de la Vega's a veteran, C. he's no longer married, and D. my career's over, the fact that I'm as queer as a three dollar bill can't ruin it, and E. I was in the hospital after nearly dyin' yet again. Dad's mellowed a lot, too, now that he's got a whole passel of grandkids, doesn't have to worry about me passin' on the name."

Ravn has him adding, "You wanna see what I'm talkin' 'bout with the shower, just lemme know. I'm mostly sleepin' on land these days." Then August makes his appearance, and he says, "Hey, Roen. How goes it?"

"Because I met you," Itzhak informs Gina in the driest of Yiddish tones. "Why you givin' Abildgaard such a hard time, huh? Wouldn't kill ya to give him a break now and then. Just so you can enjoy starting up again. Like jerking off." Whooo-boy he is high. Then Joe destroys his dreams of his mother taking 'the news' as well as Joe's dad did, and he growls under his breath. "Ya not helping, Cavanaugh."

August's appearance, however, gets his lined, lived-in face to light up with pleasure (enhanced by cannabinoids). "Roen!" Then he cracks up at Gina calling him 'December.' "PLEASE, he's August, it's right there in the name. You want some of this action?" 'This action' clearly meaning the fragrant joint currently making the rounds, or at least a couple rounds, mostly between him and Joe.

A man can't sneak off in plain sight without anyone noticing; at least not if he does ninja or cat burglar style, with high knee action and a furtive look. A man with half a lifetime's worth of experience in erasing himself from attention can turn invisible, though. Not literally, of course. Picture a social chameleon deploying the chameleon bit of that epiteth -- a murmur about not feeling so hot, maybe next week, and then, heading off in a sort of inconspicuous, quiet matter.

Hey, that might actually have come in handy a few times in his career as a boardwalk hustler.

August isn't one to look the gift of Gina asking after him in the mouth. "Better than I have been. Leg's about back together." He coughs at Itzhak's comment comparison of jerking off to giving Ravn hell, and--hey, wasn't he just here? August looks around, frowning, shrugs. Maybe he was imagining it. "Telling her that's just going to making her do it more, you know that, right? Like a cat with the counter." He looks askance at Gina. "Best solution is foil on the counter, that way they don't associate the preventive measure with you."

He raises a hand and shakes his head. "Nah, thanks though. I have to drive and pick up Eleanor eventually." He surveys the group, looking for new damage, physical or otherwise. "How about you lot?" A wrinkled nose for Joe's dad and 'passing on the name'. "If my dad gave me any gaff about that I'd give my kids Eleanor's name just as a warning to fuck off. Of course," he eyes Joe, "My dad's kind of sensible, I bet yours isn't."

Gina shrugs at the accusations, not actually looking bothered. "He starts it." She says simply. Then raises both brows at Itzhak talking about jerking off. "So you like jerking till you break, huh? No wonder's somebody's so sour all the time. Sounds like it chafes." Gina shakes her head, having another sip of her water before she nods at the correction, "April, right." She's too busy on this part of the conversation to notice the disappearing Ravn -- but would she show it if she did? Instead, she gives a visible shudder at the talk of grandkids and name passing.

But she does look pointedly at August, "Not really a cat, April. It's not even my spirit animal, according to buzzfeed." Gina informs him, quite and utterly deadpan, before she stretches up and starts shifting on the railing, getting herself closer to one of the gazebo pillars, so she can lean her back against it.

"Get de la Vega to murder some Taliban for you, it'll go a long-ass way with your mom, I'm sure," Joe retorts, just as dryly. Apparently the weed's eroding some crucial verbal filters for him, too. "More for me," he adds, as August refuses his share. "He's.....more'n he was, but he's definitely had his moments. He just wanted a bunch of grandkids, an' now he's got 'em. Somethin' like a dozen, last I checked."

Gina's reaction does not go unnoticed, but it only makes him grin, a bit sourly. A glance around reveals the fact that Ravn has disappeared, stage left, but all he does is look bemused, for a moment, then shrug.

"I lucked out! I lucked the fuck out, Naomi never changed her name because she was already published. She and her scumbag ex agreed they'd give any girls her name and any boys his name, so Mireleh's a Rosencrantz. Score one for team not-passing-on-the-family-name! Though I totally still could. Maybe even I will. Who knows? Can you imagine it, me and de la Vega raising a little Rosencrantz?" Itzhak gets a funny yearning look on his face, thinking about it. Then he snorts. "Ma's gonna have to live without the courting gift of dead Taliban. He can share recipes instead. She'll like that."

