2022-05-04 - There's Always A White Boy

Black Bear Diner. Where Ravn Abildgaard goes for dinner most days, because yes, his boat has a kitchenette, and no, he still thinks cooking for himself only is an absolute bore and there is no point. Even less point when this place is just up the hill, the food is excellent, and the reactions of local tourists to the way the place is run is hilarious. Not so unusual these days, to see Abildgaard and Rosencrantz at the same table, one devouring anything that's set in front of him with the same appetite he has for life, and the other picking away at it with the appetite his issues with food allows him to have. The more relaxed Ravn feels, the more he manages to eat like a normal person. He usually manages about half a burger in this company, which is about half a burger more than he manages around most.

It's pissing cats and dogs outside. One of those early May days that ought to be glorious, forest waking up and turning green, everything mating and hatching eggs, college kids holding hands and all that jazz. Throw in some people in Darth Vader masks or sporting home made toy light sabres because it's May Fourth, may the Force be with you.

"Last year May the forth was me, Clayton, Mac, and Monaghan eating too much and watching the trilogy at Monaghan's place," Ravn reflects. One of those moments where one is reminded how people come and go in this town; Clayton, still has his office at the Bauer Building but he's keeping his shifty looking self out of sight. Machinae, left town. Her game shop is still there but she never seemed to recover from her breakdown and subsequent isolation, and Ravn hasn't seen or heard from her since late summer.

Time flies.

He nibbles on the bacon from the burger and watches the clientele. Lumber mill workers in flannel shirts, most of them. Truckers, picking up or delivering cargo. Salt of the earth types. If anyone stands out here, really, it's him.

Itzhak, who is actually not Ravn's most quixotic friend, says, "I miss that little weirdo," not quite managing to clarify who he means before needing to go after more pancake.

Probably not Seth, though.

The pancakes have chocolate chips because Itzhak's ability to eat junk food really can be astounding. "The first trilogy I hope, I can't be messin' with this prequel BS. If they soured you for Star Wars with that, may God hear me I'll never forgive 'em." His ability to talk about Jedi is equally astounding.

"Oh Lord on rollerskates, no, I've watched the prequels once each, that'll have to do. Great actors couldn't save those. An editor with a big hammer and an even bigger pair of scissors might have made a difference. Cut out the need to include each and every character from A New Hope, somehow. At least they cut Han Solo out -- his origin story was supposed to be in there too. The whole midichlorian crap? Egads." Ravn has Opinions, too. No wonder, all things considered. What was A New Hope if not the archetypal Bildungsroman type fairytale but in space?

May the Fourth. Day of the geeks -- and geeks are found in mysterious places because this is an argument of almost fifty years in the making, and everyone present grew up with some version or other, of that saga and franchise.

"Hate on the Prequels all you like," says Rory from the lumber mill from the next table over and tucks fries into his mouth. "Cinematically they were masterpieces. The sets and the effects were top notch. Didn't hurt the original series either that Lucas got to go over them again and add the scenes he couldn't do in '78 because CGI wasn't a thing yet."

And almost simultaneously from the table on the other side -- here's some big, burly trucker from Olympia chiming in: "Fuck all that shit. The new trilogy ruined everything, man. I shipped ReyLo so hard and they fucked it up."

What's this? It's the thing a New York Jew loves most: the chance to argue loudly in public about something. Anything. But especially things of the slightest, thinnest importance.

"Did Return of the Jedi teach us nothing?!" he demands in a tone of highest drudgeon. "First, never ship anyone until the third movie. Second, it was considered a masterpiece until someone got brave enough to point out it's a merchandise moneymaker and not a hell of a lot more!"

"I have to say that Return of the Jedi triggered emotions in me," Ravn murmurs and glances at the trucker; he didn't manage to even stay awake during The Last Jedi -- something something, fallen death star, something, Emperor isn't dead, whatever, wake me up when it's over. "The scenes with Luke and Vader were strangely intense."

Yeah, they would be, for a kid who feels abandoned by his father, for no good reason. The idea of the father suddenly realising how wrong he was and making it all good again would appeal. Sucker bet.

"Hey, Rosencrantz, how'd you like Watto?" Rory snickers and a few of his table mates do too -- not because they remember the winged trash merchant character from a movie they saw a decade ago, but because that's the kind of tone that says somebody's going to argue, and what friends would they be if they weren't Team Rory?

