Rubies

❝ We buy balloons, we let them go. ❞ — Bret Easton Ellis

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

[kxowledge]

The pleasure of rooting for Goliath is that you can expect to win. The pleasure of rooting for David is that, while you don’t know what to expect, you stand at least a chance of being inspired.

Michael Lewis, Moneyball

[nyindra]

lets do an honesty hour ask me anything

[boyzoo]

[greatestnorthern]

“We’re all told at some point in time that we can no longer play the children’s game, we just don’t know when that’s gonna be. Some of us are told at eighteen, some of us are told at forty, but we’re all told.”

Moneyball (2011) dop. Wally Pfister dir. Bennett Miller

[rhettschachter-blog]

NATHALIE.

“Ow,” Nathalie muttered under her breath, the seamstress who was attempting to hem her dress poking her with a pin for the umpteenth time. Another work event that would undoubtedly consist schmoozing and drinking much too expensive champagne meant another much too expensive dress that of course didn’t fit correctly. The brunette had all but begged the seamstress to help her out at the last minute, offering to pay her double if that’s what it took. Fortunately, whether it was just a slow day or the woman felt bad, Nathalie was now standing in said much too expensive dress as the seamstress worked around her. After a few more pokes and measurements, Nat was told she could take the dress off and wait. Thanking the woman a dozen more times, the brunette made her way over to and vacant chair and made herself comfortable. She was halfway through a work email when her attention was drawn away by another customer made his way over. “The trick is to add a bunch of that flavored creamer,” Nathalie pointed towards the mini fridge on the counter. “Don’t get me wrong, the coffee still tastes like shit, but, significantly less like shit than without.”

                    A pinned-together woman approached the seating area–– a paper doll in the making, or so the simulacrum resided. She hadn’t been the person he’d gestured to, but she seemed to be having a difficult day of her own in another form. He gave a glance, minding to himself until she spoke, a tip in mind, and one he had considered, his hand having already drifted amongst the table to find additions to his umber concoction. She managed to bring a pressed smile to his lips, shoulders widening, his head lifting to glance over at the brunette that had spoken, “I see,” He responded, “That’s great, actually, I’m in luck because I happen to love french-vanilla dirt,” The male jested, shifting his feet over, bending down ever so slightly to examine the fridge, “... Feel free to shoot me down, but I take it you’ve wondered on in here more than once, haven’t you?” He mused aloud, eyes lifting and drifting loosely as he considered back-peddling his assumption, gaze collectively examining her appearance, “Either that or you’ve seen far too much bad coffee in your days.”

[rhettschachter-blog]

ANGEL.

Angel hadn’t set foot into a dry cleaner’s establishment in many years. Frankly, he preferred to do his own laundry as he had since he was a kid. He had some fond memories of dancing bachata with his mom in the basement of their apartment building while they waited for their clothes to dry. This place was certainly not that homey. The only reason he was here now was out of desperation to save his daughter’s favorite jacket from ruin. He could use as any brownie points as he could get, since his child’s mother was breathing down his neck lately. Angel nodded politely to the guy ahead of him in line who’d addressed him. He stepped up to the counter when it was his turn and inquired about the item he’d dropped off; apparently it wasn’t ready yet, but would be in 10 minutes or so. Exhaling softly, hopeful since the guy hadn’t said the stain was hopeless, Angel shuffled to the waiting area. “Late for a job interview or somethin’”? Angel asked the man as he prepped his coffee, figuring he had time to kill.          

                    He shuffled out of the way, taking a much-needed sip to wet his tongue, and though, as predicted, it was shoddy coffee, it was appreciated. The male sat then, amused at the question, a smile ready on his expression as he buoyed an answer, “–– A wedding,” He responded, heading a laugh as his head orientated a slow few nods. It was true, but certainly not well-known that he disliked weddings. Something about them felt off; fake and overdone, and it was a poor habit that during so, sitting upright in a wooden chapel pew, that he couldn’t help but cognize that the two would, eventually, would likely fall into muted, moldy passing to one another. Relationships may not exactly last, but patronage could be suspended, so he’d go, sit, and certainly enjoy reception if anything, “It’s absolute foul luck. I could go exactly as I am if only the happy hour came first.” He jested, a half smile finding a way to his lips, tone dry but obvious. 

[rhettschachter-blog]

KRISTINA.