Another drag off the joint, deep, held for as long as he can. Then Itzhak exhales and sinks backwards to flop bonelessly on the table. "I was sayin' I gotta call Ma and tell her," he murmurs, to August, though this isn't obvious. And he too smirks at Gina's remark and it's a very curious smirk. "Some of us like it when it chafes, mami."

All mock indulgence, August says to Gina, "I'm sure he does start it," and bobs his eyebrows. "I didn't say you were a cat--just that you've got some of that psychology going on." What psychology, he doesn't say. Instead he makes a face for Joe's siblings/siblings-in-law. "Christ. That's a lot of pregnancy to put people through. But at least you're off the hook."

He shares Itzhak's wistful look. He likes the idea of Itzhak and Ruiz with kids, as insane as it would have sounded to him months ago. Or maybe he's got a high from the smoke floating around. "She'll prefer recipes and some home-cooked food," he agrees. "Good call on the not changing the name. Ellie did, predictably it was a pain in the ass." He rolls his eyes. "That Revisionist garbage is gonna haunt us, but I'm scared it'll only get worse if I ask for a change."

"Gray Harbor's not actually a bad place to raise children, if you can keep them from stretching out early." Gina says, but her expression is smoothening out to its more disaffected amusement self. "Dunno if I want to live with the Black Bear Diner or ask for the GRizzly again. Didn't touch shit but the diner, though, so I got off lucky. Seems unnecessary to draw attention to myself again." Gina shrugs, breathing in again, shoulders relaxing - the contact high is enough for her. No slipping.

Joe just looks bemused by all that. Retreating a little into the grateful haze of smoke, even as the joint gets low. No comment on the idea of a little Rosencrantz. He simply shrugs at August's comment. "Irish Catholic family," he says, as if that were explanation enough. Clearly, he believes it is.

The mention of the Revisionist makes him tilt his head. "What're you all talkin' about?" he says, finally.

"The Revisionist." Itzhak blinks blearily up at Joe from his prone position on the top of the picnic table. "She's the one been writing crazy-ass fanfic about us, like with the spy stuff. We met her. She gave me a golem. But I didn't get one yet. I can hear something out there, callin' me, though. She's nice? Just bugfuck nuts. She's letting us ask for a revision of the revision but I dunno, this Russian spy stuff ain't so bad once you get used to it. She could come up with something wilder than what we already got. So I dunno if I will or not."

Information dumping brought to you courtesy of Alaskan Thunderfuck.

August grunts at Gina. "Yeah. Diner could wind up being signed over to," he gestures, "Ravn, who's a lobster fighter now. Or...something." He shrugs, chases Itzhak's explanation to Joe with a nod. "Apparently she does this a fair amount. Kind of makes me wonder what else has been changed over the years." Who's been broken up? Driven out of town?

He makes a face as his leg protests all this standing, so he moves to the table and sits on the edge, arms folded. "Kind of my thinking--sure, we had to scramble to keep the wedding running smooth, and Ellie almost lost her mind at the DMV, but it's done. I'd really rather not ask for a revision and get some weird garbage about how she's actually my long-lost sister or, who knows, worse." What's worse than being accused of incest? August doesn't want to know.

Now he glances down at Itzhak, head tilted. "A golem?"

"I keep telling people, and they don't really seem to let it sink in." Gina muses, reaching for the joint - from whoever has it. She's mostly been letting contact happen, not directly puffing, but her eyes are also tinged slightly red-- not much-- but she stares at the joint a moment, considering it. "You can't trust memory OR reality in Gray Harbor. Neither of them are. You can't trust what you knew today or yesterday or tomorrow--" She waves the joint around a bit, before offering it to someone else without taking a hit. "There's a week no one remembers except Clarissa, and the only reason she can't forget it was because it was burned into her arm, deep enough she can't use the hand anymore. She left Gray Harbor to forget about it." Gina uncaps her water, and has another sip, "It's just one thing you have to accept about the town." Gina doesn't even sound like she's particularly.... bothered... by it. "So a golemn? Seriously? How's that work?" And look, NOW Gina looks interested.

"You haven't had a guy with a gun threaten to shoot you for being a traitor to your country, yet," Joe's voice is dry. "I have. I should track her down, talk to her. This version of things is like to kill me."

Then he's getting up from his seat on the table, picking up his ridiculous umbrella again - he opens it and clicks it on. The shaft of it goes from translucent white to glowing softly blue. "I'mma head out. Good to see y'all," he says, simply. Apparently the tale of Itzhak's golem can't measure up against an incipient case of the munchies.