"What the fuck is Watto, that shit sounds like some cheap Italian knockoff sports car." Itzhak really meant it when he said he couldn't be bothering with the prequels. Rory's dumb prequel opinion is a lot less important than these pancakes, did I mention the chocolate chips?

Ravn opens his mouth, but Rory's trying to stir shit and Rory's faster. "Ugly little fucker," he says and ignores how his companions all move their pancakes, burgers, and beer bottles to their laps in case of impending table flips. "Nose down to here. New York accent. Jewish hat. Haggles. Sound familiar?"

Ravn face palms. And then rushes to move his burger off this table.

Itzhak don't hardly need to hear the words. That tone is all he needs, that and the clinking of beers being hastily moved out of harm's way.

A feral happiness rises in him. What better excuse to work out some pent up aggression does he need?

He whips out of the booth he's sharing with Ravn and slams both hands down on Rory's table. Wham! All the silverware jumps. "Who you callin' little!"

"I didn't fuckin' call you little," Rory sneers and stands (and just as his table mates predicted, the table goes flying). "I called you a fuckin' Jew."

"He is a Jew," one of Rory's table mates points out.

"Fuck that," says another.

"Fight!" says the third. These are simple souls.

"I suppose it's too late to suggest pistols at dawn," Ravn murmurs into his rescued beer.

"Actually," says the big trucker who shipped ReyLo. "I'm Jewish. Gonna do somethin' 'bout it?"

Itzhak shoves up to Rory. He's taller but nowhere near as wide as the lumberjack. "You wanna step outside, you tacky goyischekopf? Come on, I been dying to shut your mouth for ya."

Then the trucker turns out to be a Yid and Itzhak has a very, very difficult time not cracking up on the spot. "Aww shit, shalom, buddy!"

No one who's a regular at the Black Bear Diner is going to pick a fight inside. Gina Castro's temper is legendary. Gina Castro is, by a number of people, held to be little short of a Veil monster herself. The fact that no one has seen Gina Castro for a considerable time does not mean that Gina Castro's legacy is not breathing down everyone's neck. Seriously, don't screw with Gina Castro, or Gina Castro's furniture.

"You want a go, man?" Rory is all hyped up and ready to throw down. There's an unhealthy gleam in those blue eyes -- they're a little too red. Some people deal with their own shit not by working through it or talking with a therapist -- but by finding someone else to make more miserable than they are.

His companions all but haul him out the door. "Come on, bud, we don't want to clean up the mess. You gotta rip someone a new one, out here."

"Dare you to come fuckin' back up your big ugly mouth!" Rory yells.

"I want to mention the option of just staying right here," Ravn murmurs. His blue eyes glitter; he knows the objection was overruled before he even spoke it. He's also getting up because of course he's going to back up his emotional support violinist. He can't land a punch; he's got a few other tricks up his sleeve all the same.

"Just gonna be waitin' outside," says the big trucker. "Name's Ed. Ed Wozcinsky. Let's go kick some bigot ass, fraynd."

Itzhak happens to be one of those people. Sometimes, he really wishes he wasn't. But those times come after his knuckles are bruised. The time before is just one long gleeful possibility.

"Hold my pancakes," he tells Ravn, grinning with anticipation. "Aww," when Ravn not so subtly hints that maybe just this once Itz could let it go. "Not with that attitude."

He swaps a fist bump with Ed. "That's what I like to hear, brother." Then out he rolls, hopping over the upturned table as light as a fox.

"Now why can'tcha leave well enough alone, Rory," he's saying as he swaggers his way into the rain. Oil makes rainbows in the puddles that splash under his boots. "Whatsamatta, you lose at the lobsters this week?"

The wind is fresh outside, and carries whiffs of early lilacs from the gardens nearby. A couple of woodpeckers warn nearby, tat-a-tat, click sounds to alert each other to the presence of men.

And here's Rory and his companions who think he's an idiot for getting into a fight over fucking Star Wars, and why the fuck do we ever let this man drink anything stronger than Pepsi, but whatcha gonna do, you back up your mates. "You wanna throw the first punch?" he taunts. "'Cause you ain't gonna get a second, Nosey."

