Summary:Ambrose needs an electrician. Elmo just happens to be the best in New York. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The place: a quaint two story building housing a pub recently open in the last few years. The European-esque fronting sports an actual gas-lamp and a hanging sign proclaiming it 'The Jolly Rigger'. It's not well-known on the restaurant scene yet, but the locals have come to appreciate the attentive bar-staff and not-too-greasy food accompanying it. If one wanted nachos with their margarita, done. Shepherd's pie to go with their stout? Yes. The management is competent and as worldly as the owner could have possibly hired.
After stepping inside, the place open up into a collection of tables off to the left, totaling fourteen. Wooden pillars rise up into what feels like a low ceiling (architectural quirk there, no one's going to bump a head) and the ambiance immediately brings to mind the dock-side port-pubs of London. However, there's a problem: only half of the room is lit. Somewhere, something's gone wrong with the wiring.
Off to one side, deeply in conversation, a short grey-haired woman of half-Hispanic origin is speaking to a much taller gentleman. The man is frowning down at her, but not in what appears to be irritation, but rather concentration. With how he sports a deep-red waistcoat overtop a cream-hued dress-shirt and black slacks, he could be wait-staff but for the quality of the clothing itself — far above standard fair.
"Right, well, the bloody man had better get here soon, I'm not paying him anything for lollygagging in traffic," the young-looking brunet then mutters loudly as he scratches at his jawline, huffing a short sigh.
Striding along the sidewalk with the kind of mental repulsion-field New Yorkers are known for, Elmo shows up at the front. He gives the gas lamp a funny look, but really, he can't argue, it's all about the aesthetic. New York does a lot of trade on its history. That gas lamp probably boosts the prices inside a good thirty percent. Which in turn, boosts his fee.
He comes inside, glancing around for someone to talk to. He's dressed a lot more like a customer than an electrician: sunny yellow shirt, a waistcoat of brilliant blue brocade and a matching tie, and really skinny jeans, all paired with workboots. Apparently he's just a little fashionista.
"Hey," he calls to the bartender. "Here to fix ya stuff." He does have a toolbox in hand, so he kind of looks like he came here to work. "Who do I gotta talk to?"
A young man at the bar looks up from wiping out one of the glass tankards with a pristine white hand-towel. His shift in attention is probably indicator enough, but he then tilts his head towards the grey-haired woman and the waistcoat-wearing gentleman tucked down towards the end of the glossy bar's expanse, out of the way of customers.
"Dem's the bosses, you talk to dem." The young man has a charming Jamaican accent to go with his beaded dreads pulled back in a bouquet of thick strands, but he gives no air of falling under the category of stereotypical ganja-smoker. Rather, he has a ready smile for the electrician and an ease about him that encourages further conversation over a drink — he was probably hired for this.
Hearing the bartender speak up, the man in the Cabernet-red waistcoat glances over and sees the toolbox in Elmo's hand. "Finally," he says under his breath towards his manager. Both walk over to greet Elmo. Only the woman extends her hand to shake; the brunet keeps his tucked away in his slacks' pockets. He squints at Elmo. "You're not Harringford." He lists someone else possibly expected as electrician-on-call.
Elmo ducks his head a little, tensing up. He didn't expect such a lovely bartender to smile at him. "Uh, yeah, thanks." The handsome man in the frankly fabulous waistcoat comes over and the lady, who has her hand out for him to shake. "I don't — I — I don't do the hand shaking. I don't shake hands." Elmo stammers over it, and feels obligated to tag on a "Sorry, it's not you. Uh," he looks up at the tall man, and he really has to look up. Also doesn't look him in the eye, but looks him in the chest. "Nah, I'm Rosencrantz. Don't worry, I'm better than him." His accent is pure New York Jewish, with the up-and-down lilt of Yiddish. This kid's hyperlocal.
The taller man gives his pub-manager a lofty side-glance. She seems less concerned about the whole turn of events and aims a dimpled smile at Elmo, all kindness that comes with knowing of the world and how its turns over the years of her life. She doesn't seem over-bothered by the lack of returned handshake.
"You're welcome to the Rigger, Mister Rosencrantz. I'm Amelia Martinez, the manager here. This is Mister Atherton, our owner." Ambrose nods once in greeting, otherwise letting his blue eyes wander slowly over Elmo with the same idle curiosity a leopard might a distant impala. "We're having an issue with our fuse box." She turns and as she goes, it's apparent that she expects Elmo to follow. The taller brunet falls into place behind him and it's almost palpable, his gaze upon Elmo's spine. Amelia leads them both over towards a back hallway accessible via an open doorway. A right and down another dozen feet and there's the metal panel in the wall, back beyond where any guest might wander. "Let us know if you need anything while you're here, Mister Rosencrantz." Amelia gives the waistcoat-wearing brunet a significant glance — which he outright ignores as he takes up an easy lean on the wall across the way with his shoulder — and then leaves the two to their business.
