His eyes take a generous handful of seconds to adjust from the dark to the light, and back to the dark as he notices the restaurant itself appears to hardly be anymore lit than the street outside. The young man steals a quick peek behind him, the dark red doors shut and stationary, not even budging to sway. Scout allows his eyes to focus beyond the coat check to their left and the hostess' booth a few feet before them, down exactly three uncarpeted concrete steps that lead to the restaurant proper. Black "u"s plague the Bostonian's vision in the shapes of loungy sofas and their few occupants, figures reclined against the fabric Lawrence presumptuously labels as velour in utter relaxation. Leedy rushes in funny ribbed pots freckle the lounge tastefully, and in between the the stalks of said rushes, the young man deciphers the outlines of a shadowy stage. A maze of mirrors bounces light across the room, and he grips Jack's hand tighter, who shares a few kind words with a thin woman. She quickly gestures toward the dining room.
"Careful now, love, 's a lot t'trip over if you're not too watchful," Jack grunts right as the addressed stumbles over a chair in the gloom; The mirrors catch his attention, thus leaving room for such graceless trips and tumbles. Their bluish white ambience illuminates dust motes fluttering about, giving the impression of a very ancient intelligence coming forward to share its brilliance. The mirrors throw light back and forth clear over his head, like an eerie game of monkey in the middle. It all wrapped up to be a subdued, psychedelic display.
"Dude this is some weird light..."
Blocking his eyes from the cold glare, he focuses on the powerful spot lamp, the true origin of the mirror's mystical display. He looks forward and narrowly avoids hitting his thigh on another table. "Try not t'make too much of a spectacle o'yourselfbefore we actually get seated."
The tables themselves are almost invisible against the cave like (though very, very well fitting) darkness of the club itself, the plain, circulatory surfaces painted black and ornamented with one single paper candle in the middle. "This is a pretty fancy place, Jack! I gotta admit, when we were outside just walkin' around and whatever I wasn't all that sure, but nah—it's pretty nice."
Jack smiles, nicking his head and giving Scout a jumpstart. He tugs gently on Lawrence's hand, weaving him about until finding a nice table next to curtained window, whose thick wooden blinds blocks any view onto the street parallel to them. Located somewhere mixed between modestly private though involved with the bustle of the rest of the diners, Sniper pulls the young man's chair back, Lawrence actually double taking slightly as the courteous gesture nearly goes past him unnoticed. He mouths the man a soft but firm "thank you", wasting no time in sticking a hand out to grip onto the tea lamp in the center.
"Careful, love, don't catch fire t'your sleeve, now…"
The candleholders, he gathers from studying those at the surrounding tables before glancing back at their own, were all different, and some of the strangest he'd ever seen; just based on those around them he saw red, snarling, wood carved lions with twisted fangs with purely silver paws, rising claws up, yawning beastly worms of medieval legends. Others were adorned with heavy pewter bases supporting puddles of what appeared to be the stillest mercury. "That's kinda cheap though, ain't it? Some of the tables just got plastic cups as holders," Scout comments with such negativity as if suggesting he were a direct victim of curios-oriented neglection.
"Management prolly couldn't afford t'replace 'em all after little mongrels like you come in right after the other, touchin' all over it 'nd shatterin' 'em on the floor…"
Lawrence sticks his tongue out briefly at the man, cross eyed ever still as he twists the warm pewter about in his hands, scrutinizing the etch work and watching the small, golden white flame flicker sporadically as his calm breath fans over it in wispy waves. "How old do ya think this thing is, Jack?"
"Hmm, dunno, I'm not an expert in restaurant décor,"
"'Cause it's pretty gaudy, you know? Like somethin' Ma would have on that tacky old cherry desk she's still got in the livin' room…you'd think she woulda tossed that thing out back in the fifties or somethin',"
"'The candleholder's not that bad, now, it at least looks like it's from this decade—no offense," the Australian adds quickly; it wouldn't have surprised him if Scout had started at the mere insinuation that his darling mother had a noticeably unorthodox taste in decorating, even for a man like Jack for whom stylishly furnishing the camper was the farthest thing from a priority.
"Alright then, you've been here before; so what's the scoop?" Scout asks brightly.
"The scoop?"
"Yeah, like, what should I order?"
"Well, last time I was here I guess y'could say I wasn't quite in a right state—Hell, I'm tryin' t'remember if I ordered food t'begin with,"
"Oh, lemmie guess, you were here with one of your ex boyfriends or somethin'..." Scout snaps with distasteful jealously, glaring briefly at the older man before bringing the menu to his face once more, covering his grumpled expression.
