2021-02-23 - The Border

Gray Harbor is the kind of town that only has a few mechanic shops. This one's the one that's closest, though the reviews on Yelp are uneven. The guy is a jerk say several of them, but he knows what he's doing. It looks brand new, and although it's very small, only three bays, it looks fancy: a gracefully arched roof, the building fronted with tempered glass bay doors, and a whole lot of gorgeous art painted on. The biggest mural is a scene of a river running through a forest, full of steelhead salmon.

The jerk himself, tall and thin, hell of a nose on him, dark hair close cropped, is out front, leaning in the window of a Subaru with a middle-aged woman at the wheel. He's telling her, "If it makes that kinda 'shoosh' noise again, it needs an oil change, just an old car, you gotta keep up with it. If it makes that other noise again you gotta bring it in. Shouldn't, but if it does, I ain't responsible for the goddamn engine falling out if you don't bring it in."

She's been in town less than a week, and already she's had a run in with the cops, a fight with her only real friend, and an unpleasant encounter at a charming-but-tacky restaurant... and now, she's got two flat tires from hitting some debris that fell off a truck in front of her while apartment hunting. The tow truck dropped the car off earlier for replacement tires, a brand-new looking 2020 Nissan Altima in a flashy shade of cherry red... And here comes the owner of said car, now. Despite having to walk from her hotel (or trust an Uber) she's wearing a pair of stilettos that look like they could become an improvised weapon, a long faux fur coat with matching hat, and she's moving at a brisk pace... until she sees who's standing in front of the shop. She doesn't, however, let that stop her, though if she said out loud what she's thinking at the moment, she might blister frigid the air around her. She manages to keep her expression politely neutral as she approaches, standing a polite distance away to let Itzhak finish his business.

The woman is nodding nervously and okaying at Itzhak. "Okay, okay..." until he sends her off, thumping the roof of the Subaru in the signal for 'move out'. She pulls out of the gravel driveway, careful not to throw up any of the gravel, and as she's driving off, gives Perdita a wide-eyed look. It's like she doesn't see someone hiking in stilettos and a long fur coat every day or something.

Itzhak turns to Perdita. He's wearing coveralls that are smudged with dirt and grease, steel-toe workboots, and an irritated expression. Looking her over, taking in the coat and the hat (that hat!) and the heels, he greets her with a snort. "Thought that was you. Come on." He strides into the open bay door on long legs, gesturing Perdita to come along.

To be fair, most people around here aren't used to people hiking in stilettos. Most people would never even dream of it. Perdita, however, seems determined to completely wreck her ankles and feet before she's thirty. At the snort, Perdita merely raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow, following after the man. Though many women like Perdita might look distinctly uncomfortable in the garage, she looks perfectly fine, looking around the shop with a vague curiosity. "Thank you for working me in on such short notice." she's doing her best to sound grateful, humble, even. "I appreciate it."

The interior of the garage is spotlessly clean and ruthlessly organized. It's open and airy, mild sunshine coming in from skylights and the glass bay doors. There's a little sitting area set up with battered but cozy-looking thrifted furniture. And built into one wall is an enormous terrarium, full of branches and foliage but with no apparent occupant.

Perdita's cherry-red Altima sits in one of the bays. Itzhak strides up to it, casting a judgmental eye over it. "Just the flats. I took at look at the rest of 'er just in case, but she's brand new, in great shape. Keep her that way, yeah?" Catching up to that Perdita thanked him for getting her in (it took him a second there but he made it), he gives her a funny look. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I fully intend to. You take care of a car, it takes care of you. It may look like I'm filthy rich, but she's gotta last me at least the next twenty years." Perdita laughs, looking fondly at the car. At the question as to the 'why' of things, "Why would you? In short order I embarrassed your... friend, made his life very uncomfortable, made a wildly inappropriate joke that made it worse and then, I'm probably guessing now that I'm calmer, misread a statement I took to be a dig at my Mexican heritage and stormed out, making myself look like a huge bitch. I'm guessing that because I sincerely doubt a man like your friend would tolerate a racist."

