View source for Log:Enid Schmitt at Crossroads Cafe 1

{{ Log
| cast = [[Enid Schmitt]], [[Kip]], [[Ridley Walker]], [[Gina Garreau]], [[Cobalt Rasender]]
| summary = Inquiring minds want to know!  Coffee, conversation, clowns.  
| gamedate = 2017.03.31
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = Crossroads Cafe
| categories = Social
| log = Kip's got a messenger bag slung diagonally across his chest, the bag portion hanging down to bump against a hip when he moves. He's sort of awkwardly standing just inside, having just entered, possibly blocking the way of anyone who comes in just on his tail as he looks around the place as if taking it in for the first time. Gawd. Tourists, amiright. He does finally move after a moment, heading to the counter. "Excuse me I'd--" he says quietly with a slight wave of his hand to get someone's attention who works there. "Uh hi do -- menu--?" Erm. "Take out? You do take out?" He is so easily ignored it's not even funny.


Ridley may not be easily ignored; but he certainly ignores easily. Or, rather, the tall young man seems to be in a constant state of distraction, as if a good half of his attention was captured somewhere - or somewhen - else. Currently, he's seated in the corner of one of the booths by the window, leaning against that wall and more or less staring out into the light rain that's been going on for the last couple of hours. A rather large mug of plain coffee is set out in front of him - from which he seems to sip from whenever he happens to remember it exists. 

And, he's speaking with Gina - perhaps just as absently, though at least he seems to be _trying_ to keep abreast of the conversation. "Wait... clowns?" Pause. Blink; this, with a slight sideways cant of his gaze towards the woman, coupled with another sip of the coffee. "I always said those things were no good; nobody who goes around with that much makeup on can be trusted." 

Ahem. The voice, it may be noted, is decidedly Scottish; though there's a lighter, somewhat reedy undercurrent to it as well.


Bustling in with brisk efficiency, fresh snow clinging to the dark navy wool of her thigh length jacket, Enid Schmitt takes one look around, noting the other customers, then moves decisively toward the hostessing station to instruct a confident, "I'll take the table by that hunky Scot," in native Vermonter glory, fogging glasses lifted to let her study Kip. "You new in town?" Without waiting for the man to answer, she answers her own question with a light, "You're new to me. That's good enough. Why don't you tag along and have a coffee?" She snags two menus and starts off herself, forging her way down the aisle to claim her seat.


Gina looked to Kip and was actually amused, "Take out? It's a coffee shop. All coffee should be portable unless your lips are directly connected to teh espresso machine- in which case, lemme know how you did it. Serious though, the bagel sammiches walk really well." It was Enid that drew a broad grin from her and she greeted, "Heeeey Ms. Schmitt." Because she was polite to her community dammit. And reporters know all the busy bodies. Small towns had their benefits. It seemed to endear the woman, really. She commented to Ridley back, undaunted in the conversation, though getting her double espresso mocha with soy, (because important), "Yeah. A few clowns with guns came in here like Stephen King directed Point Break. Welcome to small town life, all."


Kip trails along after Enid after a moment as she makes her way to the Hunky Scot (her words, after all) and Gina. "Couple days," he stammers. "Moved here. Was somewhere else first. Before. Shouldn't we wait for someone to seat us?" A pause. "Not good company. Me. Not you." His voice has this sort of quietness to it, not quite a whisper but like the volume was somehow accidentally nudged down a couple of notches by accident. But there's also a certain kind of softness to it, like even the words that usually have sharp edges are lacking them. He doesn't respond to Gina regarding the greeting to his somehow-newly-acquired-companion or to the mention of bagel sammiches though they sound delightful or even the coffee intake ideas. He just gives a bit of an awkward half wave of his hand in response before the hand moves up to brush his hair back from his face like he was covering up the motion with another one. The whole 'Oh I wasn't waving at you don't pay attention to me' misdirection.


"Hmn. Clowns with guns. Seem to remember there were another couple of movies about that." 

That, again, from Ridley; followed by a brief glance from Gina to the other new arrivals; bright blue eyes flicking over first Enid then Kip before withdrawing - as if to gather up the entire lot within his field of vision instead of focusing on any one in particuliar. 

