Log:Dirty Laundry Art

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Dirty Laundry Art

Jack, Franklyn, Tallahassee


Ice pellets and laundry. Spring in Vermont.


Dirty Laundry

Dirty Laundry

From the Exterior, Dirty Laundry doesn't appear to be anything special. It's bay view windows in the front of the building open it up to a full view of the rest of the strip mall and what might've been a view without it. Nestled in the Twixt, the Laundromat has been renovated in the last year though some upkeep could be done. The word Laundry flickers, leaving the sign only to occasionally say 'Dirty' in garish neon red.

Inside, it's well lit with vibrant lighting that leaves no shadow to the imagination. It washes everything out adding too little contrast but making sure the video cameras pick up everything that happens in the little laundry mat. The tile has been replaced with a black and white checked pattern. tho inexpertly laid so that the pattern breaks, something to dive the OCD a little mad. The walls have been painted something softer than a white so that the brilliant fluorescent above doesn't blind the patrons and the trimming is done in black to tie it into the floor. There's a stubborn halogen light that flickers near the back of a dryer suitably named Loki, tucked in the back away from the others. It reads 'out of order'. Likewise, the rest of the washers are named after various and worldwide mythologies to help keep the machines sorted: Female Washers: Ma'at, Ishtar, Hecate among others, one oddly named Rosita. And Dryers are male; Thoth, Vishnu, Chiron, Dave, Vulcan, etc..

There is a drop off the window as well as a counter with special industrial machines where the people who work here spend most of their time. Washing and folding clothing and linens for the busy masses and playing obscure and alternative music. There's a TV against the far wall along with a high bar and stools where people can watch TV (usually soaps, sometimes even in English) or take advantage of the Free Wifi.

Jack is in uniform. Maybe that's cause he's got nothing else to wear, as that's a rather impressive pile of clothes he's sorting through now, to divide into colors. He does it halfheartedly though, like he's not that bothered whether his white shirts end up pink if washing them with something red.

The place is not very busy, but there's a few milling about, or watching TV or checking their phones while waiting.

Tallahassee ducks in from the outside because, ice pellets, wat. She has her coat's hood up, though it is a thin and flimsy affair that just keeps her hair more or less protected from oversized hail. "Ohgeezeohgeeze!" she exclaims, stopping only when she's far enough inside to feel the warmpth, then stares outside as if this was a brand new weather condition.

Jack looks up, squinting at Tallahassee. "I agree," he says, stuffing laundry into the machines haphazardly, starting them up. He walks over to the window and peers outside too; his ranger off-road SUV is parked outside. It has winter tires on, with spiked rubber; he should be mostly alright to drive, but even he looks a bit worried. "Gonna be accidents. Did you drive here?"

Small, pale androgynous femme with a blue-green pixie cut, and and large oval glasses around blue-green eyes. Small steel gauges, septum, and nose-stud juxtapose her long lashes and classic eye shadow. She likes to wear simple shirts and sweaters, but the weather what it means that it's a heavy coat with fluffy trim and lining this season.

Tallahassee shakes off bits of quickly melting pellets and runs her hand through her hair, blue-green bouncing back into shape as someone who somehow can still find mousse at the store. "What? No. I walked. It just got, wow, the wind is pretty nice too." She laughs at the predicament. "Thank goodness for laundries, right?"

"A safe haven from weather and a slice of life. Everyone has to do laundry," Jack agrees, grinning grimly. "I just wish I'd thought of doing laundry a week ago, when I should have. It was better weather then," he notes dryly. "I brought coffee though." He produces a little thermos from inside his large warm coat. "Want some?"

"My dad used to tell me not to take coffee from strangers." Tallahssee takes off her coat, low-cut sweater exposing whorls of blue filigree tattoo below her neck, and holds it up with a frown then shakes more water from it.

Jack squints at her, momentarily taken aback by her quick retort. "Smart of you." He pours himself some though - he only has that small mug that comes with the thermos anyway. "They got paper mugs if you change your mind," he says with a hint of an amused smile. "And I'm Jack Fry. So, technically no longer a stranger." He offers a hand to shake.

