Log:Meeting Neighbors
| Meeting Neighbors | |
|---|---|
| Participants | 23 November 2017 Highgate isn't necessarily the most social of apartment complexes but paths do cross occasionally in the hallway. |
| Location
Highgate Apartments | |
| The guy who may or may not have actually been here longer than Elliot-- anyway, the guy in Apartment 8, who since moving in has occasionally made the hallway smell strongly of cooking food with spices in it, and who also is apparently a pretty accomplished musician with an instrument that doesn't sound like a guitar but also doesn't sound like a sitar-- he's been strangely present (his shitty car's in its assigned parking space) but silent and not cooking at all for the past three days or so. Thanksgiving evening, though-- his door is squeaky, and it creaks open, and he slips out into the hall, wearing a navy blue hoodie and jeans and hiking boots, which is unlike him but if Elliot's never seen him then ha ha how would she know that, right.
Has he lived here longer than Elliot? Maybe. Probably. The girl only showed up about a week ago. Moving day was a blink and you missed it affair -- there were no boxes, no bulky pieces of furniture, no truck parked outside to transport it all. Nope! The crappy little studio was empty one day and occupied the next -- although, truth be told, it remained pretty empty other than having a person in there. Her neighbors might have caught a glance inside over the ensuing days: a thin, twin mattress on the floor and not much else. But is that terribly surprising? This place isn't exactly high end. It's not like it attracts high class people, yannow? Thus far, Elliot has proven to be an uneventful neighbor. No music. No strong odors. No loud fights with friends, family or otherwise. She just comes, goes and comes back again. And while she offers dimpled smiles when eye contact is made, the friendliness does not go beyond that. No hellos. No introductions. Just lives passing each other by, briefly intersecting and then continuing on their way. Tonight, she steps out of apartment 7 and turns to lock the door behind her -- this happens at the same moment that Edmond is leaving his place. The shaggy-haired girl pauses and watches him, dark, doe-eyes taking in the change in clothing. Yeah, she notices that it is different. She pays attention to stuff; she's always watching. Always.
There is a definite order in which people in this hallway have come to live in Highgate, for whatever dubious value of 'living' applies. That order has just been nudged over by one. Because there is a small, thin, and frazzled blond with a suitcase in one hand, a backpack over one shoulder, one tote bag over that arm, and two over the other, making his way in with a set of keys held firmly points-outward in one hand. One end of a pillow sticks out of one of the tote bags. The blond is also, as it happens, wearing a dark-blue hoodie a couple of shades off from Edmond's and slightly-worn jeans. No hiking boots, though, and there's a gray winter coat over the hoodie. He and Edmond apparently are not actually coordinating their clothes on purpose. Also, there is a complete lack of any telltale turkey-related smell in his vicinity, and he's glancing at numbers on doors with an uncertain frown. Moving on Thanksgiving pretty much has to suck.
No turkey anywhere. There's a faint lingering scent of cardamom and clove in the hallway, but it seems no one here smells like Thanksgiving. Edmond stops in his tracks at the sound of the next door over closing, and he turns slowly, swallowing, visibly damping down a certain amount of narrow-edged knife-balanced fear, and that's the face that Kelsey would see from beyond Elliot. He offers Elliot a strained sort of smile, something in his shoulders loosening a little. "Hi. I-- have not been bothering you with the music, have I? I have tried to keep it quiet, and not play at night." His voice is quiet and mellifluous, his accent distinctly British-flavored South Indian, its intonations lilting. He smooths his hands down the sides of his jeans nervously. "I mean. When I do play." His eyes track the boy behind Elliot, locking on to him but just watching for a second-- until he can't help himself. "Do you need a hand?"
