2022-03-30 - Finding a Finder

It's terrible weather, by most of the country's standards, and Robin is not familiar enough with the climate to be properly prepared for it. In spite of the drizzly cold of this late afternoon, he is dressed in jeans and a sweater, which have already mostly soaked through thanks to the moisture in the air. He's currently ruining the knees of his jeans, kneeling next to a bicycle turned upside down in a convenient empty parking spot, as he tinkers with the gears. Now and then he pushes his hair up out of his face and wipes some drizzle out of his eyes, then goes back to work. Suddenly, there's a quiet ping and a metallic clatter of something tiny falling to the pavement. "/Frankfurter/..." Robin grumbles, and starts looking for whatever piece he dropped.

A silvery-bronze Prius eases near-silently down the street: perhaps not the first car to drive by, but one that's actually slow and slowing near that parking spot of choice. Which is... occupied. At least the headlights are on, given the rain, and the wipers are doing their job likewise; otherwise, with the gas engine off, there'd be just the sound of tires encountering occasional gravel and the sheer mass moving as warning. The car slows further; the driver's a dark-haired woman, eyeing the situation.

Robin doesn't notice the car at first. No doubt several cars have passed in the time he's been here working. It's not until they slow so dramatically that he glances up. He takes in the situation, but at least manages to make a sort of apologetic face while holding up one finger to request patience. He turns his eyes back to the ground, and in short order, spots the lost clip several feet away. He scoops it up, holding it aloft even though that's not really going to give any information to the person in the car, then returns to the bicycle to continue his work. Apparently moving out of the way is not as simple as just shifting the whole thing over... But at least there's some sign that he's trying to work quickly? The fact that one of his tires and a selection of tools are still on the ground probably doesn't offer a lot of hope to the poor Prius-driver, though.

Once he's found his whatsit, Prius-driver and Prius are moving on. This happens to be the car that had been parked there, not particularly notably, on the much more notable Day o' Glitter, but it's not as though the spot is signed for it. Plus, this is Gray Harbor and Oak Avenue and not one of those urban districts that builds up masses of apartments in the name of density and completely skips out on parking, such that any possible spot might as well be a pot o' gold worth waiting what seems like hours. So. The car keeps moving and not long thereafter, some distance on the other side of the street, parks. There are the usual signals: the headlights going off, the door opening and closing and then the trunk and finally the click of locks, all completely mundane.

Then there's more clicking, quieter now in the rain: footsteps.

Then the driver, her hood up and under an umbrella all belt-and-suspenders, muttering into her phone as she crosses the street and heads along the sidewalk towards bike and bike-repairer. There's a colorful grocery-type sack over her shoulder. She's frowning.

But when she speaks, it's practical: "Give you a hand? Umbrella or flashlight."

Soon, Robin is once more wrapped up in what he's doing, methodically working through whatever repair he'd been doing when the Prius pulled up. At first, he even pretends not to notice the footsteps approaching, but he has to reluctantly look up when she actually speaks. He offers what is probably usually a pretty genuine smile, but at the moment is a bit strained. Now that Della is closer, it's clear that he's shivering with the cold, though he tries not to show it. He's clearly going to need to invest in a windbreaker if he plans to stay here.

"I'm fine," he claims. "Almost finished, actually." As though to demonstrate, he picks up the tire with shaky fingers and starts the process of getting it back into place, which involves getting the chain in the correct position as well. Not as easy with numb fingers as it probably would be on a sunny day. "Sorry, hope I'm not in your way."

"No, you're fine." Just like he'd claimed, but given a wry turn in her low voice. "Rotten day, is all, but then it does like to rain." Della considers him a few moments longer. Then she says, "I've a towel in my trunk you could borrow, if that would help. Or... it's warmer over there," she points to the yard with her chin, that uncannily summery-warm yard that 5 shares with its neighbor, "and no, I'm not saying that to get you out of the way." Her smile is quick, momentarily sunny in its own right. "Microclimate, they say."

"Sorry," Robin repeats, as he continues fumbling with the chain. "I hope your day gets better." He finally gets the chain into place, then scoops up a ratchet to tighten the tire into place. He pauses just a moment to follow her pointing finger with his gaze, but his smile takes on a decidedly wary quality, and he shakes his head. "You know... nah, I think I'll avoid that yard. Seems kind of sketch." He tests the pedal to make sure it's going to turn the wheel. It gives an uncomfortable groan of metal on metal, but it does turn! "That's gonna have to do for now, I guess." With a practiced maneuver, he flips the bicycle back right-side up, then glances back at Della. "I might take you up on the towel, but I'd probably just get grease all over it."