Tallahassee shakes the coat again when Jack is speaking and finds a nearby drier. It looks to be fur-trimmed, in the sense of there is a line of fluff around the hood and sleeves but not anywhere inside it, and drops it inside. "Tallhassee Costello-Jones," she says. Her handshake is small and she doesn't grasp Jack's hand at all, and once freed she goes to turn a dollar bill into some quarters. "Are you really a ranger, or are you pretending to be?" she asks, friendly if a bit blunt.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Costello-Jones." Jack's handshake is firm and brief, in turn. "I'm really a ranger," he responds, trailing along rather lazily, sipping his coffee. It's warm inside, so he shakes his coat off and hangs it over his arm for now, not wanting to leave it somewhere he can't keep an eye on it. "I'm not on duty at the moment - came in here after work to get my laundry sorted."

Clink, clink, rattle, clink, quarters go in, the dryer goes off, and Miss Costello-Jones leans against it. "It needs done sometime." She fusses with her hair again, maybe a nervous tick, and looks outside. "It's...not stopping, is it?"

Jack squints at her again. "It might stop for a bit, then come back. Might leave you enough time to run to the next place for shelter. Hard to say - this time of year it's anyone's guess." He seems to take it in stride. "You from around here?" He finishes the coffee, screws the mug back on top of the thermos and puts it in that large pocket.

Tallahassee says, “Oh, no." She laughs lightly. "I'm from New York. You?”

Jack perks up noticeably. "I lived in New York for a long time. Moved back home a few months ago. I'm from Tamarack Falls originally, so yeah, from around here." He's not hiding his curiosity - maybe it comes with the job. "What brought you here? Clearly not the weather."

Tallahassee says, “Well maybe I'm a journeyman meterologist." She laughs again, unable to keep the bizarre joke to herself. "I hand-make jewelry, so I'm starting to sell to locals. It's not as good as some places," she shrugs, "but it's okay.”

"You'd not be bored as a meteorologist around here, that's for sure," Jack says, grinning a bit at the joke. He appreciates the bizzareness. "And really? Great. I'm a crafter myself, I do wood carvings. I sell some at the tourist shops here on Fort Brunsett - I know just what you mean. Mostly hobby from me anyway, I make a decent living as a ranger. You got any samples on you?"

Tallahassee has this five-hunderd yard stare for a moment then looks over her shoulder at the dryer. "Um," she says and quirks her lips far to one side. "No."

Taken aback again, Jack blinks slowly at her. Squints. Tries to make some sense of this girl, perhaps. Stares at the dryer, back at her. "Are they in the dryer with your coat?"

Tallahassee shrugs just one shoulder and turns back. "It's just curls of brass anyway. I can do that in my sleep but it's going to be all out of shape now. I'd love to be able to work in surgical steel. Is that something you can work in? Would I need a forge? It's probably more complicated than that, isn't it."

Jack looks relieved. He'd feel the pain of losing a craft to something like that, after all. "Afraid I don't work with metals. I work with wood only. I've been around a forge, but can't say I've ever heard them working with surgical steel." He's slightly baffled by her, but intrigued at the same time. "But how hard could it be? If you really wanted to - I'm sure you could figure it out."

"Sure, but do I want the Masters degree required. What kind of wood? What do you make? Do you make chess boards or something useful?" Tallahassee is chatty, but casual.

"Aspen, black walnut, oak, mahogany, cherry - basswood or even butternut at times," Jack says, the response routine. "Mostly figurines of animals. But hey, I've never made a chessboard set before, good idea." He takes a look through the window again - it's not as bad as it was a few minutes ago, but still pelting down ice. "Your jewelry, it's metal based I gather. You use any other materials?"

Tallahassee sing-songs, rocking her head back and forth in rhythm, "Crystal, shell, stone, feather, bead, ceramic, fur, hair, blood, denim, silk, slate, copper, brass, once in silver, once in gold, sticks, leaves, bark, blah blah blah."

Jack stares. Blinks. "Modern art, huh." He decides to just chalk it up to new age-ness perhaps. "Hang on." He walks to the door, sticks his head out and calls to someone. "Gimme half an hour or so! You'll be alright." He's returning promptly, brushing some ice from his hat. "Sorry. Got my dog in the car."