This is the kind of apartment complex where people don't say hello. People don't talk. They keep their heads down, their eyes averted and when they hear yelling and screaming next door? They do NOT call the cops or get involved. So when Edmond addresses her? Elliot is, for a moment, surprised. The girl -- well, she's not a girl actually. Woman. She looks to be in her twenties but it's kind of hard to say where exactly she falls on that decade's spectrum; with her lack of make-up and raggedy hair, she could be coming across as younger than she actually is. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes! The /woman/ blinks at Edmond and just stands there very still for a moment, her key still slotted into the lock. But then? A slow smile -- equal parts nervous, kind and goofy -- spreads and hangs crooked on her expression. It's a dimpled grin and one that causes her nose to scrunch; objectively speaking, it's pretty damn cute. About a 8.5 on the Adorable-O-Meter and that's just plain ol' science. She turns the lock, removes the key and slides it into her pocket. "No, not at all," she answers, her voice soft and words spoken slowly. "I like it." Pause. "Can I ask: what is it? The instrument, I mean?" Before the conversation can continue though, there is movement behind her. Twisting, she glances over her shoulder at about the same time that Edmond offers the stranger assistance. Dark doe-eyes sweep over Kelsey from head to toe and back again and there is a watchfulness to this assessment that comes with living in a shady building. Is this person a threat? Is this someone she needs to worry about? Quick conclusion: probably not but stay aware. "Yeah, you look like you could use some help." Six hands are better than two after all.
Apparently that's everybody's reaction to Edmond tonight. By the end of which time Elliot has also chimed in. Kelsey takes a deeper breath. "No, seriously, I'm fine. Thanks. I just ... came in the wrong side, I guess. Geometry sucks." He edges over to one side of the hallway, making a little more certain that people can actually squeeze past him instead of being blocked or mauled by hand-baggage. Given that he can barely lug the suitcase, it's probably less 'I'm fine' than 'I am not carrying anything that I am okay with possibly disappearing into somebody else's apartment right now.'
"If you are... sure," Edmond says to Kelsey dubiously, sort of aching to help, but. Kelsey Has It Handled Thanks Much. The tall and gracefully slender boy-- who looks younger than either of them, though his ID says he's 21 at least-- had de-tensed a little more at Elliot's smile, and his own gets a little less strained. "It is a sarode," he says, and at that, he relaxes most of the rest of the way. There's still a faintly uncomfortable edge haunting the backs of his startlingly blue eyes, but it's nothing to do with Elliot-- or Kelsey. A beat. "I have a keyboard too, but I need to fix it. The sarode has no electronics so it is simpler to repair," he adds, and he laughs at himself, and it makes his eyes sparkle. Another heartbeat's pause, and he shifts his weight. "I was going to go out to my car," he says hesitantly, "and get the vegetables I bought on Sunday, and make dinner. It is not turkey, but -- if you -- if either of you has not eaten yet, I would be happy to make enough for three, and glad of company."
Elliot is a helpful girl. And she has a kindly air about her. Without even knowing the woman, most people peg her as someone 'nice' -- maybe it's the dimples. Dimples tend to disarm even the hardest or hearts. Despite all this though, she's not the sort of person to force herself on someone. If they say that they do not want or need her help, she won't barrel ahead with it anyway. She isn't a busy-body. She isn't annoying. Or, at least, not about this particular issue. "If you change your mind.." she says to Kelsey, leaving it unsaid but understood that he just needs to say the word to have some extra hands ready and willing to pitch in. Many people might dive into usual small-talk chit-chat at this point -- where are you from? what do you do? what is your name? -- but .. she doesn't. It's none of her business after all! Respecting people's privacy means that people are more likely to respect hers and it's not just poverty that draws people to places like this. Sometimes it is a past and a desire to run away for it that makes one seek out the shadiest of hiding spots. "A sarode? I have never heard of that." She smiles awkwardly at Edmond now, looking a little embarrassed. Should she know what that is? Is that something that regular, normal people are like 'oh, I totally loooove sarodes! I have one too; let's jam'? Before she can ask further questions or he can expand on the topic though, he offers food. And her tummy? It growls. Audibly.
Edmond gives Kelsey a quick, bright grin like sunshine, teeth bright in his face. "It is cold enough outside," he says agreeably. "But no, the refrigerator works, it was just more convenient to leave them there. Apartment number eight, if you are inclined when you are done." He laughs outright at Elliot's embarrassment and her growling stomach, though it sounds absolutely kind and a little rueful. "Most people here have not heard of it, it is fine. As a child I was given it or sitar as an option to learn, and it is much more complicated-looking and it has a sound that is much more full, and I chose complicated and full over popular." He opens his apartment door and gestures inside-- RED OMG RED INSIDE so much red that the streetlights are enough to make the reflection of it spill into the hallway-- and sketches a courtly little bow, smiling. "Be welcome. I will return in a moment." That said, the boy scarpers, pretty much. Voom down the hallway, dancing around Kelsey's struggles like there's no blockage, no problem; he's graceful enough he makes almost no sound as he darts away. Open door. That's some trust.