Pause. Beat. Hunky Scot? That gets, perhaps, a doubletake; a crack of a brow upwards and a flicker of attention towards the woman in question - then, just as quickly, a dart of the same across the edge of the room before he lifts the mug to his lips once more and takes another sip; only to follow through with a glance in Kips direction. "Enh; usually I just drop down wherever is convenient - someone'll see to you eventually."


"Nonsense. Everyone's good company," the busybody tells the stammering stranger, pulling out her chair at the table. With her glasses still too foggy to properly see out of, Enid Schmitt unties the belt of her heavy jacket and unbuttons it, thinsulate gloves keeping fingers nimble, before shucking her way out and draping it over the back of her chair.

Boldly striped in cranberry and white beneath, a comfy-classy tee, she drops into her seat and thumbs through the menu with quick, but studious attention, searching for anything new, but Gina's words see her dropping it to the tabletop to ask an avid, "You were there? Tell me, did they really have swastikas on their foreheads or was that just Tommy Harding being a twit?"


The journalist grinned at Enid and shook her head, "It's called 'trolling'. Tommy Harding jsut wnats to screw up teh news because teenagers have no integritywhen it comes to reporting jack and-" She paused and her jaw tightened. She sipped her coffee and laughed, "All my sources said taht was not a feature of the robber, Ms. S.Still compiling notes but you're welcome to them when they're done."


"Ms. S?" Kip inquires as he tugs the messenger bag over his head and deposits it next to the seat that is apparently his. It's across from Enid's chosen seat, anyway. He leaves his jacket on but does unzip it at least as he takes his seat and picks up the menu to browse. Browsing it consists of him mostly putting it in front of his face as if to hide behind it while he reads the offerings. To him it's all new as he hasn't been there before. But then he lowers it enough to glance over it, eyes latching onto Ridley for a moment. "Clowns? Swas-- did something happen? Here?"


Enid's salt and pepper hair, today, has the 'salt' dyed a particularly lurid acid green, evidence of Lou and Bang Bang's work down the street no doubt. Her eyes light at the prospect of acquiring Gina's notes, grinning in return, and she winks, assuring, "We'll talk. I'll pay for a coffee some time, if-" she waves at the espresso soy monstrosity, "-that is actually coffee." She frowns, pulling her glasses down off her forehead, and squints at the beverage.

With a shake of her head, she turns to face Kip and shamelessly raps her knuckles against the menu hiding the stranger's face from view. "Enid Schmitt, columnist for the Tamarack Times. So, you say you just moved here? Where are you staying? Got family in the area?" The older woman leans forward, interested, and only leans back just long enough to look up and instruct, "Black coffee, cream," when a waitress comes by to take their orders.


"Uh, coffee," Kip echoes after Enid's own order. "With sugar. Milk. Please." That seems to be as far as he has gotten in the whole placement of an order, not having finished his study of the menu's contents because of his distraction. "And no, my uncle owns a little shop space but doesn't live here. It'll be a book store. I don't know anyone yet. Kip. I'm Kip--" As an almost afterthought he lets go of the menu with one hand and reaches it across the table to hold out, only to jerk it back when he realizes his jacket sleeve has hung down into a glass of water. "Sorry. I-- Sorry," he says as he pulls the arm back toward him while the menu drops back to the table's surface. The dripping edge of the jacket is held in his opposite hand and he owlishly peers upward at the waitress. "Bathroom?" he inquires, nodding as she points it out. "Excuse me. I-- sorry." With a creaking sound he stands, the chair pushing back along the floor with the motion before he nearly bolts toward the bathroom.


Gina watched and lifted her cup to Enid and watched Kip...all over the place. She looked back to Ridley and the other reporter and said, "Wow you've taken hard hitting journalism to a new level. He just ran for the hills." It wasn't a criticism, but it was kinda funny as hell to her. With a deep breath she filled in, "Monday night a small gang of people dressed as clowns had guns, came in, and robbed the place with small arms. Reportedly one person was shot, and they left. Prolly freaked out because 9 times out of 10? They're willing to take the burglary rap but they don't wnat the heat for an assault and battery or an attempted murder case if they get caught. I'd love to talk to Hazel about it."


