Another day, (hopefully) another dollar. The last time Elliot was here, it was chaos. Pure, unadulterated, uncut chaos. Water everywhere. Broken chairs. Ruined books. Where some people might have seen a red flag, this young woman saw an opportunity. After all, Cat-22 looked like it was in desperate need of a janitor, plumber and/or general all-around handy person. She could be all three. She's the whole package. That's how she's going to sell herself anyway.
Standing just inside the doorway -- although just off to the side so as not to impede anyone going in or out -- Elliot takes a quick survey of the surroundings. There were cops outside and that was a bit stressful but she kept her head down and hustled right on by. Nothing to see, she's just a girl. Things seem to have dried out. Things seem to be calm. Deciding that the counter is the best place to start, she heads that way and gets in line behind a beatnik looking fellow who is trying to pay for his coffee using buttons. Not political buttons. The kind you'd use to fasten your shirt.
"They're really good buttons," he explains, showing them off. "This one is antique tortoiseshell. See?"
Yep. Cops outside. No cops in here, at least. And yes, it's pretty dry. There's a fluffy gray and white Cymric cat chilling on the cat tower in the middle of the cafe. And guess who's at the counter? It's the harried author himself, C.B. Alexander. There's a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stares down at the buttons. He's in a blue and white rumpled plaid flannel today, the top few buttons open to reveal a white t-shirt of some kind. Janis Joplin wails over the speakers.
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Fine. Whatever." C.B.'s hand closes over the buttons and he actually opens the register to put them inside as he goes off to get the fellow his coffee. He casts a quick glance at Elliot on his way to the coffee pots, because...he has to take a look at everyone who comes in here. It's what he does.
Elliot. What's there to see? Cute in a plain way -- like, the potential is there but she does nothing with it. No makeup, her dishwater blonde hair a shaggy near-mullet, pale complexion, rosy cheeks. She's obviously poor judging from the quality of her clothes: just a bit dated, just a bit threadbare. Clean though! So not homeless. She waits in the line very patiently:
There are no sighs to passively urge the guy in front of her to hurry up.
There is no tapping her foot or shifting her weight around.
There is no distractedly swiping through a cell phone.
No cell phone!
Unlike her contemporaries, she isn't glued to her phone; if she has one at all, it is tucked away. Nope, she just waits. She just stands there, hands hanging lightly at her sides, and is just ... in the moment. Which, in this age of constant stimulation, is a little bit weird. Isn't it? It could be.
Anyway, when the guy gets his coffee, she steps up to the counter and offers CB a faint smile. "Hello," she starts, even and careful. "I would like to apply for a job, please. May I have an application?"
C.B. comes back with the coffee, to the enthusiastic cries of the buttoner, no doubt. He shoos him away. Doesn't smile back at Elliot. Eyebrows go up when she asks for an application, though. "We don't really have one. Well. We do, but you may as well talk it out with me first, before we get to that point." There's no one in line besides Elliot, so C.B. indicates one of the stools at the counter. "Have a seat and let's chat. I want you to be aware that this isn't an ordinary job. You want anything?" He himself seems to be...actually drinking coffee! Holy crap. It's real coffee, though, yeah, it /could/ have booze in it...then again, his hand seems to have a slight tremor in it right now. So maybe not. He's heading over to the coffee to refill his cup.
'..before we get to that point.' Whether consciously done or not, Elliot stands up just a bit straighter at that. It's time for good impressions and she is determined to put her best foot forward. She nods and moves to one of the stools, tucking her skirt beneath her in a fluid motion as she sits down. Next, her hands smooth over her lap and then fingers brush through her hair, pushing her shaggy locks behind her ears. It's a symphony of low-key nervous gestures -- it betrays a need that isn't found in the teens who tumble in here after their parents tell them that they need to get a part-time job to learn responsibility and the value of money.
"Some water would be nice, thank you."
Another smile and dimples appear this time, her dark eyes going a bit squinty. She swallows and looks around the place quickly before settling her attention back on CB. "I'll try to answer what you need to know but let me say right off: I'm a hard worker. You'll have no trouble or complaint from me."
"Water's right over there, sweetheart. Help yourself." C.B.'s jittery hand gestures to the glass carafe set up not far from where Elliot is sitting, which is filled with apple slices today.
He squints right back at Elliot, adjusting his glasses. Continuing not to smile back at her. "A hard worker, huh?" The gray and white cat on the tower seems to be staring in their direction as well. Or is that just a coincidence. "And what sort of things do you do? You have any food service experience?"