"Uhhh I don't really know how it works. I ain't done it yet. Except I bought the right to do it. With a sock." Itzhak waves at Joe, limply. "BYE CAVANAUGH. A golem, like, a big guy. Like Easton's Clint Eastwood except a Rex intead of a raptor. Maybe? I guess? The golem we saw was like an actual golem. Made of rocks. His name was George. Nice guy."

He rolls his head to the side to see Gina, an expression of tortured sympathy on his face. "That fuckin' sucks," he says with the utter conviction of the deeply stoned.

"No," August agrees with Gina. "That you can't." He raises his hand to Joe in farewell. "Stay safe, Cavanaugh." He considers Itzhak's description of the golem, mmmms about 'Easton's dinosaur Clint Eastwood'. He accepts this the way you generally accept anything said by a stoned person; asking for clarifications will get you nowhere.

He frowns, though, about Clarissa. "A week no one remembers?" He sounds puzzled. "When did she say that happened?"

Itzhak falls asleep then, right on the fucking picnic table. Just passes right out. Way to make yourself everybody else's problem, Rosencrantz.

Gina shrugs at the queries. "It's not like I remember it well. Obviously I'm not an exception to it. Clarissa Meyers didn't talk about it. But diaries changed - the one here, the one I left, they switched out. It was back in middle or high school, though. Forever ago. That's why you can't trust time, or your memories, or any of it." Gina's tone is languid, like she's explaining types of flowers to harvest in autumn, or a great rice dish. "She left before she finished high school. A lot of people do."

August sighs as Itzhak just passes out, straightens him out so he won't plain fall off the table. He watches Gina as she describes it (to the best of her ability), expression series, hands folded. He makes a low sound when she finishes, takes to staring at a spot on the ground. "Alexander told me he met the ghost of a woman who never existed on a tour of Addington House, the other day." He glances up at her. "Related to someone who founded the town, supposedly, someone named 'Samuel Benn'. But the Baxters founded Gray Harbor, and he hasn't been able to find anything out about this person." He arches an eyebrow, as if to say, 'speaking of things which no one remembers or maybe didn't even happen'.

Gina... just nods, as if this all makes sense to her. And why wouldn't it? She just explained a classmate of hers burned information into her arm until her hand was unusable, then everyone forgot everything and she moved away. Gina's boundaries for 'ridiculous' are far from someone normal's. "Alexander doesn't like how fluid reality and memories really are around here. Drives him to have panic attacks. Don't see how it's that serious." And you know, she genuinely doesn't, as she hops down carefully from the gazebo, heading towards Itzhak and plucking the joint from him. "I don't know the name myself. Got any working theories? My guess is murdered by someone for some Addington-Baxter secret."

"I mean, you grow up, feeling like you're on the edge of losing it, and people treat you like you are, and then you feel like you do..." August's voice trails off. His attention shifts to Gina again. "Everyone's got their problems. His is that he needs to be sure what he thinks is real, is. That's not a problem you have." He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. "Odds are the things that bother you might not bother others either. We're all fucked up in our own, special ways."

He leans back, pulls a face. "No theories--Alexander's was 'alternate reality'." Which, given the other topic under discussion, makes him snort in morbid amusement. "But murdered for Addington-Baxter nonsense and erased by the Revisionist seems just as likely."

He sighs, eases off the table. "Alright. Time for me to get going." He prods Itzhak awake, gets him to his feet. "Come on, big guy. Let's get you home."

"It's not an alternate if it's just all one fucked up real." Gina says, pinching off the joint. She doesn't offer to help, just watches with a slightly tilted head as August and his bad leg struggles with the overly tall, lanky Itzhak. She COULD help. She's a physicalist, something August long ago knew about her. But she doesn't, just waits. "Some things, you can't let them continue to be problems if you want to function. I keep waiting and wondering how long it'll take for the rest of you. Depending where you started, I guess. Ten years? Fifteen? Five? But I've got nowhere to go. Bye."

Gina... doesn't go. She just. Continues to watch.

August pauses in the process of shuffling off with Itzhak. "The rest of us? What makes you think I'm having trouble functioning." He grins, fierce and challenging. "I was born in a briar patch not unlike this one, Castro. I'd have never made it out of Bosnia alive if I hadn't sorted my shit out." He turns and resumes this questionable effort of moving Itzhak on a healing leg by himself. He'll need a long soak in the hottub tonight, maybe a massage from Eleanor while he complains about pot and multiple realities.