Itzhak listens, brow furrowing ever more with each sentence. "...What?" He shifts to fully face Perdita, annoyed and puzzled. He is a tall lanky guy who moves with a certain graceful precision--when he's not thinking about it. There's what seems to be prison ink on his knobbly knuckles, STAY on the right hand, DOWN on the left. "What the hell did I say?"

"You told me to stay on this side of the border, right after a very fraught interaction." Perdita replies, her face carefully neutral, pleasant, even. Her body language is relaxed, non-threatening, not defensive, her hands spreading. The bright red of her nails has been replaced by a clear lacquer and French tips, but they're just as impractically perfect as before. "Like I said. I'm willing to believe I misheard or misunderstood."

"A very fraught interaction," Itzhak echoes, rolling the words around in his mouth like that'll help him get it. The confusion clears up when Perdita says 'right side of the border', Itzhak's eyebrows popping up. "Oh. Oh. Okay, yeah, that would sound pretty fuckin' racist." He thinks about it, eyeing Perdita like he'd eyed her car, taking in all the details, the way she's standing in that carefully relaxed posture. "Come have some coffee," he says abruptly, and strides past her to the sitting area. There's a dresser there that's been reincarnated as a sideboard, with all the usual Pacific Northwest-required coffee and tea and hot water and fixings available. (In New York, they regard that as sissy stuff.)

"In my experience, anytime someone brings up 'borders' around me, it ends up with me being called 'Maria' or 'Consuela' and being told to go back 'where I came from'." At the offer of coffee, she nods, following Itzhak. Her heels barely make a sound as she walks. While Itzhak is graceful when he's not paying attention, she moves with a fluidity born from years of careful practice. A former dancer, maybe a gymnast in her youth, but that slightly exaggerated hip sway suggests maybe she spent a little time on a runway, despite her short stature.

"Look, maybe I'm in enough trouble and shouldn't tell you this, but you didn't strike me as Mexican. Wasn't even thinking about it." Itzhak pours himself coffee, into a mug that's bright blue and covered in Yiddish insults. Schmuck and yutz and mamzer and the whole gamut in bright yellow. He pours for Perdita, too, into a paper cup. "You can call him my boyfriend. To me. When we're not in front of other cops and he ain't on duty. And you're right. He wouldn't exactly be into me if I thought that way about Mexicans. I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid."

He leans a hip against the sideboard, one long arm loosely slung across his chest. There's a loveseat and a few comfy armchairs right there, but he's still standing--maybe he doesn't want to get oil on them from his dirty coveralls. Sipping, he keeps looking at Perdita, but not in the eyes or in the face. More at her hat. "Maybe everywhere else, 'the border' means the border between us and Mexico. Here, it don't mean that. Not when I say it, anyway."

As if to make matters worse yet, there's the distinctive rattle of that Russian-made, Soviet-designed motor. Itz, who no doubt has an ear for that like he has for music, will know precisely who's coming even before he rounds the corner and comes into sight. It's a big, black sidecar rig that looks like it should have Doctor Jones the Elder sitting in it and disapproving of everything.

The sidecar's currently empty, and the rider's anonymous in a black full helmet and that dark gray coat.....pulling up outside before he takes off his helmet and shakes his head, leaving the blond curls thus exposed in cheerful disarray. Joe leaves it in the sidecar and comes rolling up with that funny limp he sometimes sports, grinning as if sure of his welcome.

She accepts the cup with what seems like a genuine smile. "So if I didn't strike you as Mexican, what did I strike you as?" there's a slight tilt of the head, a bit of real amusement slipping through the pleasant mask. Maybe, she reflects to herself, she's just a little bit of a sadist. She lowers herself into one of the armchairs, sitting like a proper lady, knees together, ankles crossed, and takes a sip of the coffee, regarding Itzhak with those large dark eyes of hers. She's still smiling, but there's just a hint of 'cat who got the cream' in it. She offers Joe a warm smile, then turns her attention to his ride, eyebrows going up slightly, clearly appreciative.

Itzhak tips his head when the rough growl of the Soviet bike reaches him. "That'll be the boyfriend-in-law," he says with a certain sour amusement. He regards Perdita's pleased amusement, suspiciously. "I dunno. I grew up around a whole fuckin' lot of Cubans and Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, and it's takin' ya life into your hands to think you know them apart." When Joe comes in, he flashes him a smirk. "Look what the cat dragged in. Have some coffee, you look like ya hip's killing you." Cranky, but affectionate.