The woman looks over to whether he gestures and then reaches for the carafe, pouring herself a glass of water. She fills it to the halfway mark -- half full or half empty? -- and then takes a sip before looking at CB again. She has a kind face -- her dark eyes are soft, caring -- but there is a sense of wariness about her. Definitely guarded but in a polite way, if that makes sense. Her walls are tall, not covered in barbed wire.
"No," Elliot replies, shaking her head. "Well, that's not entirely true. I have been a dishwasher. Bussed tables. I just haven't ever been a server or worked a counter. I .. prefer to work positions that are not customer service oriented. Mostly, my experience is with janitorial work. A little bit of maintenance. Emergency plumbing. Stock room management."
Her hands are in her lap now, fingers knitted together. Tightly. Anxiously? Maybe. She needs more jobs. She needs more money. Something occurs to her suddenly and she tips forward a wee bit: "My name is Elliot, by the way."
C.B. nods. "That's fine. We have need for that sort of thing. Need for everything, really." He sips his coffee and nods again. "Elliot. Okay, hi. I'm C.B., but you probably already knew that." He sighs, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Okay. So. You'd like to be, like, a Girl Friday, is that it? Bit of everything? Washing dishes, bussing, janitor stuff? Our walk-in is always in need of some patrolling too, that's true, though Abiona's the one you'd want to talk to about that. She's our kitchen manager." Leaning forward on his elbows, the writer looks her right in the eye. "Cat-22 is a workers' collective. Do you know what that means?"
How often is he asked what 'CB' stands for? Well, wherever that numbers stands at, it doesn't not increase by one -- Elliot just smiles a dimpled smile at him and nods. "It is nice to meet you," she says. Did she already know who he was? Maybe. But maybe not. There is no spark of recognition in her expression. Maybe she's not a literary person. Maybe she's new in town and not up on his semi-recent molotovian antics. Or maybe she /does/ know exactly who he is and just keeps her reactions sedate.
"Yes, exactly," she replies when he runs down the bit of everything she would be doing. "Yes, please. Like I said, I am a hard worker. I don't cause trouble. I mind my own business and stay out of people's way." Mmmn hmmn. Alright. Sure, whatever. Skipping over that for the moment, she cocks her head when he mentions.. "Workers' collective? Um. Not really, no."
All the time. And how often does he tell anyone? Pretty much never, because he claims it doesn't stand for anything. C.B. doesn't say it's nice to meet her too, he just grunts a little, vaguely nodding. Then he gestures with his coffee cup. "Okay. So the way it works, workers who work a minimum amount of hours become owners of the collective. That means that you get a say in everything we do here. We decide things by committee. There are no bosses and no hierarchy. I'm not your boss." A little smile at that. "When I submit you to work here, everyone will be taking a look. And you get to do the same, once you're on board. But I wouldn't worry too much, kid. We usually find a use for everyone who's interested."
Huh. She digests this bit of information, brow furrowing down. Does she get it? Sorta? Maybe? Not entirely? "I'd be an owner?" Elliot asks .. cautiously. She licks her lips and reaches for her water, taking another sip. Longer one this time. Getting a job means filling out forms and social security numbers and all that (although, to be honest, the allure of doing menial shit is that a lot of places are more than happy to just pay her under the table which suits her juuuust fiiiine). While she's not super excited about putting herself on the radar with W2s, it's a necessary evil.
But being an owner? That sounds .. next level. That sounds like legit paperwork.
"Do I have to be an owner?" she asks, eyebrows needling up now. Is she worried? "I mean, being an owner sounds complicated. It sounds like a lot of official documentation and paperwork and bureaucracy; that's all a bit beyond me."
Plus, the guberment. But she doesn't say /that/ part.
Yeah. C.B. definitely seems like the type to be really hyped up about the guberment. Obviously working for the Man. Probably collecting Elliot's social security number with his eyes right now. You think those are just glasses?
C.B. raises his eyebrows and downs more coffee. "You're just an owner by default here. It's not as complicated as it sounds. And if you don't want to come to meetings, well. Don't complain when you don't like how things are run. You have a voice here."
Elliot smiles. She just smiles. It's a cute, dimpled thing but an undercurrent of nervousness continues to be present there. "I'm sure things are running fine but that is nice to know. I will keep it in mind. I mean, thank you. I mean.." Her face scrunches and she shakes her head, shaggy locks slipping forward from behind her ears. "I'll speak up. If need be."
She clears her throat, grabs her glass, and finishes off her water.
"So," she asks, composing herself after a small breath. "If everyone is an owner, how is one paid?" Also, she just saw a guy buy a coffee with buttons. She can't pay her rent with buttons; at least, she doesn't think so.