And here's Ed the big trucker from Olympia cracking his knuckles. "Forget your jackboots at home, son?"

And Ravn, coming up the rear, hands in pockets and looking around; he's not going to deprive his friend of the chance to punch a racist in the face, but he's also not going to just stand and watch if it turns out Rosencrantz can't handle all four of them.

A thousand sidewalks and parking garages and street corners and empty weed choked lots have seen this sight: Itzhak Rosencrantz, gearing up, strutting like a rooster and relishing the rise of adrenaline.

He points at the part Roy or whatever his name is admires so much. "This? This is the best schnozz in town, buddy boy. Why do you think I get laid and you don't?"

The formalities must be observed: First, shit talking.

Roy does not know this dance; the ritual of shit-talking first and then the posturing and the circling each other like fighting cockerels, waiting for an opening. It would probably have been better for him if he did. Might have bought him time to think, and maybe decide to not do this.

First you shit-talk. Then you pounce. Or in Rory's case, you yell 'Fucking asshole!' and throw yourself at the other man face and fist first, providing so many obvious openings that behind the two, Ed and Ravn exchange glances and wince.

Ed shakes his head.

Ravn shakes his head.

Rory's mates shake their heads. This is going to hurt.

Itzhak seems to take his time about it, watching Rory charge, smirking at him, weight shifting ever so slightly from heels to balls, pun one hundred percent intended...

and he just leans aside letting Rory stumble past. "Oooh swing and a miss! Okay be honest, is this actually about you wantin' to suck my dick? Because I got five minutes before I'm gonna go see a real man!"

"YOU FAGGOT!"

Except, actually, it comes out more like you maggot because Rory just ran face first into the wall of the Black Bear Diner and to exactly no one's surprise, the wall wins that confrontation. Itzhak hasn't even touched the man yet and he's already got a nosebleed (and not even one of the fun ones).

Rory's mates exchange looks. They're very obviously re-evaluating the wisdom of letting their racist, bigot friend make decisions that involve them. Are they racist or bigot themselves? It's possible. Whether they are or not, they have no particular desire to have their faces rearranged. Men don't get knuckle tattoos like Itzhak's because their wife suggests they get a little something to make them sexier.

Ed grunts. "Big mouth, small dick."

Ravn reaches into a pocket for a cigarette. "Big mouth, small closet."

What is fire, after all, but to add fuel to?

"Raise ya hand if you didn't know I'm a faggot!" Itzhak is having a great time. "Didn't even touch him and he's bleeding, that's how we do it on the Lower East Side."

He's following up even as he runs his mouth, striding after Rory and bouncing him back off the wall. "I'm a Jewish faggot and I'm still kicking your ass, how you like that, bubbeleh?"

"Rory, man." One of the lumber mill workers takes a tentative step forward, hoping perhaps that his mate might have gotten it out of his system. Now'd be a great time to go back inside, have another beer, and also, his burger is getting cold.

Rory will have none of it. That sing-song taunt from the New Yorker is making him see red. What causes this man's apparent hatred? We may never know. Maybe someone with an Ashkenazi-sounding name got promoted ahead of him at work. Maybe that someone has a boyfriend.

He swings at Itzhak, fists first. He's no fighter, but he's a strong man used to physical labour. The punch goes wide. He circles.

"Think we should do something?" Ravn asks Ed.

"Let 'em work it out," the big trucker from Olympia grunts. "We can split 'em up. Meyn bruder is having a good time, let him live a little."

Another dodge from Itzhak, because if the bake sale and Joey Kelly have taught him anything, the less you get hit, the more you can hit back. Now we're getting to the good stuff, the circling, the humiliation. (De la Vega isn't going to be able to see straight after Itzhak gets a hold of him.) "Oooh, he wants to dance, but pal, I had better than you in Hebrew school."

If Itzhak takes one of those haymakers, he's going to live to regret it, which just makes him want to risk it because why let a perfectly good fistfight go to waste? Step one, step two, before there's a step three he's going in. Guard up because he always listens to his coach.

Against some random sucker on a Thursday evening at the Pourhouse, Rory would probably have cut an impressive figure. He's not afraid of getting hurt or of hurting someone else. He's big and he's strong, and he's even kind of fast.

