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jeremiah_garou) wrote2013-02-25 10:30 am
jeremiah_garou) wrote2013-02-25 10:30 am
Entry tags:
How to keep your lid on.
25 February, 2013
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (99% full).
Off one of the paths and sitting in the grass but not too far from the fountain is a lump. Or rather, the lump is a homeless man that most people seem to be avoiding, and that seems to suit Jeremiah just fine. He seems young, or at least younger than most of the homeless population, and would perhaps be attractive if he hadn't so obviously fallen on hard times. There's a worn paper cup near where he sits, with a few scant coins and bills from people with more pity than sense, and the man seems more interested in pulling his jacket a bit closer around himself and his knees to his chest, and leaning against the trunk of the tree and looking at the leaves above him, than in actively panhandling.
The park has apparently become the spot to find Naomi on any given day. Once more she's taken to snagging a sandwich from one of the corner vendors, and is in the process of finding a seat with which to enjoy it. The path to her chosen seat has her passing the tree where the homeless man is, and she casts a glance in his direction. The look lingers, perhaps longer than most would, but she says nothing.
Jeremiah looks up as she passes, sits up much straighter for the period of time where he's being looked at. He meets her gaze in return as well, sharp blue eyes and a lot of undirected anger. "Morning ma'am," the man mutters, though there's again no actual attempt to get money from her.
Naomi catches the look but doesn't wither from it. In fact, she pulls to stop. "That a plea for money, or for interaction?" she asks.
Jeremiah seems almost, almost baffled. Or at least unused to such response, and he glances down at the cup, then up to the woman, pursing his lips and considering his response, which starts off shrugging his shoulders. "Ain't mind the first. 'd like the second." The large jacket that's currently draped as a blanket is adjusted again, hands coming to fold on top of his knees.
Naomi eyes the cup. "How much you got in there right now?" She doesn't move from where she stopped, and her sandwich is still held in hand. Once more she gives him a curious look, as if trying to place him from somewhere. "You're kinda young to be ma'aming people. Kinda young to be this outta luck too."
Jeremiah chews his lower lip for a moment, and watches Naomi a moment more, then looks down at the cup, fingers picking through the few bills. "Three dollars, twenty-nine cents, ma'am." He doesn't even sound annoyed about the fact. "Mos' people don't exactly stop t' talk," he explains, that same anger audible in his words. His words, however, are carefully considered as he forms an explanation. "I ain't from around here, an' home's gone," is what he eventually offers. No explanation for the formality or discipline, though the way he holds himself is certainly reminiscent of having had training at some point, if lacking the alertness.
Naomi grunts at him, "Well. You hungry? Or just pawning so you can get booze and smokes once you fill the cup up? And be honest."
The man sits up a bit so that he can turn the jacket and shove his arms through it. Old army surplus, slightly oversized, all the pockets clearly used, and he watches Naomi a moment longer. "Ain't not hungry," Jer states. "Won't lie an' say I don't smoke, because when it helps, I do. But I don't drink, an' food comes first."
Naomi nods to that. "Give me a buck from your cup then." She holds her hand out as if expecting him to agree to this.
There's a certain response to that sort of authority in the expectation of her statement, and obediently—if still a little puzzled—Jeremiah pulls a crumpled dollar from the few in the cup and offers it to her.
Naomi nods to that and, taking the dollar, hands over her bag of food. Inside is a fullsize bratwurst sandwich, all the fixings and a side of fries dumped in the bottom of the bag. "Stay put. I'm gonna get us some drinks and then join you for lunch." That said, she starts her way back toward the vendor.
Jeremiah settles crosslegged rather than the more defensive posture of before, and watches warily as Naomi goes off, though he seems to take the fact that she's left him with the bag of food as assurance that she will come back. He mutters to himself a little while she's gone, what sounds like Russian and hill-talk merged together, that quiets by the time she's returning.
She comes back with another bag, presumably her own lunch now, and two drinks. "Just soda." She hands one over and then takes a seat at a conversational distance from the man. "So. You can't be much into your twenties. So, either you bailed on the folks early with a grand plan of making it on your own and failed. Or ya fucked something up and took off."
"Things fucked up around me," Jeremiah eventually says, after cracking open the soda and taking a long sip, and eating several of the fries with deliberateness that can only mean he's trying to be polite and not simply eat the food far too fast for decency. "So I got out." Those three words hide a mountain of pain and anger, quickly contained and funneled into taking out the sandwich and taking a few bites. "May not've thought it all through when I did."