"You're paid in money. Don't worry." Maybe C.B. read her mind a little, because he gestures to the cash register like they're looking at the buttons right now. "I accept bartering. Charity cases. It's my choice; not everyone who works the counter plays that way. But yeah, this is a real job with real cash, as much as I despise the whole system. People need to make a living." He seems grimly aware of that, in fact, given his facial expression.
"I meant more like.." Elliot has seemed to relax a bit now -- tension she had been holding in her shoulders has loosened and the wide-eyed desperation has burned off. This is because, despite CB's grumpiness, she seems to have done well enough to get a job! Or, well, a seat at the table? Or on the board? The young woman doesn't quite understand this collective thing yet but she'll get there.
Maybe.
Anyway, she is gesturing lightly with her hands as she talks, no longer holding them clutched white-knuckled in her lap. "..how do you determine how much people are paid? Is it equal across the board and people are just paid based on the hours they work? I mean, I am just going to wash floors and clean dishes. I wouldn't expect to be paid the same as someone important. And, um, paychecks? Cash? How often?" She needs to know for .. reasons. And it is perfect timing, perhaps, that her tummy growls. Embarrassingly loud.
She freezes. And looks at him. Did he hear it?
"We have a base wage. You'll be paid that." C.B. pauses and mentions, "You don't /have/ to be a member of the Collective if you don't want to, I guess -- you could work here without joining it properly -- but I'd really encourage you to do so. It gives you more agency, and there's less discrepancy when things go ways you don't want them to go."
He gets up briefly again to refill his coffee cup, which he is drinking like it's somehow urgent. And maybe it is. "We pay every two weeks on Fridays. Checks or direct deposits, though we have ways of getting it to you in cash if you really want it that way." This is a cash-friendly business, after all, but even they have to make adjustments. His brow furrows a little at that noise and he asks, "You hungry? Take a look at the menu, it's on me."
"No, it's fine. I'll join. I think I just don't .. understand it yet? But I'm sure it will make sense as I go along. I'm a fast learner." Plus, she wants to fit in -- no. She wants to /blend/ in. And if everyone's part of a Collective here? Then she will be as well. Because not being a member of the Collective will make her Stand Out and that would be bad.
When CB offers to get her some grub, she does not decline. When you are poor and hungry, you never know when your next meal is going to come along so you have to jump on opportunities when they present themselves. "Oh yes," Elliot says with a dimpled smile, reaching for a menu. "thank you! That is very kind of you, I appreciate it." She doesn't say it but she will make it up to him. Somehow. Some way. She'll keep an eye on him and when she spots a chance to do something nice for him, she'll do it -- and it's likely that he'll never know it was her. Stealth gratitude, yo.
She chooses a sandwich, nothing fancy or excessive -- Elliot's not about to take advantage of his generosity. After all, she's not a dick. "So, why are there so many police people outside? Has there been a lot of crime in this area lately?"
C.B. sends the order back. He's grumpy, he's ornery, he's frequently a jerk, and yet...when he sees someone in need...well. Forget about it. You saw nothing.
Then he sits back down on the stool again, clearing his throat and frowning at you. "It's because of me," he says bluntly. "They like to follow me around. Don't worry, I'm told they're usually not here when I'm not. Or at least a lot less often."
When he answers her question, Elliot hunches down slightly and her shoulders fold inward. "Are they after you?" she asks lowly -- it's not quite a whisper but her voice has definitely dropped in volume. However, she is treading into 'none of your business' territory and sticking her nose into other's invites people to stick their nose into hers; she quickly waves a hand and shakes her head, cutting off any answer that may be forthcoming.
"I'm sorry, that's none of my concern. However, if you ever need me to get you out in a hurry or something, perhaps we should go over where all the exits are?" So. No friend of the cops. She glances at him and then reaches over for the carafe of water, refilling her glass with a perfectly steady hand.
C.B. lets out a sigh. He suddenly sounds extremely...tired. That little shake in his hand hasn't gone away, either. It's noticeable when he adjusts his glasses. "Yeah. I'd rather not get into it right now. Gives me a headache."
Then he snorts, brow furrowing. "I don't need your help getting out of anything, kid. But if you're worried about saving your /own/ ass from the scary cops, sure. I'll show you where all the goddamn exits are. It's pretty simple: there's one there -- " He points to the front door. "-- and one back there." He jerks his thumb behind him, back towards the curtain to the back room. "Alright?"
Kid. When he calls her that, it makes her smile faintly. After all, they look to be about the same age -- even if he /does/ act like a grouchy old grandpa. "I'm 30, you know," she says after taking a sip of water. What? "Not really a kid." She looks younger though -- and man. 30 and still trolling around for menial jobs? Someone is not exactly killing it at the game of Life.