Tallahassee leans to one side to look past the door to try and work out just which car has...then her eyes light up. "Ooooo," she coos, seeing the big big car with the big big dog.

"Have to let him know I'll be back soon, or he'll start barking. He's very willful," Jack explains. The big dog in the big car is staring in at the two, tongue lolling out; it's a black german shepherd. "Very nice though. Hardly bites anyone, ever."

"I hardly bite anyone ever, too." Tal laughs again. "They just taste so awful. Does he work in wood too?"

Jack laughs loudly, at that. He seems surprised himself and tries to set his face to that grim cynical one again, but lips tug at the corners. "He kind of does. He just doesn't carve it - he works me with me in the parks, amongst the trees. Finding lost tourists, or wounded animals. Chasing the occasional poacher or criminal. Sometimes he chews on a stick - I guess that counts?"

Tallahassee looks up and follows the air as if reading a sign, "Dog chews stick, two thousand eighteen, Sir Barkington, natural wood medium. Going price, twenty-two hundred." She shakes her head and grimaces. "Modern art indeed."

"If I get famous, I could sell it," Jack agrees wryly. He appreciates this - he's stopped, mostly, being baffled. "His name is Goblin. I guess he could be Sir Goblin Barkington. Though his ego is big enough, maybe not. You got any animals?"

Tallahassee chokes a bit at the name of the dog and looks past Jack toward the big car again. "That," she says doubtful, "barely looks like a goblin. That looks like a...a big dog." Clearly.

Jack and Tallahassee are conversing amicably near one of the dryers while looking out at the awful weather. Jack's wearing his uniform, his warm coat draped over an arm.

"My horse is named Troll," Jack continues, grinning with eyes crinkled in amusement. "I liked fairytales as a kid. And not all goblins and trolls are bad, right? Gotta remember not to judge."

Outside is parked the big off-road SUV park ranger car, with a big black German shepherd inside that is looking in towards the laundromat.

Tallahassee with her hands on the dryer behind her stretches up her shoulders quite far and looks, well, doubtful. "It's okay to judge. People do it as their job. Judges. They judge things."

Will Spring ever come to Fort Brunsett?

In walks a human: she's pale, frail, and been pelted with ice pellets for the last however many minutes. This might account for why Franklyn is scowling, wrapped up like a very groupie - sorry, 'band-aid' - from 1971, in a long shearling coat, a big black bag swinging from her arm.

Franky holds no laundry, and when she glides into centre of the laundromat she looks around, scowls, turns to face one of the security cameras, and promptly flips two middle fingers in the air. Apparently she's judging something.

"I just arrest people. I leave the judging to... the judges." Jack shoots Tallahassee another amused glance. He digs out his thermos from that pocket again, fills up some coffee - he is always prepared. Seeing Franklyn, he double-takes - he recognises her from Cat-22. "Hey." He looks at the camera, back at Franklyn, raising an eyebrow. "Vermont in spring - gotta love it."

Tallahassee opens her mouth, looks at Franky, and closes it. She looks honestly quite confused at her. "I...mm." She turns and checks the timer on the dryer then, against every rule in every laundromat, pulls herself up to sit on it.

Franklyn jumps a bit, when she's addressed -- but she doesn't stop flipping off those security cams, no. She just turns and -stares- at Jack, her brow furrowing - first with skeptical distain, second with judgmental curiosity, and finally with squinty-eyed recognition. The middle fingers are lowered, and she pushes back her hair - several gold bands on all fingers save her ring-fingers (ironic) glinting, but dwarfed by some ludicrous yellow topaz cocktail ring. Fancy.

"...Hey." Frank says, eyes flipping from Jack to Tallahassee, who gets a slow once-over. Then back to Jack. She seems puzzled. "How's it hanging, Ranger Rick?" Then back to Tallahassee, whom she smiles at crookedly. "This guy giving you trouble?" Then back to Jack. "You can't just search a person's dirty laundry without a warrant." So many assumptions! Is she joking? She is kinda smirking...