"Yeah, it's one of them days," Joe agrees, easily. He does look a little tired, but still cheerful enough. "Don't mind if I do. You got time to change the oil on her today?" he wonders, nodding at the bike. "It's not urgent, just figured I'd come by and see if there was a chance." Already heading for the coffee. "Ma'am," he says, amiable. Boyfriend-in-law?

There's a soft laugh from Perdita, and she shakes her head slightly. "Never had that particular issue. Where I grew up, if somebody looked like me, it's because they're related to me. Hello again... Joe, right?" she had to dive for the name, but at least she remembered. "Boyfriend-in-law? Are you telling me this little town has at least three men who like men in it, and they're in a polycule?" She looks vaguely incredulous, but pleased, as if the town just went up in her estimation.

"Sure I do," Itzhak says to Joe. Joe doesn't get coffee poured for him, though, Itzhak lets ('lets') him do it himself. "What's in it for me?" Tone teasing, he hikes his eyebrows mischievously at him. Then he huffs a near-silent laugh, glancing at Perdita. "Yeah, I'm tellin' you that. This little town, it's kinda crazy. Packed solid with the Song and queers. It's the thin spot. The border I was talking about. It calls to people like us."

Joe sets about dosing his coffee with unholy amounts of sugar and cream, as utterly at ease as a cat on his own hearth. He glances over at that question, brows up. "It used to be more of one. Now it's just down to the three of us but at one point there were three more people involved," he says, as he stirs sugar into the cup. Tone placid, as if it were a matter of course. "He's right. It's like Abildgaard says - three things together keep you here. The shine, creative ability, and previous damage. And god knows bein' queer in this world'll definitely contribute to the 'previous damage' category."

At the comment of Queerness and Damage, Perdita tenses slightly, real emotion getting past that careful control, before taking a sip of her coffee. "I don't advertise it, and I'd prefer if you gentlemen kept it under your hats, so to speak, but I'm transgender. Is... that going to be an issue around here if word gets out?" she takes the ridiculous poof of a faux fur hat off, setting it in her lap before absently smoothing her hair down... not that it needed it. "And for the record, I wasn't flirting with your boyfriend. He's handsome and all, but I don't mess with cops. They make me too nervous."

Itzhak grunts in agreement, tipping his mug at Joe. "Smart boy, that Abildgaard." About the other three people he and his boyfriend and his boyfriend-in-law were involved with, he doesn't say anything. Then Perdita has something pretty unusual and interesting to tell them, and he looks at her with obvious curiosity. "Nah. It won't be a problem. If anybody makes it a problem, you come to me." At last, at her statement about not having flirted with Ruiz, one corner of Itzhak's mobile loud mouth curls upwards. "Look, everybody flirts with him. He's the hottest man in this town."

Which revelation Joe greets by blinking a few times, and then peering a little more closely. "No, it likely won't. Folks here tend to be pretty live and let live, in my experience," he observes, in that mild voice. Her comment about cops making her nervous has that faintly dry expression returning. "He's a nervous-makin' kinna guy," he agrees, mildly. "Though Rosencrantz is right. People go for him alla time." Not a jealous one, it seems....but then, they are managing their little polycule.

"I'll keep that in mind." Perdita says softly, and then she shakes her head a little. "Well, I won't be. At least not intentionally. A lot of people seem to think I'm flirting when I'm just..." she gestures vaguely, "Being friendly and making an effort to be warm." She catches Joe looking closer, and her expression becomes amused once more, perfect teeth showing as she smiles, "I... had a brief stint with a sugar daddy who took very good care of me."

Itzhak, however, is clearly a jealous one, by the way he reacted to Perdita talking to Ruiz. Jealous. A. F. Right now he seems able to keep it idling in neutral, with a side of general irritation. He snorts a laugh at Perdita's mention of her sugar daddy. "Yeah well, you're hot as hell, bet you don't got any trouble findin' rich guys to take care of you. Except you're gonna in this town. What's it you do usually?"