After a moment's pause, Della doesn't try to clarify; she settles for waiting and, when he refuses the yard, doesn't try to argue -- just, "Surprised me too." She doesn't even argue after that groan that has her stifling a wince, though she might have walked on if he hadn't spoken; instead, offhandedly, "That's what it's for." And with that, and a look both ways, it won't take long to get it...

...and to lend it to him, in all its stained-but-clean glory. If he's still there.

Robin is still around by the time Della fetches the towel, but he doesn't make her walk all the way over and then all the way back. He pushes the bike to follow, and since she's already clarified that she doesn't mind stains, he uses the towel to at least get some of the water out of his hair and face, then tosses the whole thing over his shoulders for warmth. He'll probably return it before he leaves? "Listen... Is there like a coffee shop or something nearby? I'm still kind of new to town."

Leaves here, or leaves town? Either way, Della doesn't seems particularly discomposed; "I'm newish myself. Closest one is," she points that-a-way, describing the location and turns he'd have to take. "We're in number five." In case the towel wants to return home.

Robin follows the pointing, but he also doesn't seem to quite get the implication. "Right. Well... Nice to meet you." He pulls the towel off his shoulder and offers it back, with a crooked smile. "Thanks for that. Sorry again about the parking spot." He fidgets a bit with the pedal, as he starts to climb aboard the bike. He frowns to himself at something, but it's apparently not going to stop him trying to ride it.

And that might have been it, but...

"...Just how worn are those gear teeth?" Della asks as she wads up the towel, and she's frowning again, but in concentration. "Bet it's going to keep kicking the chain."

Robin looks down at the bicycle, and the sigh that he gives is an odd mixture of long-suffering affection and regret. "...Yeah." He tests his weight on the pedal, and though the chain holds for now, there's no telling how long that's going to last. "It probably will. It's pretty worn, and the rain isn't helping things. Keep meaning to rebuild it, but... you know." She doesn't, but he doesn't seem about to explain. "Don't suppose you've seen a cat around here? Big fluffy white thing? Lady hired me to find it, but I think I'm going to have to make a rule about lost pets after this."

"Things happen," Della supplies, and that's pretty all-purpose. Regarding the cat, "I haven't." There she is, standing in the middle of the road, her brows pulling together again. "Listen. I get you think the yard is sketchy," the flowers! the wildlife! the neighbors! "But you can drag that up onto our porch. Which is dry." Big and dry. "I don't have my full kit anymore, don't think the housemates do either," which is to say, look, she lives with people and not alone, "but I've a few tools and some coffee, and maybe that'll get you to where you can get on your way."

"I mean, it's not the /yard/..." Robin explains, again with a little glance toward the so-recently glitterbombed porch. "Just some... Ah, you know what, nevermind." He gives a lopsided grin, and pushes his hair back off his forehead. "I won't say no to a cup of coffee. I'm going to lose a toe if I keep this up." After an awkward pause, he realizes he hasn't introduced himself, and adds, "I'm Robin."

"No?" but Della doesn't follow up beyond a glance that way, too. "Robin. I'm Della," with a grease-or-no-grease offer of her hand. With that, she's leading the way back to #5 with an over-the-shoulder, "Be right back." Onto the porch, that is; meanwhile, he can handle the lugging on his own.

And really, where it borders the yard, the porch is warm in its own right. Microclimates.

"Nice to meet you, Della." Robin shakes her hand, and probably only gets a trace of grease on her. Really it's probably all on the towel, now. He rolls the bicycle along at least until they reach the porch, then hauls it up fairly easily. While she's indoors, he does in fact discover the warmth at the edge of the porch, so by the time she returns, he's taken up a post at the corner of the porch that's warmest, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Grande half-caf half-iced double shot of caramel for Robin," calls Della's voice as she bypasses the doors. "No, kidding; I'd make an awful barista these days. Chocolate syrup?" It's a big mug, and she's still carrying a towel among other things, only this one's not stained but bleach-marked. "Catch." That would be the towel, not the mug.

