2020-06-04 - Yes, I am Very Pretty


Hod and Gwen have a little chat between (and during) work duties at Luke's.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Thu Jun 4 05:13:47 2020
Location: Luke's

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Theme Song




The bar is booming tonight, or at least the stage is. For whatever reason Hod hasn't been his usual grumpy self since a few weeks ago when he returned from his hiatus. He's been, well… he's Hod so not chipper, but not aggresively mopey either. As if to highlight that tonight he's on the stage killing the game with an upbeat jazz number on his clarinet. It harkens back to the time of the New Orleans jazz, light and dance worthy, lively and uplifting, usually the song is meant for a horn but tonight the 'net will do.

Frankly it's weird from him.

But he toots out the last of the diddy and offers a little bow to the bar's patrons, more then a few of which were toe tapping despite the usually surly expressions, and slides off of his stool and heads towards the bar, doing the usual pat down the aisle way to find the path. Blind man walkin'. "Booze me." he says as he slips behind the bar to whoever is near enough and can, legally or otherwise, booze him.

Gwen is no bartender, but she's behind the bar anyway, and has been serving up drinks to anyone who asks. Sometimes, this has involved a quick look at the computer to google how to make it. Also, this has resulted in a flat refusal when someone asked her for something called an 'angel's tit' — yeah, not making that buddy, sorry. How about a nice gin and tonic instead? No? Rum and coke? Okay.

Once a moment of peace arrives, after a couple orders for nachos get shouted into the kitchen, Gwen stands at the bar and taps one booted foot to the sound of Hod's music, at least until it ends. As the blind man approaches, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in a way that she still can't quite explain — or tell anyone about, really — but a request for booze is a request that must be honored, especially from Hod.

"Booze coming up," she acknowledges, and plunks a tumbler down on the table, tosses in a trio of large ice cubes that rattle on the way in, and then takes a bottle of bourbon and just… pours. And pours, well past what any normal person would consider acceptable. "Don't keel over," she adds, as she slides it noisily across the bar towards Hod. "Great playing, by the way," she adds. "I didn't know you did the Clarinet as well!"

Hod tucks the instrument beneath his arm as he reaches the back and holds a hand expectantly for his drink. It takes a moment for him to realize it's been slide his way, or rather, to realize he missed it, and pat about to find it. He almost smiles when he comes near his lips and he can smell the whiskey, "Knew you were my favorite for a reason." he mutters over the rim before doffing a solid quarter of the glass in a satisfied smile. "I'm a blind man that plays music. Jazz and blues were made for me. I can play anything that'll play them." he pauses, "Except drums. Fuck drums. And most of the string instruments, couldn't get a feel for anything 'cept the cello and that's-" he hand wobbles in the air. "I got that Bach bit down though, like a champ. To beautiful not to. But that wasn't talent, just repeatition. I can play 4 instruments well enough to claim them, and about a dozen more…." more hand wobbling.

The clarinet case is pulled out from under the bar and he begins to disassemble the object by feel, placing the parts one after another into their respective slots.

Gwen listens, until the comment about drums is made, at which point she suppresses a laugh at least long enough for Hod to finish. Then she just lets it out and laughs, giving the bar a cursory slap as part of the process. "Okay, well, drums are the one instrument I do play, and I like to think I'm pretty hot stuff with 'em." She beats out a quick rhythm, just with her hands on the countertop, as if to prove it. And then she follows up by pouring herself a sprite, because waitressing is thirsty work, honestly.

"I dunno what it is about drums that I like, I just know I like it. Dad had to soundproof a room in the apartment just so I could stay up all night long and not cheese off the neighbors." She pauses, taking an order from someone and shouting into the kitchen for a couple of burgers with fries. "Not a lot of drums in Bach or Beethoven or Mozart. I love listening to them, though. …But I can play just about anything from 1960 onwards."

Hod makes a face, "Can't do drums." he says, pointing up towards his ears, "Concussion wreaks holy fuck all with my hearing. Leaves a ringing for hours. I mean, a timpani is solid, but the harder stuff that's propular with the kids these days," says the guy who's clearly somewhere in his… uh…. 30's? Maybe a really good looking 40. "It's like a jackhammer inside my head. Symbols are the worst." he makes a face at that, "Went to a parade once, just so 'see'." shakes his head and polishes off half the glass, "Never again. Fuck you Macy's Day, whatever that is."

Gwen ahhhs, and nods once, "Yeah, that I can totally understand. Well, if my band ever plays here, I'll make a point of checking with you first, to make sure my drums aren't going to be so loud as to mess with your hearing, that's the last thing I'd want to do. Music is meant to be enjoyed, not to rattle your brain right out of your skull."

The young blonde sips her sprite, and looks up as the door rattles, and then proves just to be the wind. "I tried the guitar a few times, actually. Never managed to make it stick. I'm not sure why, I mean guitars are pretty awesome, just… drums are the only one I've ever managed to stick with." She shrugs her shoulders lightly. "So.. where on Earth did you find the time to learn so many instruments?"

Hod snorts, "Where else was I gonna spend my time? School?" he asks dryly, "Lots of braile reading material in your library?" the dryness continues. "I mean, I suppose I could have taken an art class or two… wait." he taps his chin with a fingertip in mock thought before making a face in Gwen's general direction. "Girl, all I /got/ is free time. Learned to cook the same way, trapped in a house from the age of nothing until the age of 'can't take it anymore must get outside', at which point I tried some new things."