Joe grants being caught looking another of those little tilts of his head. Like he's conceding a point. Itz's comment makes the blue gaze dart that way, and he snorts. "At this time of year, that's true," he allows, voice low. "And I know what you mean. Where I'm from, people flirt like they breathe, an' no one takes it real serious. It's just a thing, a way of smoothin' certain interactions. Up north and out here, folks can take it real wrong, so I've had to learn to dial it back a lot."

"Thank you, and if I still wanted that sort of life I'm sure I could manage to find one here, too. As for what I do... I was a stylist and personal shopper until a few weeks ago. My wealthiest client passed away and I needed a change of scenery. I really liked her... Anyway, that isn't going to work out, here, unless I can somehow manage to ingratiate myself with... Was it the Addingtons? Anyway, I'll just have to find other work. Won't be the first time I've reinvented myself, after all." Perdita winks, smiling at both men.

Itzhak snorts again, apparently just super entertained by the idea. "Yeah, the Addingtons. You could try Byron Thorne too, but his wife might tear your pretty little eyes out." And by 'might', he obviously means 'will give it a solid effort'. He doesn't know what the correct response is to hearing someone's wealthiest sugar mama passed away, so he doesn't even try. Instead, he smirks, not all that pleasantly. "Reinventing yourself, I'll drink to that," and does, although it's just coffee. "This town does it for you." He glances at Joe, a flicker of a glance that carries weight.

Now the sailor's long face goes a bit somber. Even grave, really. "It does a very great deal of that," he notes, in his mild way, lifting his own cup in Itzhak's direction. "Often in directions you are not gonna expect. Not to be the old man croakin' a warnin' to the young newcomer in a horror movie....but you stick aroun' here, you gonna end up on some pretty wild rides. Yeah, there's the Addingtons. There is money here if you scrape for it. Not a lot of high-end stuff, though. How far astray you willin' to go?"

"I lived on the streets for a while as a teen. I'm not desperate enough to go back to sex work, mostly because of the clientele but I'm keeping my options open to a lot at the moment. She catches the glance between the two men, taking a sip of her coffee. "Why, have any ideas?" she asks, sounding like she's genuinely curious.

"Yannow, Cavanaugh here don't look it, but he's got plenty of cash. He's old but don't let that fool you. You could always try him." Itzhak may not be serious about that, from the hard gleam that comes into his gray hazel eyes. He might just be fucking with Joe. Maybe there's a little friction between the co-boyfriends.

Which has Joe slanting a cool look at Itzhak, over the rim of his cup. "I doubt that I could keep the lady in the style to which she is accustomed," he retorts, crisply....and suddenly that accent has nearly all fallen away, as it does, sometimes. "Even assuming she were looking for another situation like that."

He flicks a sharp glance at Perdita, but there's wicked humor there, rather than hurt or malice. Like he's inviting her in to a conspiracy. Then he glances back at Itzhak, and adds, "However, rough trade does come cheaper, doesn't it?"

"There's certainly something to be said for a rough and tumble man who's good with his hands." Perdita's voice is almost a purr as she tilts her head at Itzhak, almost as if appraising. She's probably teasing. Probably. But she's also a consummate actress who, at one point made a life for herself getting rich old men to think she loves them, so... "But I'm not looking for that sort of situation, now. Business first, pleasure once I've got a steady income and an apartment."

Itzhak immediately turns red. Blushing vividly, he tries to act like he's not, but he's the color of a tomato. Laughing low, he mutters into the mug, "Ahhh botha you to go hell. You here to do business or hassle me, huh?"

That has the sailor laughing, softly, eyes alight. "You the one tryin'a make me out like I'm some rich old bastard who has a whole string of sugar babies," he informs the mechanic. Then he flicks an amused look at her. "He is just that," he agrees. "I really don't know, honestly, what the good income streams here'd be. I'm retired, myself. I mean, there's always whatever you can do remotely, dependin'."

"Already been there, they threw me out because I kept complaining about the smell." She laughs finishing her coffee. "I think if my baby's ready to go, I should get back to my hotel room and try the want ads, because Craigslist doesn't really seem to understand where I'm looking for."