Robin must have been a bit lost in thought, because he glances up with a slightly startled face when Della reappears. He recovers quickly enough to catch the towel and gives another of those little half smiles as he dries off a little more thoroughly than he had tried to do while still standing out in the rain. "Thanks. Um, I'm sure it's fine how it is. Did you used to be a barista?"

"For about a month and a half, back when a request for soymilk was completely outre'." He may not want the syrup, but after Della sets the mug down on the flat railing, she puts the bottle by it just in case. "Not long enough to actually get good at it, in other words. Here." She steps back, taking up one of the chairs closer to the door; the bundle she sets by her foot has the metallic clank that might signify tools.

Robin pulls the towel around his shoulders and reaches for the coffee. The warmth on his fingers triggers a pleased little sigh, and he has a warming swallow before glancing to Della. "Seems good enough to me." He glances down at the tools, then the front door. "I don't want to keep you or anything... But do you mind if I just warm up for a bit here before I rush off? I'm not used to this sort of weather."

"Don't mind at all." Della will just keep sitting here by her tools, even taking her phone out and tapping it some: could be texts, could be a game. Though while she's at it, with a glance his way, "What brought you here? Other than your bike," she half-jokes. "At least your timing's better than mine."

"Passing through and my van broke down," Robin admits, between sips of coffee. He glances at the phone, but then looks back out at the yard, pretending not to notice. "Don't know about my timing, but..." He sets the coffee down long enough to pull a wallet out of his back pocket. From there, he pulls out a business card that is only slightly soggy, and has a slightly homemade look to it. He passes it over and puts away his wallet. The card declares the name 'ROBIN LANE' in bold letters. Underneath, in slightly smaller font, the title 'Finder' is inscribed, along with some contact information. As he picks up the coffee to continue drinking, he explains, "If you ever lose anything, give me a call. I owe you a favor." After a beat, he adds, "Nothing with legs, please."

"Wish I could recommend a decent shop," Della admits back to him -- and then looks, with interest. "...Finder. Thanks. What's the problem with legs? Other than cats being cats," which, given her amused tone, could explain just about anything. She takes a picture of the card before pocketing it in turn.

Robin lifts a shoulder. "I don't really need a shop," he admits. "I know what's wrong with it. Starter's bad. Got a part ordered for it." He takes another swig, and adds, "It's on back order or something, so here we are." He finishes the coffee and sets the empty mug aside, before reaching for the tools to see what she brought out. "Oh. Things with legs /move/. Finding something that moves around is a pain in the butt, ya know?"

Della's low whistle is respectful of all things back-ordered, and the time it'll undoubtedly take; she toes the leather bundle closer to him while she's at it. The tools are a couple decades south of new and have seen definite use, but they're also of good quality and well-maintained; as she'd implied, none are particularly bicycle-specific, but shy of that, some might at least help. Especially if someone's got a knack. "Makes sense to me. Our cats were always indoors, not that that was any guarantee. Have a favorite find?"

Now that Robin has warmed up a bit, it's clear that he does in fact have a knack. Although he seemed clumsy earlier, he now settles in with the tools and gets to work with ease. "You know what, I'm just going to lock it in third, until I get a new cassette." As he starts on that, he considers her question. "Well..." he drawls. "One time I found a wedding ring on the beach before I was even hired to find it. /That/ was an easy gig." He grins, then turns his focus to the task at hand.

"That's some find," Della observes dryly, only a fraction tightly, whether it's found or 'found'; then again, hers is only lost in the less literal sense of the word. Better to engage in conversation (fine, kibitzing) about fixing the bicycle, in between working on her phone. In the end, when Robin's as set as he's going to be, she'll wish the man well on his way.

Robin may or may not pick up on that slight tone change, but if so, he doesn't show it. He does, however, change the subject. Somehow, unfreezing his fingers has also had the secondary effect of unfreezing his vocal cords, and he's perfectly happy to chat away while he works on the bicycle. It doesn't take too terribly long, and he leaves with a final expression of gratitude paired with an apology. "Sorry to take up your time... But thanks. You saved my life." A bit hyperbolic, probably, but he's quickly off again. It may or may not get him /all/ the way home, but at least it's not making that starling screech as he pedals away, taking it easy to avoid any further mechanical issues.