"I can, if I suspect foul play in the machines. I think I saw someone getting robbed in there, or possibly there's a hostage situation." Jack leans in towards one of the machinees, looking in. It's the one his own laundry is in, so he's not actually peeking at someone's underwear except his own. "Can't you hear it? There's a shirt in there screaming about abuse." He straightens up, sips his coffee, squints - lines around his eyes are amusedly crinkled though. Not his laundromat, so he doesn't tell Tallahassee to get off either. "I am troubling her though. I think she disapproves of my skills at naming my pets."

Tallahassee shrugs her shoulders at Franklyn and shakes her head, folding her legs up under her atop the expensive equipment. "He offered me coffee, I guess?" Jack speaks and she adds, "He's also old. This is okay as long as he doesn't complain that I like avacado toast." Whatever threw her off earlier is fading, and she smiles crookedly, relaxing on her new seat.

For one genuine second, Franklyn looks annoyed with Jack - really, annoyed! But it melts away, replaced by a bit-back smirk of amusement at the joke about the shirt screaming - before she clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes and swoops her hair over her shoulder. "You are so weeeeeird."

Like he doesn't know. Franky turns then; looking to Tallahassee, her head bobbing as she listens. "My old man didn't even know what an avocado /was/, but he did grow up in -Maine-, so I guess I have to just accept that. Amongst other things..." Cue a laugh-siiiigh, then Franky gives a quick look to the room to the back door, frown/scowls, then coughs before looking back between Tallahassee and Jack. "What's the news on the wire, you two weirdos?"

Weirdos. Frank didn't say Wyrdos, right? Right.

Jack isn't very wyrdy, but he might be a bit of a weirdo. He suddenly shoots a look over at his car, stalks to the door and opens it and shouts; "I said half an hour! It's not been half an hour yet. You have no sense of time. Trust me, it's been like five minutes." He closes the door, saunters back. "I'm weird and old. I don't like avocado on toast, either." Finishing that coffee, he tucks away the mug and thermos. "Well - we figured out we have New York in common - that's something."

Tallahassee looks Franklyn over and gets this lip-twisting thoughtful look, then she shrugs. "We both left New York too. And art. And selling art. And sitting inside in bad weather. There's a lot of things people have in common."

She looks at Franklyn again and shrugs again. "It sucks outside?" she offers. It isn't much, but it's something. It also has the benefit of being true for most people.

Franklyn doesn't look like she knows what to do, when Jack saunters over to the door so he can holler at that giant German Shepherd in the car over in the lot. The Mortal girl merely blinks a few times, her necklaces and bracelets jingle-jangling as she tilts her head to the side and puts her hand up to cover her mouth - all thoughtful. Or confused. Or both.

"...Apparently so." She murmurs, then huhs and turns, looking at Tallahassee. Cue double take from her to Jack and back again. "You guys are /from/ New York, or spent a lot of -time- in the City?" As she speaks, Frank reaches into her bag - rummaging around, and picking out a hip flask like it ain't no thing. Without acknowledging it, she unscrews the cap. "I /guess/ it sucks outside, but I was hoping for like, some juicier goss. Like? Who's been suspected of that bombing, what dark omens are on the horizon, when are we gonna see a human sacrifice to get some fucking sunshine..."

Frank sips from the flask, then laughs.

"I'm from Tamarack Falls, but I left when I was twenty, lived there for 14 years or so," Jack explains. He talked to that dog like it fully understood him, and seem to not think much about it. But then, he's rumored to have an uncanny connection to animals in general. Maybe the dog picks up on his tone and some words? Either or, Goblin is sitting there and looks like he's having a nice enough time in the car, watching the laundromat and the people inside, when he can see them.

"They were ninja-cowboys. I got a feeling someone in some police office somewhere is quite baffled. Did you see them up close at all?"

Tallahassee says, “Everyone thinks that New York is the City. Rochester is /far/ cooler than the Burroughs. You get better weather too." She carefully bites her lower lip, looking outside. "Sometimes. I dunno, it seems like this place is trying too hard to be Portland.” You have requested Investigating the explosion from staff. Please allow for some time to process it.