Elmo scrapes up half a nervous, lopsided smile. "Hi, it's nice to meetcha, both." He says it with the air of the thing one says to make things happen, like a spell. Say the magic words to soothe the turbulent waters of social interactions.
A slow flush creeps up his neck as Atherton gives him the once over. He's all too happy to follow Amelia. …Not so happy, though, when Atherton's eyes don't leave his back. That spine of Elmo's is stiff and worried. He's short, like, really short, like, maybe a touch on the short side for a woman. Thin, too, as demonstrated by skinny jeans and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He carries himself with vigorous tension.
"Call me Elmo, huh?" he says to Amelia before she goes. "Feel like I'm gettin' arrested if somebody calls me Mister Rosencrantz."
The fusebox! Elmo's personal kingdom. He sets down his toolbox, flips it open, pulls out the things he wants—and squints over at Atherton. "You, uh, you gonna watch?"
The narrow regard is returned and now accompanied by a definite sense of the electrician being weighed by his cover, as if he were a book to yet peruse.
"I am going to watch, Elmo Rosencrantz, given you are not Harringford and I like to see the quality of work at hand before I pay a fee," Ambrose replies quietly, his crisp British accent making it still terribly easy to hear his words. Only a few vowels and consonants are rounded, indicative of learning another language in tandem when young — or perhaps learning English from a foreign tutor. "By all means, you may begin." A lift of his hand from within folded arms apparently grants permission, for whatever that's worth (fairly little at all). On it, a ring shines a matte-golden color, made of silicone rather than metal.
Elmo's hands keep working on their own while he eyes Atherton. "As long as you don't plan on stiffin' me. I crack this box, I'm gettin' paid." One of the things he takes out is a multimeter, and he regards it unpleasantly. "Look, are you gonna need me to pretend to use this? 'Cause I'd rather not." Sharp black eyes flick up to Ambrose's for just a split second. "I know I ain't Harringford, and I tell you, I'm better'n him. I know because I'm the best electrician in New York."
One eyebrow arches ominously. "Are you the best now." By his tone, he doesn't believe Elmo yet. "By all means, showcase your skills then, wire-worker and you'll earn your keep."
However, the electrician's wording has Ambrose's regard sharpening another level of focus yet. Something's caught his curiosity moreover. "You said…pretend to use your multimeter? You do not have to use it in order to take measurement of the necessities? Current? Voltage?" Again, Ambrose's eyes travel down and up the lean, angle-jointed young man in his very-yellow shirt. "Mmm. This has the taste of skills beyond the pale." His tone goes light and thoughtful without losing a hint of its imperiousness.
Elmo turns red, getting looked over like that. Self-conscious, he checks the knot on his tie. "Yeah. You gonna freak out if I just stick my hand in there? Usually people don't watch." Hint HINT.
However, he takes Ambrose's thoughtful tone as permission. He pops open the fusebox and, true to his word, licks the pad of his thumb and presses it to the metal. A shiver runs through him and his eyes close. They roam behind his lids like he's dreaming. "…Rodent damage. No sweat."
Now the other eyebrow joins its mate high upon his brow. Call him cruelly pragmatic, but Ambrose wasn't about to stop the electrician from reaching into the fuse box with bare hands. Given he's been subjected to consequences of his own devisings for over a century, he's a big believer in life lessons.
"That's…a trick," he then mutters, actually unfolding his arms and taking a step closer to look over Elmo's shoulder. His hands slip into the pockets of his slacks again. "You've…not witchcraft, I would feel that. Something else." Again, his regard might be palpable upon the profile of the electrician's face. "You were born with it?"
Such a profile it is, too, with that magnificent nose. Elmo's shoulders get higher and tenser as Ambrose gets closer. "Mutant." He doesn't have any physical signs of mutation, although he is kind of funny-looking. "I, uh, I don't usually tell that on the first date. Uhhhh not that I've been on more than one first date ever. I'm gettin' real sick of hiding it, that's all. Do ya mind? I'm tryin' to work here."
"Mutant, is it?" Ambrose slides a step back, but that's about all of the space Elmo ends up being granted. With the way the fans in the ceiling move the air about the area, the notes of the gentleman's cologne can be nosed near to his person. Brisk mint counters gleaming metal while cool vetiver uplifts the spice of cardamom and beneath it all, golden and mild, the oil of sandalwood is friendly and not overly strong.
"I offer no judgment on matters," he then adds. "It would be terrible hypocrisy on my part. Your lot has had a hell of a time in the last decade."
Elmo's mouth curls down. "You got a gift for understatement, pal." He's still red. Why does Ambrose have to smell so damn good? Ugh so awkward. Elmo himself smells like he uses some spiced aftershave. Rosemary, bay, cloves. It's old fashioned, like, so old fashioned that he probably mixed it up himself. Not something sold anymore.