CB goes full-on grump and she just rolls with it -- if it stings, it doesn't register in her expression. No cringe. No puppy-dog sadness. No 'why are you like thiiiiis'. Just acceptance that this might be who he is and why should she seek to change that? After all, he did give her a sandwich when her tummy got all rumbly; that entitles him to all the crabbiness in the world without correction. "So, front and back entrance," she replies without missing a beat and the way she says it? Yeah, jotting down mental notes and probably already formulating escape routes. Nodding upward, she asks: "How about upstairs? Fire escape? Roof access?"
Yeah. What's up with him calling her kid, really? He can't look much more than about 30 himself. But C.B. just shrugs. "Yeah...sure, whatever." Hey, for what it's worth, he doesn't seem to be judging her for her life status. Not in the slightest.
Oh yeah, speaking of sandwiches -- hers is up. It's a nice grilled cheese, Vermont style -- Cabot cheddar with apple on Pullman loaf. Hard to go wrong there. He pushes it towards her and settles on his stool again. "No fire escape or roof access upstairs. That's, uh -- it's mine, separate from the collective. I just let people up there sometime." He sips his coffee. "If you want the full tour, I can give you one, but upstairs is off-limits."
When the sandwich shows up, the thank you gets muffled around the om nom nom that immediately starts to happen; she puts aside their conversation in favor of eating. Elliot is hungry! She's always hungry. She never quite has enough money to cover more than Top Ramen so when food is in front of her? That becomes the priority. That first bite has her closing her eyes and making a yummy noise; if she has any shame or embarrassment about this, she is unlikely to feel it until later because...
FOOOOOOOOOOD.
It's only after she's eaten one half of the sandwich that she slows down a bit and returns to the present moment. "Off-limits," she echoes, bobbing her head in a nod. "Understood." And it is. She understands boundaries. She understands privacy. She /respects/ both these things. Elliot is unlikely to be someone who tries to push herself into CB's life, to try and pry details out of him.
Whatever he is willing to give freely, she will accept.
Whatever he wants to hold back, she will respect.
The woman smiles at him -- nose scrunched, eyes crinkled, dimples .. dimpled -- and looks to be truly grateful. "Is there anything else that is off-limits?"
It probably comes with some kale salad or some shit, too. Maybe some Dijon mustard on that sandwich. All in all, it's pretty damn good. C.B. himself isn't eating anything, just drinking coffee that he holds onto in shaky hands, but he does watch her with some fascination for a moment or two.
The author bobs his head, pleased with her response. He shrugs a shoulder. "Well, there's a room back there called the Writer's Nook. It's not off-limits, per se, but it's supposed to be reserved for writers passing through who want to work on a project and have a place to stay. Has its own bathroom and such. You can go in there, but maybe let the rest of us know if you want to be in there for longer than a few hours or so. Just in case someone is or wants to stay there, y'know?"
Writer's Nook. When he describes that room, she pauses still and just gazes for a moment at her sandwich. Elliot hesitates, caught in a flash of indecision: should she admit something? Reveal a little bit about herself? Or hold back? In the end, it's a little from column A, a little from column B. "I don't think it is likely that I will use that room," she says, lifting her eyes to glance at CB but not raising her head -- her chin remains angled downward. Absently, she scrapes her nail against the grilled bread of her sandwich; some very small crumbs fall to her plate. "..but I will make sure that others don't bother the writers there."
She leans forward, takes another bite from her grilled cheese. She even eats the kale! You know, she can't often afford fresh greens so salad is a rare treat.
"I have another job in the area but I usually clean there late at night. Are there hours here that you feel I will be particularly needed? I can show up when I am most wanted. I.." Pause. "..don't have a phone so I can't be reached in an emergency." A janitorial emergency? Don't laugh. It happens. "But I live close by. I could give you my address." Although. Honestly? She sounds a little uncertain about that last bit. I mean, knowing where she lives? That's a big share.
"Oh yeah?" C.B.'s brows raise. This town is not so big. "Where else're you working?" He doesn't even blink at the mention of her not having a phone. "Weekends are always good. If you can do weekends and Fridays, that'd be helpful. We're gonna need /some/ contact info for you, kid. Sorry." But he gives her a weird, pained little smile. He understands paranoia -- all too well.
"There is a laundromat close to where I live. I don't have a car so it's very convenient." Plus? It's definitely not a customer service oriented business. People just come in, ignore each other as they take care of their laundry, and then they leave. It's perfect! Other than it being low-paying and not enough to sustain her on its own, that is. So. Dirty Laundry? Probably Dirty Laundry. Which puts Cat-22 as 'in the neighborhood' as well, generally speaking. A longer walk, to be sure, but she still doesn't have to hop a bus to get here.