The flask jerks, and Franklyn lowers it while wiping a drip or three of something boozy for her chin. The gesture coincides with her looking rather embarrassed -- or did her embarrassment cause the shaky hand? While Jack is talking about the Baddies who blew up the bowling alley (allegedly), Frank's starting to blush and look flustered and upset and-- well it was an upsetting situation.

"Ninja-pirates. No. I... I didn't..." Frank swallows hard, then moves to take another sip - looking over to Tallahassee. "But do you get to see pigeons fight a rat over a slice of pizza in Rochester? You pose a bold argument - but like, I don't think this place is trying /enough/. There's only one coffee shop with an Australian trained barista, and like, I haven't found a single raw juice shop. Man. I miss juice."

A sad glance to her feet, then Frank turns -- raising her fist towards the security camera again, as she adds. "That's right!" Then another sip from that flask, which gets corked and hidden back in her bag by the time she looks back to Jack and Tallahassee. "Ranger Rick must've gotta job keeping us safe from the East Bank Bigfoot -- but what about you, Blue? Why you in this town full of maple suckers?"

"Ninja-Pirates, right," Jack says - he seem largely unconcerned. But he frowns and is looking like he's thinking it all over now, when she reminded him. He is a cop after all, and it was a crime and it is a mystery. His machine beeps - he turns to take out his wet clothes and puts them in a drier rather idly, staring out into the air like he's going through the events; Franklyn's embrassment is only met with a raised eyebrow, no comments. He doesn't get why she's embarassed, anyway. He smirks a bit at her comments about missing things from the city though. When he gets old he'll probably complain about city slickers and their ways.

Tallahassee makes a bit of a silly face, sticking out her tongue in jest. "This place has sasquatches? I'm surprised I haven't seen more. Rochester doesn't have that many feral pigeons but we have more bigfoots." Big...feet? She mulls this over for a moment. "I'm here to make things and get paid for making things. Art, you know, but if I have to start doing auto repair again I'm going to scream. Also," she adds with authority, "ninjas and prirates are enemies."

Franklyn shoots Jack a small, serious look -- how strange, the speed of which she can flip from emotion to emotion. She nods re: ninja-pirates, but that haunted embarrassment remains. Not even rubbing at her face, pinching the bridge of her nose, or swoopin' her hair back out of her eyes can wipe away the concern. Perhaps the bombing really spooked her.

But the Mortal girl smiles briefly, as Tallahassee pulls that face. "/Probably/." Frank insists, moving to lean up against one of the empty washing machines - paying no mind to Jack and his laundry, as she chatters on to the other woman. "We've got all sorts of things -- you hear about the stranger on the bridge? You gotta speak to a Laferve if you--- /OH/." Abrupt subject change - her eyebrows go way up. "/Art/, like you're a painter or a sculptor or performance? You could always -record- your screaming; I know a video artist, in Tamarack Falls..."

"Hey," Jack says, starting the dryer up. "I'll ask around. Not my case, but I can ask." He swipes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, leaving hat and coat on a chair for now, standing close enough to keep his eyes on them. "You sure you didn't see anything?" he asks, perhaps wondering if that's what got Franklyn so concerned. Perhaps he's not so good at reading people as he is with animals. "You fix cars too?" he asks of Tallahassee. "Handy."

Tallahassee's butt buzzes. She looks very surprised at this; it's not really her butt, but the dryer she's sitting on. She slips off the metal box and opens it, reaching deep enough that her sweater tries to ride up her back. She comes out with not just her coat but some other bits that must have been in it. Notably she grabs a bright blue knit cap that she quickly pulls over her bright blue hair. There are many little spirals of brass wire, deformed slightly from the heat, and these all go back into her pockets. Behold Portlandia in a fake-fur-trimmed jacket. If only she had a pin that said 'Save Ballard'.

She doesn't.

"Jewelry, but I'd rather make useful things. I made a windmill for someone's lawn last year but he wanted it made out of bamboo. Rich people are strange. I am overcharging if you ask me to work on your engine," she threatens Jack with what she intends to be a serious look but is just SO ADORABLE.