"Yeah. Reacting first then thinking. Happens to the best of us. So then what? Just moping around, wandering and pan-handling?" She takes a bite of the sandwich. "Why not dust yourself off and go at things another angle?"
Jeremiah chews on the bite of sandwich, takes another, slowly. "Good days, bad days," he responds, and it's impossible to tell whether this is a good one, or a bad one, though it might be leaning towards good. "Everyone who didn't get out got dead." It doesn't even seem to be an exaggeration, merely a simple truth, if not one that the Gnawer wants to think about. "Tryin' a make ends meet until I can get it together." Indeed, not a single other pedestrian comes close, and some give the pair a wide berth, choosing other paths towards the fountain. "Ain't moping. Few friends in town here, they're helpin' me a-figure out what next. Last thing kinda fell through."
Naomi watches as the passersby give them wide berth, head tilting again. "Sounds like some serious shit there. Gangs and stuff? You got out, your pals didn't?"
"Pretty much," Jeremiah says. "Pals didn't. Families didn't. Girl didn't." The last one hurts more to say, clearly. And the war he's been through, if not the typical definition of war, or particularly well-defined, has left him with his fair share of issues, the anger not being the slightest of them. At one point while silently eating french fries, his nostrils flare, eyes widen a bit, and he glares down at the ground. "Thanks f'r th' lunch, ma'am," he eventually manages, falling back to formality as social interaction.
Naomi chuckles. "You've got the ma'ams down already. Ya know… you look young enough to get a fresh start if you wanted to. I'm Army. Lieutenant Runner, Special Ops. I also, work recruiting once a week as part of a deal. So, you wanna talk about that as an option, I can tell you when I'm working."
Jeremiah chews on his lower lip and shakes his head. "I'll as think about it," is the allowance he gives, eventually nodding. "I got a temper," he explains. "People get… hurt, bad days. And it." Wouldn't be a good idea isn't said aloud, but it's clearly what the young man's thinking.
Naomi narrows her eyes at him again. "I can go from grins to grit pretty fast myself. Army can teach you how to keep your lid on. Usually. But think about it. Eight years ago I had my life turned upside down. Had the choice to wallow in my loss, or get up and do something about it. Several tours later, I know that while it may never get me a badge or a trophy, I've saved lives and made a difference."
Somewhere in there, the young man clamps down on himself, going stone still to the exclusion of everything. Including the food that had had so much of his attention, including what Naomi says, and he shudders with the effort it takes to get a grip on that anger, and the anger is palpable—though still not directed at Naomi. A muscle works in his jaw, and he swallows once, twice, looks up from the ground. "I'll think about it," he acknowledges, with no hint that thinking about it's the last thing he'll do.
There's something in that shift of anger that Naomi catches onto, and she does in fact draw back from the man. There's a look of genuine wariness and concern on her features and one hand has instinctively moved toward her waist. "Sorry. Enough lectures on my part. Just enjoy your lunch buddy." Despite the obvious concern in her posture, she's doing a fantastic job of controlling her fear and keeping some wits about her, and she doesn't make any move to get up and hightail it out of there.
Jeremiah for his part, does a rather good job of pulling all of that anger back under his skin, until it's just another part of him, and he looks over at Naomi, brows furrowing. Deep breaths, and some effort, and the homeless young man is calm, once more, if still wearing an expression of far too recent grief and pain. "Sorry," he apologises in turn, picking up his soda to pull a long sip from it. "Din't mean to, just. Sometimes it sucks. Most of th' time I try not to remember, least a little. Not enough t' lose myself in it, though can't as say that was never tempting."
Naomi gives a nod to him. "Yeah. Thing about temptations are they're so damn tempting." She pauses a bit then, "So, what do I call ya should I see you around again?"
The young man is subdued now, and clearly careful, more than he had been before, but it doesn't stop him from picking up the sandwich with obvious gratitude. "Don't like th' person I am when I lose myself," Jeremiah comments, quietly. "Name's Jeremiah."
"Yeah I bet." There's a subtle tone of understanding there, before she quickly continues, "Good folks never do." A sip of her own soda is taken. "So your friends here, they keeping an eye on you, make sure you're not alone too much or falling too hard?"