When Kelsey asks about the fridge, her attention drifts back his way and narrow shoulders move up and down through a shrug. "It's been so cold lately that leaving stuff in your car is fine," is said almost at the exact moment as Edmond expresses the same thing. This causes her to laugh a little bit -- it's a nervous, silly sound -- and point at him. Ah-ha! Anyhoo, she continues with Kelsey once the other young man bolts off down the hallway: "But don't worry. I'm sure your fridge is fine." She grins encouragingly. It's not a lie to be an optimist! She watches him struggle with his things, waiting until he gets to his own door before she slips into apartment 8. Was she waiting to see if his key would break off? Nope. Well, maybe a little bit that. But mostly she was waiting to see which apartment he went to. It's good to keep track of people. It's good to be aware of one's surroundings. CONSTANT VIGILANCE.
"I'm sure it's fine for the sentient slime mold colonies," Kelsey confirms over his shoulder to Elliot. "If they've developed recognizable writing, I might even yield the territory. Literacy should always be rewarded." He pauses before the door with the '3' decal, starting to peel at two of its many corners as it is, and works out the key business. It does not break off. Luggage is duly lugged, and probably stashed just inside, since Kelsey emerges only a moment later minus burdens and coat. His door is not left open. It is locked behind him, thanks, and the key vanishes into the hoodie pocket before he investigates the open door alongside Elliot. With one hand up to attempt to defend his eyes from the onslaught of red.
"It's a very.." Overwhelming? Glaring? Paralyzing? "..bold color scheme," she comments diplomatically after struggling to find the word for it. Glancing over at Kelsey, she peers at him to gauge what he thinks of all this and a small smirk is teased up from her smile when she notices him shielding his eyes. Since Edmond hasn't returned yet, she just stays where she is. She doesn't go in any further. She doesn't close the door behind them. She doesn't take a seat. The woman simply waits. And observes. All sorts of mental notes are being jotted down and committed to memory; details are consumed and saved for latter, things to ponder over when she is back in her own space. "Sentient slime mold colonies?" she says to Kelsey, picking up their earlier conversation. "What are those?" Really? She doesn't know a joke when she hears one? But she looks at him so earnestly, waiting for him to explain that .. well. Maybe she's slow?
It's totally not a murder-and-dismemberment plot. The sun-yellow trim would show dried blood basically forever. "All I can think is 'so this is what it'd be like to live inside a candy apple,'" Kelsey agrees. Morbid fascination has ticked up into outright morbid awe. Then there's a pause, because the 'what are those?' is not the usual addition to that question. Kelsey lifts both hands and gestures with them, quick little flickering movements. He's stayed standing near Elliot, not far from the door. "They're a joke from a really, really old webcomic. There was a running joke that one of the characters lived in an apartment that was so much of a wreck it'd been condemned by the Environmental Protection Agency. So a slime mold that grew in it mutated till it could trick a university into thinking it had a Ph.D. Stunt didn't last long after the school got around to checking its references, though. It wound up taking tech-support calls instead."
Kelsey explains the joke and the shaggy-haired woman follows along. Or, well, tries to follow along. Her brow furrows down. Her mouth presses into a tight line. Basically, it looks like Elliot is concentrating really hard because she is. "A webcomic," she says finally. Slowly. With a bit of a nod. Wait. Does she .. does she not know what a webcomic is? She can't possible live under a rock that is THAT big, right? Even if she doesn't read them, the explanation is in the name: Web. Comic. It's a comic that is on the web. Come on, girl. This is not difficult. She doesn't ask for further explanation though and her expression of hyper-concentration fades off in favor of a dimpled smile. "It sounds funny," she decides and then ventures a few more steps into the apartment.