"Hmph—no..." Jack huffs, sighing quickly and quietly before drumming his fingers on the table. "Try I was trippin' off my mindby myself 'nd came stumblin' in here 'nd crashed on that couch over there for four hours straight 'til management finally took notice 'nd threw my arse outside,"
"Jack, that's..." Lawrence mutters worriedly, swallowing heavily and swiping a hand through his hair before looking the man he found a bit too casual in regards to his drug stories. "So then you mean your ass was drivin' all wired on shit, and you came in here hallucinatin' and just sat on that couch and got thrown out,"
"Well, I'd snorted a bit o'phencyclidine, 'nd I imagine it was laced with somethin', right? Whatever it was—I recon a little coke—was makin' me right weird. So yeah, stumbled in, made m'self nice 'nd comfortable right there, front o'the stage, droolin' 'nd not quite able t'figure out whether the people performin' that night were ever actually there or not—'nd I'll tell ya I still don't know,"
"That's bad, wombat," Scout whispers, falling against his chair and casting the man a reproachfully worried glare from the corner of his eye. "What were you snortin' for, Jack?"
"Different times, love, don't get so down, okay?" the man insists regretfully, bringing his fingers to tap absentmindedly against his own menu. "I don't do those things anymore, I know they scare ya,"
"I get worried about you when you do that shit..."
"Well in any case I jus' remember sittin' there, lookin' up at the stage, 'nd tellin' myself that I'd come back t'the place in a better state o'mind with someone special,"
"So then, that's me?"
"Well that's my story," Jack clears his throat as a woman approaches the table, plucking a small notebook from her black apron pocket, the motion an official end to the previous conversation, even if Scout had preferred a bit more time to further express his sentiments on the matter of the Australian's drug usage.
"Evenin',"
Jack's captivating, warm, dapper smile, equal parts a charm of utter enchantment, was a curse welling within the young Scout; an ungodly jealousy triggered only by the fact those grey eyes and handsome grin were not directed upon him alone, upon him, in this instance, at all. Instead Jack intends to entertain a young woman by the name of Katherine, Scout observes by the name tag placed upon her left breast, her hair large and blonde, poofed up top and reminding him of a sand coloured seashell.
The young man grimaces as she extends a manicured hand to place two paper wrapped straws gently on the table, flashing Jack a politely playful smile in return for his gentlemanly chivalry. So preoccupied by the man's roguishly dapper display, Katherine misses entirely the way Scout's scrunched up lips scowl at her every motion. His eyes fix onto her with such accuracy one would assume a magnetism strung between her figure and his narrowed oculars.
"Well hey there, boys," she grins, setting thin, cork coasters in front of each of them, Lawrence resisting the urge to toss his at her feet, only for it to be crushed underneath a prim black flat. "So what can I get cha started off with toni—?"
"Yeah I'd just like a water if that's alright, and the pasta—with the white vuna-grett-sauce or whatever it's called, and that's it—ain't no other reason for you to keep comin' back over here," Lawrence begins shortly, tossing the woman his menu moodily and crossing his arms across his chest.
"Larry…" Jack sighs, slipping a hand under the table and grabbing the Bostonian's and rubbing it softly. He flashes Scout silent and rather stony glare from across the table, his eyes affectionately sympathetic nonetheless. "I—I'm sorry, Miss," Jack clears his throat, leaning closer to the young man as he consciously brings his voice to a whisper.
"Did y'even look at the menu, love…?"
"I don't need to—" the young man huffs, folding his arms and casting the admittedly calm woman a filthy glare. "Larry, sweetie…" Jack grumbles, holding back a particularly harsh eye roll, surprising even himself as he does so. "Don't be ridiculous, love—c'mon, let's take a look…" he breathes heavily through his nose as he folds open the leather bound placard, pushing it gently to the settling Scout, whose eyes scan the different portions available in calm registration of his options.
"See, you've got the braised pork, blackened tilapia—you can even get yourself a nice steak 'nd lobster it looks like…"
The waitress watches them in silent shock and even uncomfortable patience as the two men allow themselves a solid minute to go over the menu in hushed voices together. Scout shrugs unargumentatively before confirming his decision to stick with the pasta dish after all, Jack giving the waitress a quick nod.
"'Lright, 's what he wants…"
"And—and what'll you have, sir…" the waitress laughs nervously, clearly trying to leave the two men to deal with themselves without making it obvious she finds their dynamic to be the strangest she'd ever encountered.