Jeremiah chews his mouthful of sandwich thoughtfully—and politely, the hint of upbringing and manners and certainly don't talk with your mouth full—before nodding. "More'r'less, but yeah. They are. Making sure I don' end up finding trouble as for no reason, any an' all the other things can happen to a man with too much time on his hands to think."
Naomi nods to that, finally opting to take a bite of her own sandwich. "Oh. Naomi." She offers then, "Name's Naomi. Since you're not sold on enlisting, I'm gonna have to insist you drop the ma'ams, ok?"
"Yes m—" Jeremiah nearly does exactly what he's been told not to, and stifles it with a tense grin, and a nod, finishing off the sandwich and starting on the rest of the fries in the bag. "Gotchya. 'll try to remember that. Pleased to meet you, an' thanks, again." That, at least, the ahroun seems to mean, wholeheartedly glad for the company even if it did get tense for a bit.
Naomi offers a grin in return, "There ya go. You're welcome." She takes another bite and then looks out across the park. "Folks always avoid you like this? Never really thought about how much the down and out get judged…"
Jeremiah nods, slowly. "I'm used t' it," he admits. "I unnerve folk, I guess. Always have, though. Moreso now, but always."
Naomi grunts. "Well. Shitty thing to have to get used to. Wish you better luck in the future Jeremiah." She scans the park then, thoughtful, "So what are your next plans for here?"
Jeremiah shrugs his shoulders a little bit. "Get things straight, get my feet under me again, find somethin' to keep me busy. Construction or something I can do on th' good days, nothin' that's goin' a fall apart on th' bad days if I ain't there." He pauses and shrugs. "Depends on what my friends figure. Prolly move on, eventually. I know some folk in Portland, in Vegas. One of the two."
Naomi gives another nod. "Well, hope you find a new place and a new routine to call home someday Jeremiah. In the mean time, keep your chin up. Can't see what's out there if you keep your eyes on the ground. Ya know?" She stands up then. "Maybe I'll see ya' round."
Jeremiah nods, and settles back against his tree. The rest of the food, what he hasn't eaten, is tucked into a pocket, and he pulls a worn paperback from his jacket to pass the time. "Road rise t' meet you, Naomi," he offers. "Yeah. Good thing t' remember."
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (99% full).
Off one of the paths and sitting in the grass but not too far from the fountain is a lump. Or rather, the lump is a homeless man that most people seem to be avoiding, and that seems to suit Jeremiah just fine. He seems young, or at least younger than most of the homeless population, and would perhaps be attractive if he hadn't so obviously fallen on hard times. There's a worn paper cup near where he sits, with a few scant coins and bills from people with more pity than sense, and the man seems more interested in pulling his jacket a bit closer around himself and his knees to his chest, and leaning against the trunk of the tree and looking at the leaves above him, than in actively panhandling.
The park has apparently become the spot to find Naomi on any given day. Once more she's taken to snagging a sandwich from one of the corner vendors, and is in the process of finding a seat with which to enjoy it. The path to her chosen seat has her passing the tree where the homeless man is, and she casts a glance in his direction. The look lingers, perhaps longer than most would, but she says nothing.
Jeremiah looks up as she passes, sits up much straighter for the period of time where he's being looked at. He meets her gaze in return as well, sharp blue eyes and a lot of undirected anger. "Morning ma'am," the man mutters, though there's again no actual attempt to get money from her.
Naomi catches the look but doesn't wither from it. In fact, she pulls to stop. "That a plea for money, or for interaction?" she asks.
Jeremiah seems almost, almost baffled. Or at least unused to such response, and he glances down at the cup, then up to the woman, pursing his lips and considering his response, which starts off shrugging his shoulders. "Ain't mind the first. 'd like the second." The large jacket that's currently draped as a blanket is adjusted again, hands coming to fold on top of his knees.
Naomi eyes the cup. "How much you got in there right now?" She doesn't move from where she stopped, and her sandwich is still held in hand. Once more she gives him a curious look, as if trying to place him from somewhere. "You're kinda young to be ma'aming people. Kinda young to be this outta luck too."