He's not a student in the school of hard knocks, though, and definitely not of Joey Kelly. So many openings. So easy to just side step. So easy to dance around him and when one feels like it, land one right back. Might have to blow smoke from one's fist like Clint Eastwood with a six-shooter, because Rory, ffs.

Ravn looks at the other men. They look back. They look at Ed the big trucker. Glances are exchanged; silent communication goes something like we'll just stay out of this, and whoever has to carry his man out sees to it that he gets a bandaid.

Pop! Pain flares in Itzhak's knuckles and he finds himself baring his teeth and throwing a little wood, because prison really did mess him up. It pisses him off enough to go after Rory in earnest.

"Didn't ya ma tell you, don't fuck with the Jews!"

Because Itzhak Rosencrantz may just be a loser who got messed up in prison, but Steve "Captain America" Rogers would punch a Nazi and that makes it okay.

Anti-climactic. That's the best descriptor to use here. For all his huff and bluster, all his attempts to goad his opponent into a bad move, all his fire and fury, Rory has a glass jaw. He swings and grunts and -- then Itzhak's knuckles connect, once, just the way Kelly would have said to do, and the man goes down in a cartoonish fashion. You can almost see the yellow canaries circling his head, tweet, tweet.

"Fucker," mumbles one of his mates. "Wife's gonna murder him."

"Wife's gonna murder us," says another.

"Guessin' you arschlochs don't want a go too," says Ed, the very big trucker from Olympia. Ravn glances at him; that word was German, not Yiddish, and he understood it quite well, thanks. Not that he disagrees with the sentiment, either.

The trash bins are right behind them. This is all fun and party, but, he's still quite ready to send them flying in case a distraction is needed.

"Nah, I'm good," the first declares and kneels down to inspect the damage done to Rory's face. "This fucker, always getting himself into shit he can't back."

Nnnnot anywhere near enough. Itzhak steps back, a long step back, before he gives in to the urge to start kicking the poor bastard and snarling at him to get up, get up I ain't done with you, okay, let's exercise some coping mechanisms or something and not fucking do that, Itzil, good boy. Let's try to remember Rory I'm Not A Nazi But The Jews Am I Right is just a moron from a small town and not someone who needs a beat down until he stays down, we're good, yeah. Real good.

"Maybe you'll remind him," he says, super smooth and not at all a little quavery around the edges because it scares him every time or anything like that. Step back, turn around, show's over folks, God he wants to hurt him. God.

Rory's mates exchange glances.

Under normal circumstances, maybe they'd have said something. Might have stood up a little, maybe not just slink off like this. It's just.

It's just that the New Yorker looks like he really fucking wants to rearrange someone's face. Behind him, the big trucker from out of town looks like he might ever so casually break a normal man in two, and then ask for another mug of coffee. The guy in black looks like somebody who wouldn't hesitate to call the cops and before you know it, you're doing time in the drunk tank and going before a judge because that asshole Rory had to go pick a stupid fight over a fucking movie.

Yeah, no. They're picking up their boy and calling it a day. There are things to go fight for and make a stand about. Star Wars is not it.

It's not really about Star Wars, is it, it's about these Dreams Itzhak's been having and the voice of Jimmy Red Deer and it's about need and cruelty and it's about anything except motherfucking Star Wars. Itzhak runs his hands through his hair, grips, and yanks until his eyes water.

"I'm good," he says for Ravn's benefit, and for Ed's, he puts on a complete sane smile. "Why don't I buy youse boys a drink."

"Still got a burger to finish," Ravn says, weakly. He breathes out; it's not that he doesn't think Itzhak can stand his ground in a fight -- it's that he's not sure he can. After all, for all his ability to telekinetically lift a dumpster in the air and empty it on someone's head, he is a glass cannon -- one punch and he's down for the literal count.

"Always a white boy," agrees Ed the trucker. He's got half a meal sitting inside too. "You good, bruder?"

"I'm fuckin soaked," Itzhak says. He is, and away from the edge he's starting to feel just how cold he is. "Yeah, I'm good." Right, burgers and whatever, normal people things, "right, forgot all about that," he really did, "I'm gonna go dry off in Gina's bathroom."

He drips all the way there and gets cussed out by a waitress mopping up after him.