He pulls his hand out and gives it a brisk shake. Then he's popping off the panel, revealing the terrifying guts of the fusebox, all wires and deadly energy ready to toast the unwary. He considers it as if thinking about which wine to choose. "'kay, can't do it from here. Where's your crawlspace access?" He puts the panel back on and buttons everything up neat as a pin.
"Crawlspace access?" Ambrose glances over his shoulder towards the metal door about five feet back towards the entrance. On it, JANITOR etched into a bronze plate. "Through there. Do you need the ceiling or within the wall itself or…"
Even as he asks, he's walking down towards the door in question. Ambrose moves with an easy grace that denotes athleticism and innate knowledge of his own kinesthetic abilities. Out of his pocket comes a small ring of keys and he flicks through them until he finds the one in question to unlock the Janitor's door. Inside, the usual clutter of cleaning tools and sprays tucked into a cubby-shelving inset to the wall. On the ceiling, the outline of a panel easily pushed up and aside for access to the layer between floors. Leaning on the wall, a short ladder.
Elmo unbuttons his waistcoat and sheds it, hanging it up on a hook it shares with a broom. Turns out he's even skinnier underneath. "Dry cleaning that thing's a killer," he says as explanation, and then he's up the ladder with his toolbox faster than it takes the time to tell. Nimble little guy. He's up there for fifteen minutes or so, rattling around, and then he comes back only a little dusty. "Great maintenance up there," he says, looking at Ambrose honestly impressed. "Only a little damage. I patched it. Circuit's hot."
While Elmo's up in the rafters, so to speak, Amelia comes to check in on them when she sees the Janitor door swung entirely open and golden light flooding out into the hallway. Ambrose is leaning against the doorframe and turns as she approaches. He briefly explains what's going on; Amelia is impressed, given that Harringford never once ever crawled into the ceiling or between walls to fix past wiring issues. The decision is made to hire Elmo by name for the next time they have an issue.
Someone needs Amelia again before the electrician appears once more from above and it's only Ambrose awaiting him with the patience of a large cat on a limb. "Thank you. I do prefer to keep things running smoothly around the place," he comments even as he steps outside into the hallway to allow Elmo to exit the small room. As he does so, the shift in ambient light flashes through his pupils in carmine-red.
Elmo ruffles his hand through his black curls to poof off the dust. "Didn't see any nests or anything. Rodent damage just happens, it's Manhattan. Call exterminators if ya want, but in my experience it's more trouble than it's worth for something this minor. Just happened to nibble on a real important wire. Everything else looks clean. Should be good." He dusts himself down and slips his waistcoat back on. Then he looks Ambrose straight in the eye and flashes him a hell of a cocky grin, spreading his hands out. "So, am I better than Harringford, or what?"
That's what lets him see the eyeshine like a coyote jogging across the road before dawn. His eyebrows pop up. "Oh," he says, quieter, surprised. "I ain't the only one, huh?"
Ambrose's smile is slow to appear on his face and knowing in its way. "I am no mutant, Mister Rosencrantz. Mine is another lot entirely," he explains, his voice almost musical in wry amusement at Elmo's attentive nature. He looks upon the electrician almost as a professor might a clever pupil. "You are better than Harringford, yes. Quick, professional, and you have earned Amelia's praises. That takes more than one might think."
A tilt of his head flashes the nightshine in his eyes yet again. "Are you concerned of my nature in turn? Care to continue working for me if I have another broken wire or have I spooked you?" He seems honest in his questioning.
Elmo snorts, buttoning up his waistcoat. "Takes more'n that to spook me." That doesn't seem to be an idle boast, neither. "Ya got work, ya pay, that's what I care about. So call me. I do more'n this. You got electronics or machines need fixin'? There ain't nothin' I can't fix. More complicated the better. Ya phone? Don't call Applecare, the bums, call me."
"Very good then." A nod and Ambrose turns on the spot to lead the way back out towards the main eatery. "And we shall contact you again, yes, if need becomes apparent." As they exit into the dining room beside the bar once more, it is clear that the fixing of the wiring was a success. Now the place is more pleasantly-lit with the other half of its lighting working.
Another curt nod. "Amelia is by the cash register," and indeed she is, speaking with the Jamaican barkeep. "She has your dues. Thank you again, Mister Rosencrantz, for your efforts. They are appreciated." The accompanying smile is borderline louche and oh-so-positively charming, as if the owner of the Jolly Rigger is very aware of his own charisma.
All that charm doesn't land that well with Elmo; he shoots Ambrose a wicked side eye. "I liked you better when you were being a dick." And with that, he's off to Amelia to get paid. And get flustered by the bartender again.