When CB says that they need /some kind/ of contact info, there's another pause. Is she going to abandon this endeavor? Nah. She pulls her bag around into her lap and digs out a little notepad as well as a nubby pencil. Leaning over it, she carefully prints something out onto a piece of paper; it takes her a little while but she eventually tears it off and hands it to the author. It reads:
Elliot Jones
Higate Apartmants #7
Her handwriting betrays that she is not good at it -- it's not as bad as a child's but really, it's not all that much better. She's been good about eye contact thus far but now? She stares at CB's shoulder. It's a good shoulder. "I live at Highgate."
"A laundromat. Oh, /geez/." C.B. closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing a hand over his face. Yep, he figured out who else she works for, and he murmurs something about how it figures under his breath. It's got to be Dirty Laundry. What the hell else would it be?
Then he takes the paper from her, looking at it through his glasses...wincing instinctively at the misspellings, but he doesn't harp on it. Yet. Give it time. "Okay, yeah. I see that. Thanks. Here, why don't you fill this out now." Yep, it's that application they were talking about. This one is not some random form; it seems specifically designed for Cat-22, with explanations about joining the Collective and so forth, and how Cat-22 Collective is apparently an LLC. The more you know.
"It's nice," she counters when CB mutters his /oh geez/. "It smells .. fuzzy and soft and warm." Elliot shrugs her shoulders and smiles faintly. "I might try to find another job too but maybe here and there will be enough? Even if I do get a third job though, don't worry. I will not slack off with my duties here. I'm a very hard worker." Yes, she's already said that. Several times.
When the author slides the application over, she looks at it with grim determination. She is a mountain climber standing at the foot of a towering peak; considering how long it took her to print out her address, she is going to be here for a good long while. See, usually she has a strategy for these kind of things: she collects the application, fills it out at her apartment on her own time, returns it at a later date. But he said /now/. So she picks up her nubby pencil, takes a deep breath and gets to it.
The level of concentration and care being taken is either funny or sad, depending on the light one chooses to look at it.
C.B. watches her, squinting, drinking coffee, hands still shaking, but eventually he says, "You can...take it home and bring it back later, if you want. I means far as I'm concerned, you're hired, I just need to pass it by the rest of the Collective and get your paperwork sorted. But start this weekend, if you want. We're not closed for the holiday or anything, because Thanksgiving is completely colonialist." And the info shop has an entire display on relevant books to prove it. Books about Native Americans being oppressed, about Pilgrims being assholes, and everything in between.
Oh thank goodness. Elliot folds the application neatly in half -- perhaps a bit too eagerly -- and then tucks it into her bag. He already knows, girl. He's already seen that you can't write for shit! The horse has left the stable. But at least he's saving them both the agony of watching her struggle through the form here and now. She grins at him, all dimpled gratitude for the dignity he's given back to her.
"The holiday?" she says, shaking her head slightly as if she doesn't know what he's talking about. But then she mentally catches up and 'ahhhs!', slapping a hand over one side of her face. "Oh, of course. /That/ holiday. I agree, totally colonialist. I will be here." After all, it's probably her best chance at food. Speeeeeaking of which..
"Hey." She leans against the counter, biting on the corner of her lower lip and gazing at CB thoughtfully. "Do you think .. would it be okay if I take part of my pay in food? Like, I can come eat here?"
C.B. doesn't even hesitate at that. He just nods. "Oh, sure. That's totally cool. Food's discounted too, so. You won't have to make much of an exchange." He squints at her again, maybe even looking concerned. "You're all right with everything, right? You got a place to live, that's good. Anything else I should know about?"
When he lets her know that she can be paid, in part, in food, Elliot continues to smile. "Thank you," she huffs out with exposed relief. "And don't worry. I will keep track of everything that I eat and drink, keep an exact tally of the amounts, so it can be properly deducted from my wages. I will keep the sheet with .. my time card? I assume there is a time card. Or time sheet. Or something?" She seems lighter, like a weight has been lifted.
Is everything alright? Of course. She's just a girl who is looking for menial work, prefers to be paid in cash, has made note of where the escape routes are and seems to be borderline starving. All good! Her smile doesn't falter and she just shakes her head. "I'm just new in town and I used most of my cash to get here and pay for my first month's rent. But I have two jobs now; things are shaping up fine. Thank you." She reaches out and lays a hand on his upper arm. "Thank you for this opportunity. You won't regret it."