Jeremiah chews his lower lip for a moment, and watches Naomi a moment more, then looks down at the cup, fingers picking through the few bills. "Three dollars, twenty-nine cents, ma'am." He doesn't even sound annoyed about the fact. "Mos' people don't exactly stop t' talk," he explains, that same anger audible in his words. His words, however, are carefully considered as he forms an explanation. "I ain't from around here, an' home's gone," is what he eventually offers. No explanation for the formality or discipline, though the way he holds himself is certainly reminiscent of having had training at some point, if lacking the alertness.
Naomi grunts at him, "Well. You hungry? Or just pawning so you can get booze and smokes once you fill the cup up? And be honest."
The man sits up a bit so that he can turn the jacket and shove his arms through it. Old army surplus, slightly oversized, all the pockets clearly used, and he watches Naomi a moment longer. "Ain't not hungry," Jer states. "Won't lie an' say I don't smoke, because when it helps, I do. But I don't drink, an' food comes first."
Naomi nods to that. "Give me a buck from your cup then." She holds her hand out as if expecting him to agree to this.
There's a certain response to that sort of authority in the expectation of her statement, and obediently—if still a little puzzled—Jeremiah pulls a crumpled dollar from the few in the cup and offers it to her.
Naomi nods to that and, taking the dollar, hands over her bag of food. Inside is a fullsize bratwurst sandwich, all the fixings and a side of fries dumped in the bottom of the bag. "Stay put. I'm gonna get us some drinks and then join you for lunch." That said, she starts her way back toward the vendor.
Jeremiah settles crosslegged rather than the more defensive posture of before, and watches warily as Naomi goes off, though he seems to take the fact that she's left him with the bag of food as assurance that she will come back. He mutters to himself a little while she's gone, what sounds like Russian and hill-talk merged together, that quiets by the time she's returning.
She comes back with another bag, presumably her own lunch now, and two drinks. "Just soda." She hands one over and then takes a seat at a conversational distance from the man. "So. You can't be much into your twenties. So, either you bailed on the folks early with a grand plan of making it on your own and failed. Or ya fucked something up and took off."
"Things fucked up around me," Jeremiah eventually says, after cracking open the soda and taking a long sip, and eating several of the fries with deliberateness that can only mean he's trying to be polite and not simply eat the food far too fast for decency. "So I got out." Those three words hide a mountain of pain and anger, quickly contained and funneled into taking out the sandwich and taking a few bites. "May not've thought it all through when I did."
"Yeah. Reacting first then thinking. Happens to the best of us. So then what? Just moping around, wandering and pan-handling?" She takes a bite of the sandwich. "Why not dust yourself off and go at things another angle?"
Jeremiah chews on the bite of sandwich, takes another, slowly. "Good days, bad days," he responds, and it's impossible to tell whether this is a good one, or a bad one, though it might be leaning towards good. "Everyone who didn't get out got dead." It doesn't even seem to be an exaggeration, merely a simple truth, if not one that the Gnawer wants to think about. "Tryin' a make ends meet until I can get it together." Indeed, not a single other pedestrian comes close, and some give the pair a wide berth, choosing other paths towards the fountain. "Ain't moping. Few friends in town here, they're helpin' me a-figure out what next. Last thing kinda fell through."
Naomi watches as the passersby give them wide berth, head tilting again. "Sounds like some serious shit there. Gangs and stuff? You got out, your pals didn't?"
"Pretty much," Jeremiah says. "Pals didn't. Families didn't. Girl didn't." The last one hurts more to say, clearly. And the war he's been through, if not the typical definition of war, or particularly well-defined, has left him with his fair share of issues, the anger not being the slightest of them. At one point while silently eating french fries, his nostrils flare, eyes widen a bit, and he glares down at the ground. "Thanks f'r th' lunch, ma'am," he eventually manages, falling back to formality as social interaction.
Naomi chuckles. "You've got the ma'ams down already. Ya know… you look young enough to get a fresh start if you wanted to. I'm Army. Lieutenant Runner, Special Ops. I also, work recruiting once a week as part of a deal. So, you wanna talk about that as an option, I can tell you when I'm working."
Jeremiah chews on his lower lip and shakes his head. "I'll as think about it," is the allowance he gives, eventually nodding. "I got a temper," he explains. "People get… hurt, bad days. And it." Wouldn't be a good idea isn't said aloud, but it's clearly what the young man's thinking.