The light footsteps of the apartment's resident sound behind them, and there Edmond is, carrying three grocery bags, all with SUBZI MANDI printed on them. He grins sheepishly. "Sorry! Have a seat; I tested the furniture by jumping on it, none of it will collapse if you sit." He flusters in sort of, and closes the door over but doesn't shut it, and most definitely doesn't lock it, not with them in. Courtesy. He elbows on a lightswitch and it gets marginally brighter as strands of white LED christmas lights come on in different places in the room, and then he goes over to the grey formica counter and plops the bags down. "If you are super hungry right now, you can have dessert first, because the rest will take about fifteen minutes," he advises, then rummages in the refrigerator to pull out a white cardboard box and offer it to whoever's closer. "Probably I have crisps too, but they are terrible with burfi, which is delicious. And also what is in that box." As soon as it's out of his hand, he starts rummaging for saucepans, which go on the range, and then a plastic cutting board. Then out comes a solid plastic-wrapped block of white stuff and a whole bunch of leafy spinach; they both get dropped on the cutting board while Edmond digs in a cabinet. "Spicy or not so spicy?" he asks cheerfully.
There is a kind of .. other-worldliness about Elliot. Maybe she's an alien wearing a skin suit, trying to pass herself off as human? Or maybe she used to be Amish and is attempting to get used to shit like electricity and butter that isn't churned by hand? To-may-to, to-mah-to, amirite? She jumps slightly when Edmond shows up and pulls her hand back quickly -- SHE WASN'T ABOUT TO TOUCH THIS TYPEWRITER RIGHT HERE NOPE. "However you want to cook it is fine with me," she tells him, stuffing her hands down into the pockets of her coat. She has so many questions: What's burfi? What's a ghost pepper? Is it a pepper that died and had unfinished business, therefore is unable to move on? And if a pepper can have a ghost, does that mean it has a soul? Shit, vegetables have souls?! Before she can ask any of them though, she is distracted by the twinkly Christmas lights and with a soft 'oooooo' moves over closer to where they are. She reaches up and boops one of the bulbs with the tip of her index finger.
"The former," Edmond tells Kelsey, rolling his eyes. "Stupid ghost peppers. You can not taste anything beyond capsaicin if you use peppers that hot. It is a waste of good food." He's already, now, got cream set to warm to a simmer in the bottom of one saucepan, and he's dumped some ghee in the bottom of another along with some herbs and spices, and he's gotten to the cutting board and is making swift work of cubing the white block of whatever. "No lactose intolerance I hope? If so I can make another thing, but you will be deprived of the paneer and it is wonderful." He grins over at Elliot. "Can you use a typewriter? So many people I meet cannot. They are too used to computer keyboards." And then he adds, sotto voce, one smooth hand to one side of his mouth and side-eyeing Kelsey, "I did not know what a web comic was until about three years ago. Do not tell the one with white hair."
... he does not boop any Christmas lights. Edmond and Elliot are cooler than him.
Elliot wanders over and takes a seat near where Edmond is preparing the food. She watches him intently -- partly to observe (and maybe learn from) his technique, partly because she's hungry. There's a stray dog quality to her and if a long, shimmery trail of drool suddenly hangs from her mouth, don't be surprised. "I write stuff out in pencil," she says when their chef asks her about her typewriting skills. Oh ho! Talk about hipster coolness, right? Fuck computers. Fuck typewriters. The girl uses a /pencil/ and writes long-hand. Just, uh, don't ask to see her handwriting. Please. When Edmond admits that he didn't know what a webcomic was? She lights up! Like, well, Christmas lights. "Really? Me too!" Her tummy rumbles again -- ggrrRRrRRrrrrRRrr -- and Elliot presses her hand there. Settle down, ol' boy. In the process of doing this, she notices her wristwatch. More specifically? The time. "Nuts!" she exclaims, hopping to her feet. "I am going to be late for work." This .. this breaks her heart because food. Tummy. Hungry. But she cannot risk losing any of her jobs. With deep regret, she looks at both Edmond and Kelsey. "I have to go." If this is some poison-murder plot, then Kelsey is on his own because .. girl is already heading for the door.
"Oh no!" calls Edmond, honestly dismayed. "Listen: I am Edmond Basumatary! When I hear you come home I will knock and have leftovers for you, okay? Or if you hear me playing you can knock!" He finishes chopping the spinach, and then looks sadly at Kelsey after Elliot flees, his hands pausing for a moment in their deft work. "Did you hear her stomach? I feel bad now. I hope she does not have an entirely hungry shift."
Hopefully he's kidding. At least he's a little short to be Hannibal Lecter. | |