"Yeah. There's a time card. You'll be fine, kid." It just slipped out again. C.B. looks at her like he's partway between concerned, amused and maybe a bit confused. He glances at the hand on his arm and pats it. "No, I believe it. You're clearly a hard worker. Even without you telling me, it's obvious. You're not like most of the...strawberries your age." Your age? He means /his/ age, right? "I can see that. We'll take care of you, Elliot. I mean that. Collectives are like casual families you only have to come to on holidays if you're getting paid." He smirks a little at that.
Concerned? Amused? Confused? Yeah. Elliot is a bit of a strange bird; whether or not she is aware of this fact is not quite as clear. Her hand slips off his arm after giving him a pat there and she takes up the last bit of her sandwich, savoring it bite by bite. Everything is eaten: the grilled cheese, the kale salad, the water is drained. She pats her mouth with a napkin, folds it and leaves it neatly on the plate. She will take it to the back herself before she leaves, he can be sure of that.
His quip about families that only need to be visited on the holidays seems to be completely lost on her. She doesn't look confused by it, there is just no reaction at all -- like he's speaking a foreign language she has no fluency in. Rather than let that moment linger, she upnods to him slightly. "I was here this other night by the way, when you were having an event. I am sorry that it did not go as you planned." Pause. "I noticed that a chair was broken. I can probably fix that for you if it hasn't been seen to already?" Might as well get a start on proving her usefulness.
C.B. sits behind the counter, speaking to Elliot. Janis Joplin blares over the speakers. He's got on a pair of oval-shaped, silver wire-rimmed glasses, a rumpled blue and white plaid shirt mostly buttoned up over a white t-shirt. There's a typewriter, a real old school portable Remington, sitting on the counter in front of him. And on the cat tower in the middle of the room, a gray and white Cymric cat that was clearly the inspiration for all the cat paintings in here.
C.B. is drinking coffee -- is that why his hands are shaking? Too much caffeine -- and letting out a deep sigh at what Elliot just said. "Yeah. Uh. Don't worry about it. That's nice of you to offer, but we did fix the chair." He nods to it, sitting off by one of the tables over there. "Nice of you to make it sound like an act of God instead of an act of me."
Aisling steps into the cafe and heads straight to the counter, nary a glance at anyone here. She skims the display cases and then settles on, "That, there," while pointing to an enormous strawberry cake. She shakes her long red coat; it's too warm for a coat INSIDE, but it's pretty chilly OUTSIDE, so you know: it's uncomfortable now.
The woman behind the counter looks at Aisling over her glasses and lifts her eyebrows, "Just sold out," she tells the teenager. Aisling looks at the cake. Looks at the woman. Looks at the cake.
"So... give me that one." This is gonna be a standoff. And it looks like at least one of the combatants is in a hurry.
"It seemed like a reasonable reaction to what was happening," Elliot replies with a gentle shrug. Shruuuug! After all, the sprinklers were going off, people were hollering, someone was getting hauled out. It was madness! The chair probably instigated it all and had it coming. She picks up her plate and slides off her stool, looking ready to slip into the back to take her dirty dish into the kitchen.
And then there was Aisling.
Elliot just stands there for a moment, blinking at the girl. The assertive way she orders the cake seems to have stunned her into silence and has left her ... not knowing what to do. Not that she /needs/ to do anything. She's not working the counter; she has no dog in this fight. But still, it's a kind of deer in the headlights moment for her and if CB was wondering before, now it might be clear: this reaction right here might be why she didn't want a customer service job.
C.B. glances over when Aisling and the lady -- we'll say she's a new employee, a retired woman trying to get back to old school hippie roots. Probably heard about the place from Roger, the Baby Boomer who works here. He gets off his stool and heads over. "Hey, Marjorie, what's the issue here? I got it." Marjorie makes a sound of mild disgust and heads to the back, while C.B. leans over the counter to peer at Aisling. "This one's being picked up a little later for a party. Try that one." There's one nearby that is a VEGAN strawberry cake. To be fair, it looks pretty darn good.
Aisling glances at the VEGAN! cake and rolls her eyes at it, "Yeah, fine, whatever." She turns around to glance over the shop for the first time -- people, chairs, got it, check -- and locks eyes with Elliot. Aisling waits for a long while, clearly trying to puzzle out what Elliot's deal is. Slowly, speaking as if Elliot might be ..less than the brightest bulb, though not necessarily UNKINDLY, Aisling says, "What. Is. The. Matter?" Something dawns on her, she snaps her fingers and whips back to C.B., not even bothering to wait for poor Elliot's reply: "Hey, what's with all the cops outside?"