Sure, it's a bald faced lie, all of it, but it's one he's used since modern times made it even slightly okay to speak to blind people with something less then mockery or violent intent. It's an easy lie for him. "And honestly, once you pick up a couple, the rest come easy. Like languages."

"Well… Alright, that's a way better answer than what I was imagining." If she picks up on the lie, she doesn't show it. …More likely, she doesn't pick up on it in the slightest; that's likely to happen when someone with less than a quarter century under her belt matches wits with someone who's got several centuries, especially when the younger one doesn't realize wits are being matched.

"I speak three languages," she adds, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. "English, Drum, and Biochemistry. And I love all three of 'em." She pauses, and mmms, "I should probably consider taking Spanish as an elective. I'm willing to be Anya would approve."

Hod nods his head, "Spanish is always a good choice, as is Mandarin, especially in todays ever shrinking world space. I would also recomend a fundamental understanding of Hindi most likely wouldn't go amiss. Maybe toss in a spattering of Persian as well, that region has far reaching implications for someone of your age, or any age really, and it's fairly wide spread." he lets out a sigh, "The first three /certainly/ will only benefit you, and the you'll notice that the more you learn, the easier they get. I would ignore the European-centric ones though. Everyone there basically speaks English so you can communicate well enough not to get mugged if required." he finishes his bourbon and shakes the glass to the ice tinkle lightly, universal 'fill me up' sign language there.

The bottle of bourbon reappears, and there's that tell-tale 'glub-glub-glub' sound as Hod's glass is refilled, pretty well up to where it was to begin withm followed by a 'ploop' as she tosses in a fresh ice cube. "I would love to see what it is in your DNA that lets you drink booze like a fish drinks water, and yet somwhow you never get drunk," she observes. "But I'm not going to push that point, I'm not a gene-creeper."

"Well… let's stick to Spanish, first," she muses. "I'll see how I do with that one first, if I manage to get into it next semester. As cool as Mandarin would be, that'll be… kinda… back-burner until I get time, Biochemistry is pretty intense." Noteworthy, however, is the fact that she didn't turn down the idea. "I think I know enough not to get mugged in most places, even if it's really just the old throw your purse over a fence and run for it trick. Usually works if what they want is your money. If they wanted you then you've got bigger problems."

Hod winces at that, "Oh I get drunk." he says, "Ask Luke about what he walked into three… four months ago. Give or take." he shakes his head, "Wasn't pretty. I find that operateing at a level of semi-intoxication is likely the only thing that allows me to keep my sanity in this world. Without it I fear the sorts of things that would fill my mind." truer words. "Also, I've no idea what my gene's would tell you. Heard those tests are all the rage, but I honestly couldn't care less where I come from, more interested in where I'm going." and we're back to bald faced lies.

He nods as Gwen plays out her plan for fleeing an active crime scene, "Works well enough for you I suppose. I had to go with the whole language thing. No purse to throw you see, made the first part of the plan very difficult." gulp, "Oh. And the running. Also not great." his lips toy with a smile, a soft reminder that when he quips at Gwen's expence it's never personal. Gallows humor is his copeing mechanism. Well. And booze. "You want lessons?" he asks curiously. "I mean, I can't teach you to read shit, but I know a few languages if you like."

"…Yes," Gwen acknowledges, "I can understand how running away might be hard if you can't see where you're going. Though honestly, when you're completely panicking, seeing where you're going sometimes becomes a little hard anyway, especially if you're busy oggling over your shoulder to see what's catching up to you. Worst plan ever, honestly." She drains her sprite, and plops the glass down. "The other option is punching your way out of it," she muses. "But it helps to be good at punching, I guess. I've never had fighting lessons and I'm not all that strong."

Hod is not the only one who can lay down some bald faced lies, it turns out.

"Lessons? I'll never turn down an opportunity to learn something," Gwen asserts. "Sounds wonderful to me. When do we start?"

Hod makes a face, "Welp, looks like you're going to be taking a few lessons then." he says after a moment, "I work out at a place in the Bronx, martial arts joint. I highly recomend you get some Jui-jitsu practice in regularly. Then punching isn't the issue. Almost every real fight ends up going to the ground or with one person getting a solid grip on the other. That shit will teach you how to /not/ be the one that's left laying on the pavement. Also, it's a /killer/ core work out." he patpats his shockily flat stomach. With the alcohol he puts away he should have a belly more reminicent of third-trimester then a plank of woood.

"And we start tonight." he says before finishing whatever he was going to say in a string on uninteligable noises that sounded a lot like a Hong-Kong action movie. However he's interupted halfway through by a shout from the kitchen, "Hey man! You gonna chat up the pretty girls all night or actually help me back here? Blind or not I /will/ kick your ass if you don't start making nachos!" and Hod sighs, "Work work work." he quips before turning to head towards the double doors, bourbon in hand. "We'll work on it." he says over his shoulder, then adds, "Wait. You're pretty?"

Gwen pauses, and then laughs, "Yes, Hod. Yes, I am very pretty." And she's blushing, not that Hod can see that, of course. "Alright, I'd better make some rounds, I bet there's people at tables wondering why the waitress is just hanging around at the bar, talking to the chef." She reluctantly straightens, stretches, cracks her neck to one side, and picks up her notebook. "Tonight, after work then, hunh? I'll text Dad later and let him know I'll be late home."

And then Gwen is wandering amongst the tables, taking orders, and mentally rehearsing how to go take a fighting lesson and pretend that she knows absolutely nothing about the subject.

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