It wasn’t everyday Kris found herself at the dry cleaners. Personally, she didn’t see the use, unless she was attending some flashy event and had to have her clothes pressed professionally. These kinds of places often reminded her of her mother, and those luxurious designer clothes she adorned when Kris was young. The same designer clothes she’d forced upon her, to no avail. Sighing lightly, she allowed the bittersweet thought to leave her head, waiting in the queue as patiently as she could. Kris was here to collect some suits for work; suits that would never see the light of day again once buried with their occupier. She could overhear a little commotion ahead of the queue… some man insisting to the cashier that his clothes should be ready now. To her surprise, his demands were given into as the cashier disappeared. “Who?” she asked as the man turned back and she seemed to capture his attention for a brief moment. “The person behind the desk who’s trying to help you?” She raised a brow, her eyes following him as he wandered off. She shook her head disapprovingly, facing the front of the queue once more.

                    Snarkily, was the mood of the response he received from the woman who had been standing behind him, the shake of her head sealing the letter to a note he’d perhaps indirectly asked for. He could understand the annoyed response, particularly from a person who’d only heard the tail-end fuss of what had been an elongated struggle, but he hoped that upon his response a neutralization would fizzle and still. He turned, coffee in hand, eyes moving from her to the back of the store, “He’d only been giving me excuses for the past twenty minutes.” He rectified, “He might be ‘helping’ me now or, I don’t know–– sleepwalking to the toilet, but bad management, like this, is not something to pity,” He brought his cup of coffee up to his lips, words spoken like a businessman and held firm like one too. The male wasn’t usually hellbent. Not outside his office, and certainly not on weekends, but it was of utmost importance that he arrive cordially and promptly to where he was going. He settled quickly, pausing, offering a shrug with the lightened load of his fresh set of words, "... My unwanted two-cents, I know–" 

[rhettschachter-blog]

TEGAN.

Tegan, for the most part, was predominantly chill at all times. He usually could thank the constant supplies of chemicals running through his veins; but even now - at two weeks sober, he was able to fall back on his calm and collected self. He didn’t have much a temper, and rarely got emotional over anything. His tone always at a plain neutral. He preferred it this way - felt life was much easier without emotions running rampant around in his brain and affecting all his relationships. He waited in line for his clothes, the only sign of his impatience being the way he chewed on his finger, which were in the process of healing from the past stressful weeks. He lent a small smile to the other when he turned around. He seemed to be in a huge rush, the worker on the other side of the counter not helping in any way. “Looks like you’re having a literal fashion emergency.”

                    He figured the predicament would preserve with him just stomping away, sipping on his lousy brew, and hopefully leaving within the next ten minutes, no more speak until he arrived at his destination–– hopefully on time. This regarded the other person in line, though when spoken to, a joke quipped at the stranger’s side, it was, in a way, a benediction. Or at the very least a buffer to the mild frustration; a bilateral amongst two men. He held back a scoff, lips parted, head glancing back over his shoulder before it canted down below to his coffee, wiped smile widening, “That makes it sound a whole lot more fun then all of this really is,” He responded, a lengthening of the word ‘whole’ to bring a dire, jocular emphasis, “I’m definitely not cool enough to have the word ‘fashion’, ‘fashionable’, or even ‘able’ to describe me, as it is immensly clear,” He japed in return gesturing a hand down his attire and towards the front desk as he sat in a plastic lounge chair, bringing the cup to his mouth.

[nogoodingoodbyee]

[paulwelsey]

[rhettschachter-blog]

                    “No, I understand what ‘overworked’ means, but I was told it would definitely be ready today. Now. At this time,” He mumbled to the cashier, the male’s elbows up on the counter, shoulders leaned in, adjacent to him a few coats and dresses on hangers, hugged in plastic–– apparently finished orders in a messy, unclaimed queue. A few more sharp, hushed interactions and it seemed Rhett managed to get his suit pushed to the front of whatever order the Dry Cleaners was in, the stout worker, shuffling off to the back. He rested at ease, arms covered in the loose, white fabric of a button up, shoulders turning and head following as eyes fell on the person behind, “Good luck with that guy,” The male exhorted briefly, gesturing a thumb back behind him before he himself meandered off to the waiting area, beginning to fix himself a cup of unpromising coffee. If there was one thing he despised it was being unpunctual, particularly if it was out of his control. 