Naomi narrows her eyes at him again. "I can go from grins to grit pretty fast myself. Army can teach you how to keep your lid on. Usually. But think about it. Eight years ago I had my life turned upside down. Had the choice to wallow in my loss, or get up and do something about it. Several tours later, I know that while it may never get me a badge or a trophy, I've saved lives and made a difference."
Somewhere in there, the young man clamps down on himself, going stone still to the exclusion of everything. Including the food that had had so much of his attention, including what Naomi says, and he shudders with the effort it takes to get a grip on that anger, and the anger is palpable—though still not directed at Naomi. A muscle works in his jaw, and he swallows once, twice, looks up from the ground. "I'll think about it," he acknowledges, with no hint that thinking about it's the last thing he'll do.
There's something in that shift of anger that Naomi catches onto, and she does in fact draw back from the man. There's a look of genuine wariness and concern on her features and one hand has instinctively moved toward her waist. "Sorry. Enough lectures on my part. Just enjoy your lunch buddy." Despite the obvious concern in her posture, she's doing a fantastic job of controlling her fear and keeping some wits about her, and she doesn't make any move to get up and hightail it out of there.
Jeremiah for his part, does a rather good job of pulling all of that anger back under his skin, until it's just another part of him, and he looks over at Naomi, brows furrowing. Deep breaths, and some effort, and the homeless young man is calm, once more, if still wearing an expression of far too recent grief and pain. "Sorry," he apologises in turn, picking up his soda to pull a long sip from it. "Din't mean to, just. Sometimes it sucks. Most of th' time I try not to remember, least a little. Not enough t' lose myself in it, though can't as say that was never tempting."
Naomi gives a nod to him. "Yeah. Thing about temptations are they're so damn tempting." She pauses a bit then, "So, what do I call ya should I see you around again?"
The young man is subdued now, and clearly careful, more than he had been before, but it doesn't stop him from picking up the sandwich with obvious gratitude. "Don't like th' person I am when I lose myself," Jeremiah comments, quietly. "Name's Jeremiah."
"Yeah I bet." There's a subtle tone of understanding there, before she quickly continues, "Good folks never do." A sip of her own soda is taken. "So your friends here, they keeping an eye on you, make sure you're not alone too much or falling too hard?"
Jeremiah chews his mouthful of sandwich thoughtfully—and politely, the hint of upbringing and manners and certainly don't talk with your mouth full—before nodding. "More'r'less, but yeah. They are. Making sure I don' end up finding trouble as for no reason, any an' all the other things can happen to a man with too much time on his hands to think."
Naomi nods to that, finally opting to take a bite of her own sandwich. "Oh. Naomi." She offers then, "Name's Naomi. Since you're not sold on enlisting, I'm gonna have to insist you drop the ma'ams, ok?"
"Yes m—" Jeremiah nearly does exactly what he's been told not to, and stifles it with a tense grin, and a nod, finishing off the sandwich and starting on the rest of the fries in the bag. "Gotchya. 'll try to remember that. Pleased to meet you, an' thanks, again." That, at least, the ahroun seems to mean, wholeheartedly glad for the company even if it did get tense for a bit.
Naomi offers a grin in return, "There ya go. You're welcome." She takes another bite and then looks out across the park. "Folks always avoid you like this? Never really thought about how much the down and out get judged…"
Jeremiah nods, slowly. "I'm used t' it," he admits. "I unnerve folk, I guess. Always have, though. Moreso now, but always."
Naomi grunts. "Well. Shitty thing to have to get used to. Wish you better luck in the future Jeremiah." She scans the park then, thoughtful, "So what are your next plans for here?"
Jeremiah shrugs his shoulders a little bit. "Get things straight, get my feet under me again, find somethin' to keep me busy. Construction or something I can do on th' good days, nothin' that's goin' a fall apart on th' bad days if I ain't there." He pauses and shrugs. "Depends on what my friends figure. Prolly move on, eventually. I know some folk in Portland, in Vegas. One of the two."
Naomi gives another nod. "Well, hope you find a new place and a new routine to call home someday Jeremiah. In the mean time, keep your chin up. Can't see what's out there if you keep your eyes on the ground. Ya know?" She stands up then. "Maybe I'll see ya' round."
Jeremiah nods, and settles back against his tree. The rest of the food, what he hasn't eaten, is tucked into a pocket, and he pulls a worn paperback from his jacket to pass the time. "Road rise t' meet you, Naomi," he offers. "Yeah. Good thing t' remember."