Franklyn huhs, looking over to Jack -- the Mortal woman looks puzzled for a moment, then shakes her head. "Everything was so insane that day, I can barely comprehend - it was so frightening, overwhelming. I just hope they people who were inside got the right support afterwards, you know? Trauma does... Does weird things to people." She smiles sadly, and looks down at her hands.

Another little sigh. Then she turns, and gives Jack a once-over. "...But if you have a card?" She leaves no room for him to answer, though. Franky is turning to Tallahassee as the woman puts on that bright-blue hat. That gets less interest than the spirals of brass wire -- but before she can open her mouth to question, she gets distracted. "/Jewellery/!"

Because of course she's interested. Look at her; Franky wears a lot. "Oh -fantastic-, and anamatrons too? Oh, is that the right word? Oh /whatever/, you've gotta tell me if you have a studio -- do you keep a studio? I live out of a loft in Sugarhouse Studios," Because of course she lives in a loft. "They're a great space for artisans... Do you have a card, too?"

Jack scratches the side of his neck; clearly, he didn't even think about that and looks quite sheepish now. Whatever cop he was, he wasn't the kind and caring kind. "Uh... sorry," he says, looking quite awkward, "I didn't mean to stirr up troubling memories." It's almost cute, how he is worried now. He digs out a card, hands it over. "There, give me a call whenever. And I'll see what I can find, alright? They'll catch them. Don't worry."

He turns to the other woman, squinting at her amusedly. "I'll remember that. I suppose I should just go with the regular car shop to start with."

Tallahassee explains, "I live in someone's basement that they're renting out. The mice and I have an understanding. They don't eat my coat, and I don't hammer them flat." She keeps herself out of talk of pirates and ninjas otherwise, but does seem okay with animal abuse apparently. Rodent abuse at least. "They thought today would be a good day to fumigate, tho." She looks outside and grumps, sulking.

"...Why would I worry?" Frank chimes -- nearly smiling, although it's a tad complicated around the edges; sad or conflicted or just plain weird. She was drinking from that flask, earlier. Is it even late enough in the day to justify that? The Mortal girl reaches over and plucks the card from Jack's hand, then snaps it against her fingers a few times. Tap-tap-tap. She's rummaging through her purse a moment later, to safely place it in her wallet.

Then Franklyn laughs - laughs! It's a sound of near-on perfect amusement, as she turns and beams at Tallahassee, "Why is that so /cut---/..." Wait. Frank stops and squints. Fumigate? Well that puts a damper on things.

She clears her throat, and pushes her hair behind her ear, and shoves herself away from the washing machine. "Right. Well if you wanna talk jewellery, pop by the Green Door Theatre or Cat-22 some time, ask for Franklyn -- oh, I don't work at the /cafe/, but theatre's mind. Sort of. Jesus. What can any of us really /own/, anyway? Everything's so -temporal-, we're just /borrowing/ things - space - time..."

Siiiigh. Franky drifts towards the room to the back door--- hey, wait, isn't that for employees only? Too bad. Frank's heading that way. "Later Blue. Keep it shifty, Ranger Rick. Hope nothing's eaten any of your socks... The owner's a real tightwad asshole." She flips off the security camera /again/, then opens the door to exit through the back room.

"Why, indeed," Jack says. He's a tad baffled. These two young women - they baffle him. He glances out at the dog, whom is clawing at the window insistantly. "That dog has no sense of time." He digs out his still half-moist clothes from the machine now, and stuffs it all in a large plastic bag. "Nice meeting you both - I best get going. Looks like it's better weather now anyway." He puts hat on, tips it at both of them very old-school, then wanders out. "Goblin, I TOLD you, I wasn't ready. What do you mean, you want to meet them too? I can't take you in there, you know that. Fine, we'll get hot dogs - you nag my ears off." And he hops in and drives off.

Tallahassee's panda-eyes follow Franlyn out then slowly slide back over to Jack. "That was interesting," she says, unable to contain her amusement. "Well, Sir Jack, I'm going to brave the storm. If the sea can marry the ice, then so can I. Say hello to your Puppier--" pronounced puh-pee-YEH, since it's faux French. "He's been so patient."