[rhettschachter-blog]

AMARI.

     “I’m a sweaty mess, but apparently I can still get it, that’s all I’m saying.” Amari’s smile grew wide as they related the story to their friend–Running errands on one of their days off, someone took the time to stop Amari on the sidewalk just to say that they were beautiful. A short, polite conversation had ensued and Amari ended up getting the girl’s phone number. “I don’t know, do you think I should call her?”

                    He’d seen the other at the gym once or twice, a conversation mingled in between, friendly and warm enough to where, at least, a firm level of familiarity was established. So he wasn’t taken aback by the eased talk of self-positive banter and gush from a passing girl, the male, not too political or well-knowledged in that arena, but he could appreciate a person, no matter who, fearlessly being themselves. He bobbled his head from side-to-side in consideration, as if there was much to at all, “Absolutely,” He stated, stark in contrast his faux thoughtfulness, “Anyone who has the guts to walk up to a stranger and compliment them surely deserves a little recognition. But maybe that’s just my hopeful, gawky seventeen-year-old self-speaking.” He japed dryly, “Give me a minute to squash down the grade eleven war flashbacks and I’ll think of something intelligible.”

[rhettschachter-blog]

CONNOR.

Connor frowned in confusion as he listened to the message on his phone, trying to figure out what was going on. He looked up after a moment and spotted someone nearby, “You ever have something so weird happen that you kind of have to stop for a second to figure out if you’ve slipped into an alternate universe or something?” he questioned, needing someone else to bounce the situation off of, “My dad just left a voicemail apologizing for my mom’s behavior the last few times I ran into her, and for not warning me when they moved here. He even said he missed me. I don’t know, I’m thinking alternate universe or … I’m hallucinating. Am I hallucinating?” he babbled. 

                    He’d only just sat, eye-contact not even a consideration before he was spoken to, by a man who seemed rather aloof; standoffish and perhaps even distressed. It was a loaded question, and before he could get around to answering it an addition was added, further explanation provided. He cocked a smile, settled with regard, “Unless Nolan’s found us and zapped us into his dream world, I think ‘hallucination’ is out of the question,” The male mildly japed, taking a turn for something more diligent, sitting position turning counter clockwise to slightly face the individual, “... Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem like you could use an ear, and the chances are fairly great we won’t meet again, so, logically, you don’t have anything to lose–” He suggested, lifting a hand in gesture, “Shoot, my man. Take a load off and start from the beginning. I’ve had and seen more family issues in my time than I know what to do with.”

[rhettschachter-blog]

SIERRA.

      Bright green eyes glazed over with tears looked up at Sierra in pain as she chewed on her toy, doing anything to ease the discomfort coming from swollen gums. A sleepless night for all involved and day of working at home, had dragged through to a point where Sierra had to get them out of the house. A stones throw from Adam’s place and a favourite of hers, The Garden Café was usually the perfect place to distract her with; outdoors with pretty lights and brightly colored plants weaving through trellis always had Mia fascinated, but today she cared for none of it. The grizzles coming from her filled the entire café, even as she handed her a spoonful of yoghurt and watched the little girl throw it behind her.  “Mia—” A quiet but violent splat followed and Mia fell silent, forcing Sierra to try and make it better. “I’m so sorry, she’s teething and grumpy and apparently…” The little girl looked up at her with a grin, “Doesn’t regret it.”

                    Never was he more grateful to see the sight of a sticky, laminated menu and a chef’s choice. The granola and bananas he figured would suffice his morning trip out into the foggy riverside of Bear Mountain Park had served as nothing more than a chew toy by eleven, and the unruffled fishing trip had to be cut short due to the gnawing of his stomach. Hook, throw, wait and sink–– it had a way of edifying an appetite. He’d taken note of the other customers around him but hadn’t paid attention until the soggy pelt of something wet and cool found his back. Shoulders reacted by creasing up an inwards, a montage of junior high lunch hour releasing stymied thought as he lifted a hand to wipe up the mystery substance, torso turning to find the suspect. Brows unknotted upon spotting a fair-headed tot, fervently and playfully waving her spoon around, his fine line of lips melting into a low, euphonious laugh, “Let her. She’s just doing what I should’ve done to my spring break t-shirt collection long ago.” A hand swiped at the worn fabric, collecting another gob of food.

[mancandykings]

[its-omghollywood-deactivated201]