When she's addressed directly, Elliot seems to snap out of it: she shakes her head slightly and her eyebrows shoot up beneath those raggedy bangs of hers. "Nothing," she answers with a faint smile that teases out dimples, her voice a soft thing. "Nothing at all. I was just caught off guard by your assertiveness, I suppose." She picks over her words carefully, like she is trying to piece together the correct thing to say. Maybe she spends her nights reading from a book called 'How to Interact with Other People: A Guide for the Awkward' or 'Social Behaviors in the Wild!'
Fascinating.
Anyway, she looks over at CB now and holds up her plate. "I'm going to take this into the back." And she does. She just wanted to tell him first, apparently. So .. she works here? Or is this something everyone is expected to do? Either way, she returns soon enough, disappearing into and reappearing from the kitchen in a flash.
C.B. sighs taking out the VEGAN! cake and beginning to cut Aisling a nice slice. Though his brow furrows as Aisling gets all uppity with his new employee. He watches Elliot closely, in fact, like he wants to see how she'll deal with the occasional customer mishap. "Alright, Elliot. You do that." But she's already on her way and back again, right?
Then there's Aisling. C.B. snorts and pushes the plate of cake across to her. "They don't like me, that's what. That'll be four dollars."
"No - shit. No. I need the entire /cake/," Aisling says, staring at the sliced ...slice. "My family's doing this thing, they sent me to- crap." She reaches for the plate and just kinda stands there, holding it in front of her face. "You have another one in the back or something right?" Aisling hands the plated cake back to C.B. and gives him the tiniest, hopeful-test of smiles, then a thought crosses over her face and she aims that look at Elliot instead. It's much more pleasant than the SuperBitch train she ran in on.
"Do you think you could look? And see? Do you have another strawberry cake back there?"
Elliot is freshly remerged from the kitchen, sliding her messenger bag off her hip and more onto her backside as she moves forward. And then? Oh shit. She's being asked to check on something. For a customer. One that was just getting all locked-horns with the old lady just moments ago. Remember that deer? Remember those headlights?
Yeah. The semi is barreling down the lane rapidly and things are not looking good for Bambi.
A long silence stretches over the moment and just when everyone might thing the woman has gone dumb again, Elliot blurts out too loudly: "I'M THE JANITOR," in a way that denotes more than a small bit of panic. Plus? She was /just/ hired. Like, a second ago. This is stressful. Although she continues to face Aisling, her eyes slide off to the side as her gaze finds CB:
Haaaaaalp.
C.B. shakes his head at Elliot. "I got it, kid. Don't worry." Did he look slightly chagrined at the cake slicing incident? Yeah, he totally did. He leans on the counter, peering over it at Aisling. "What about if I put the slice back in and we re-ice it? You think you could live with that? Because at this hour, I seriously doubt we have another strawberry cake just lying around."
Other than the one in the display case RIGHT THERE, Aisling's face seems to say. She holds up a finger, pulls out her phone, and texts. And texts. And texts. Aaaaaaannnnndddd teeeexxxxttttssssssss..... God, this generation. Texttexttext. Tippytaptappy. Chime! Ding! Swoosh! Finger still up, hold on hold on, taptaptap! And then...
"Yeah, that's fine."
Phew! Elliot visibly relaxes when CB tells her that he's got a handle on the situation and the woman returns her gaze to Aisling, watching her in studious silence. Especially when she starts texting. A slightly furrow appears on her brow -- confusion? Curiosity? Bemusement? Probably yes, yes. While she is engaged with that, she edges over to the author working the counter.
"Do you want me to help?" she asks, holding out her hands. Wait, what? A janitor? Helping with icing a cake?
I mean, she doesn't /look/ dirty but still. Does Aisling really want someone of her .. 'profession' .. handling her party dessert? The woman practically has a mullet, for Pete's sake. A MULLET. No one with a mullet is qualified to deal with baked goods.
"You can get the icing, Elliot. It's in the back. Ask Mason, he's back there. Get that and the tool we use for it." C.B. begins to carefully, carefully, try and place the slice back into the cake. It's not that easy, because his hands are still shaking. But amazingly, he actually manages to do it without destroying everything. Oh, sure, it doesn't look pretty, but with some new icing on it...it actually might look alright.
"Next time," he tells Aisling, "call ahead for a whole cake order, y'know? We rarely even have whole ones just...lying around like this. You got lucky."
Aisling's gaze flicks up quickly to Elliot when the woman offers to help. And, perhaps weirdly, Aisling doesn't say no. She just kinda... smiles gently in Elliot's direction, then continues to glance down at her phone. "Take it up with the Leferves," she tells C.B., locked in a texting battle of some kind. "But hey, you should do something about the cops swarming around outside," her gaze doesn't leave the screen. "I almost couldn't get in at all. Seems bad for business." She looks up, lowering the phone for a second. "You want me to get rid of 'em?" Aisling asks, all doe-eyed and earnest, it's a genuine offer.