Black coffee, coffee. There are a couple of sugar packets in attendance, but they are as yet unopened - and that, it seems, is exactly how Ridley seems to intend they stay. Draining another healthy sip the Levinquick darts a brief glance towards Kip's sudden egress, then rolls his attention back to the rest. 

He seems to stay out of the conversation as a whole, it might be noted - though wether this is due to not having anything to contribute or simply observing the rest might be anyone's guess. There does come a rather idle "Enh. Clowns. Never did trust clowns." in the way of a quiet echo of his earlier sentiment - somewhere between the absent sips from his coffee.


Enid starts to hold a hand out for Kip to shake, then stares at the bumbling fellow's awkward sleeve-dip flight toward the bathroom, shaking her head and snorting a laugh. "What a hoot. Kids, yeah?" Turning back to Gina and Ridley, she half-grins. "Glad I never had any." With a glance toward Ridley, she asks a rhetorical, "Who would?" before returning her focus to Gina to demand an eager, "These clown people, did anyone recognise them? They belong to that fairgrounds down by TamAir?"


Gina considered Kip's question and tilted her head thoughtfully tapping a finger on her cup. "It's a good question but why wear your work uniform to a heist? And I dunno if the woman that got shot would agree that they were 'a hoot'. But still, it's a good question as any."


Enid rolls her eyes, waving an idle hand off toward the bathrooms and the departed Kip to correct, "The kid's the hoot. The clowns are criminal. Who knows what they think? What'd it be like to wear a mask, day in, day out? Paint your face and play pretend." She shakes her head, tsking, and smiles up at the waitress when she returns with the coffee pot to pour, a handful of creamer scattered on the table. "Now, -I- say they should make a movie out of it. Get them hiding up in the mine somewhere." She nods, agreeing with her own idea.


Cobalt has a lot of good reasons for coming to Crossroads today. Pancakes are probably one of them. But given the huge frown on his face and the sweep of his gaze, it's probably not the /only/ reason. Unless he really does look that angry all the time. Which is entirely possible. He stomps over to a table, falls into a chair, and waits to be waited upon -- but all the while, his green eyes are scanning the room like he's looking for bombs, or traps, or ninjas hiding in the shadows. Not like you can ever see a good ninja coming.


Kip isn't gone long, he returns before anyone really misses him. Well, nobody usually misses him so that isn't saying much. He has paper towel clutched to the edge of his sleeve and he stands up and reaches over across the table again to Enid. "Sorry," he repeats as he holds the hand out for her. He's practically Canadian with the way that word rolls off his tongue repeatedly.


By ninjas with bombs Gina could only assume he was looking for a waitress bearing coffee, water, and a menu. She noted helpfully, "She just ran to the back. She'll be out in a minute." He looked back and to Ms. S. "Hey, better a good kid than clowns with guns. Unles we're talkin killer CLowns from Outer Space, It- though the remake looks promising. But yeah. I'm with Tall-drink-a-water there. Clowns are scary as shit. Besides, I thought clown violence died out when the election year was over." She looked to Ridley and gave him a nod of solidarity on that.


Enid shakes Kip's hand, then tears off the lid of a little creamer cup and pours it into her coffee, stirring it up with a stick, then touching stick to tongue to taste. Satisfied, she tosses the stick on the table and enjoys a long sip of liquid fortification. Ah, caffeine. What would the world do without you?

Naturally, it is at this moment that a persistent, noisy jangle sounds from one of her coat pockets.

The older woman sets the coffee down with a clatter, twists, and pulls the pocket up to unzip it and slide out a smartphone, silencing the noise and checking the screen. "Dangnabbit. Gotta take this call." She pulls a $10 out of her purse and tosses it on the table, telling Kip, "That's for our coffee. Anything else is on you, kid. Come tell me about that shop some time." 

After shrugging her way back into her coat and packing herself up, Enid blows Gina a kiss and briskly bustles her way out, phone already at her ear. "Yeah? I'm here..." 
}}