"Icing. Tool. Mason." Elliot creates this mental checklist as CB gives it to her and, with one last glance over at Aisling, heads back into the kitchen to be useful. She's in there for a little bit -- there likely was time spent answering the questions 'who are you and what are you doing back here?' Then there was the business of explaining the situation, deciding what the 'tool' is -- spatula. They went with a spatula.
When she comes back, Elliot catches the tail end of what Aisling is saying. Placing the items CB asked for on the counter, she looks between the pair. "Get rid of who?" Um. "Whom?" Is that right? "Who? Wait, what?"
Yeah, for a writer you'd think he could call a spatula a spatula...but I digress. C.B.'s eyebrows raise at the texting girl, a look of utter incredulity on his face. "You're not the first person to try and get rid of 'em," he tells her, gesturing towards the door. "But you're welcome to try. They'll just come back."
He nods his thanks to Elliot, taking icing and spatula and starting to, slowly, get to work. For a guy with shaking hands, he's actually pretty good at this. Not really sloppy. Go figure. "This chick here thinks she can get rid of my piggy problem."
Aisling lifts one shoulder and kinda half-smiles. "Just an offer." She continues tapping and swishing around on her phone as C.B. handles the cake and addresses Elliot. "Your hair's cool. Retro. Who does it?" Oh no, MULLETS ARE BACK.
Getting rid of CB's piggy problem? Elliot cryptically replies: "There are ways." It's quiet. It's low. It's mostly said to herself. But there it is! She offers no further explanation and her focus is on the icing, her dark gaze watching the author make the slice disappear back into the cake. Maybe .. maybe she was talking about the dessert? Ways to fix it? That makes more sense than the alternative.
When Aisling compliments her hair, Elliot almost misses the fact that she's talking to /her/. After all, she doesn't often get complimented on .. well, any of /this/. She blinks at the girl and then chuckles, smiles awkwardly and grabs a shaggy lock of hair. "Uh..I cut it myself."
Well. That explains the raggedy nonsense she has going on atop her head.
C.B.'s eyes slide to Elliot, watching her for a moment. Did he hear what she said? Maybe he did. Then he returns to the icing, using both hands -- one steadying the other -- so he doesn't get it anywhere. But he doesn't comment on hair. I mean, look at his. It's an overgrown mop of god-knows-what. Might make Elliot's look fashionable by comparison.
Aisling lifts her eyebrows, though it's very unclear what she's reacting to. The weird murmur? The "I cut my own hair"? C.B.'s cake job? After a little while, Aisling stops texting, pockets her phone, and clears her throat. "Well. It's neat."
From behind her, there's a little bit of a ruckus -- cops getting called on radios, dudes (and dudettes) checking in with each other. There appears to be a discussion of what to do -- one beefy guy points toward C.B., another gives an exaggerated shrug and gestures to the squad car. A female cop slides into her own squad car and shouts 'Come on!' to her brethren.
And inside the shop? Aisling hides a very sly little smile.
Elliot's smile continues to be all awkward and lopsided, her fingers still tangled in her hair. "Thanks," she says and it sounds .. oddly precious. Like she's not given compliments very often so what Aisling has done? Is given her a treasure. Something she will come back to, relive and let warm her when life is trying to crush her beneath its enormous weight. There was this one time when this one person thought her hair was ..
Neat.
When the a hullabaloo kicks up outside, her attention finally shifts there and she peers thatta way. Huh. Odd, that. Right? She looks back to CB if he's noticed this too and on her way to doing this? She catches a brief glimpse of that smile before it's hidden. Elliot grows .. thoughtful. But she says nothing.
C.B. notices what's going on outside. How could he not? The cops just fucking left. He /stares/ over at Aisling, eyes a little wide and a lot suspicious. Dying to ask what's up? Oh, certainly. She can probably see it in his eyes. But he doesn't. At least, not right now.
Besides, the cake is done. He goes about putting it in a box, looking at Aisling the whole time. Finally he says, "Missy Lefevre is your aunt or something, right?"
"Or something," Aisling tells him, forking over forty bucks while grabbing the cake box AND pulling out her phone again. "Wonder if they'll stay away," she says, feigning surprise at the cops' departure. They won't, but hey - maybe she bought him some time. Aisling doesn't wait for change (or to hear the actual total of the cake). She just turns on her heel and goes, texting all the while.
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