"Oi—dunno, th'baked chicken 'nd side salad looks 'bout right…"
"Sorry?" Katherine stumbles slightly, resting a hand against the edge of the table—a hand Scout's vision latches onto very quickly…
"I didn't quite catch that,"
"Oh—right—the accent—er, the Baked parmesan oregano whatsit that comes with the salad on the side," the man annunciates, closing his menu and taking his (and Lawrence's) into his hands and handing them cordially to their server.
Scout must scrutinize the Australian somewhat disbelievingly, disgusted by the unorthodox combination of curdled cheese and sweet, pungent herb, wondering to himself how the man possibly sought to stomach it—or moreover, how he intended topay for it. Perhaps it was simply Scout's personal history coming to speak for his own inability to grasp the incredulous thought of the man's choice, his allowance to accept full responsibility of the bill that was eventually to come at the end of their meal. The Bostonian saw the date with a perspective of a child of poverty; one who had never properly weaned himself from the bosom of welfare benefits, even as an adult.
The pasta drenched liberally in white wines he himself ordered had never once been a meal served under Julie's household. Then again, when Christopher had grown old enough to expend dollars so loosely on equally uncommon mixtures of tastes and aromas, Lawrence found his tastes presented themselves as not foods but delicacies. Thanks to his brother, Lawrence had been somewhat familiarized early on with entrees created, served, and indulged upon not for the sake of satisfying any one taste, but rather the gratification of the rich mind's ego.
"…and you're sure that's all you want? Just the salad, no dressing?" Scout tunes in just in time to hear the young woman chirrup at the nodding Australian, whose shaven jaw spreads once more into one of his charming smiles.
"Dinky di, Miss—not a drop o'dressin' if it's not too much," he grins, the woman laughing lightly behind her hand.
"Dinky what?! Don't think I've ever heard that phrase 'round here…"
"In this case, 's Aussie for I'm sure,"
"Australia, huh? I knew you were too cute to be an American…" she sighs loftily, tucking the menus under her arms. "Well I'll get out of your way, sirs…" she grins before ambling off toward the kitchen to place their orders.
"…More like 's Aussie for I'm a freakin' tool!"
"Oh, here we go…"
"Here we nothin', Jack; come on, what was that just now?! Seriously! I'm tired of goin' out in public with ya and havin' all these silly girls trying to—to—"
"What, do their jobs?! Sorry if the dancer I hired for your sake a week ago was tryin' t'entertain her manly customers like we were payin' her to!"
"Right well, the waitress at the restaurant ain't a dancer, Jack—then again with the way she's actin' it ain't like you can tell—"
"She's not actin' like anythin', she's just bein' friendly!"
"Yeah well, a little too friendly if you ask me," Scout snarls, throwing his head back to glare at the woman who assists another group of diners some tables away.
"What' your problem, love—?!"
"My problem is that I didn't come here to watch you flirt with some chick you just met!"
"Flirt?! Larry, she was just takin' our orders, gremlin—'s no need t'lose your marbles 'nd have one o'your moments, ok?!"
"Moments?! What do you mean moments?!"
"Your—issue moments…"
"Issues moment?!"
"Your Mum told me about your little, er—disorder…"
"Yeah, what about it?!" Scout snaps defensively, clearly not wanting to elaborate.
"Well, I know things can be hard for you t'process sometimes, that y'don't quite see things 'nd actions 'nd situations with the same perspective as others—she said you've been strugglin' with all sorts o'emotional disorders —"
"Do we really gotta bring this up now, Jack?! I don't wanna talk about it," he adds shamefully
"Larry I'm not sayin' this t'blame ya or get ya all riled up, I simply mean that I think you may be lookin' at this whole thing a little skewed because you're a little special, eh?"
"Special," Scout snaps glaring at the man in utter disgust. "So then you think I'm dumb or somethin'—?!"
"Larry—no, 's not what I meant! I didn't mean special, jus' that you've clearly got a condition that causes ya t'maybe blow things outta proportion a little bit…"
"Just 'cause I got a problem that doesn't mean I'm stupid,"
"I never implied you were, Larry—"
"And I ain't so stupid to not notice no flirtin' when I see it!"
"Who's flirtin' here, Larry?!" Jack snaps at the grimacing Bostonian, who narrows his eyes but remains watchful of the Australian's thin lips. "Huh?!"
"Maybe you're the dumb one, Jack—I knew you were too cute to be an American—if that ain't an attempt to do ya on the table then I dunno what is,"
"Oi, what the broad says ain't my fault, Lawrence—"
"Yeah well, why do ya always gotta—!" Scout glowers as he dramatically imitates the man's accent, scoffing and casting him a dirty eye.
"Gotta what, mate? Look, 's whole thing's hardly anythin' t'be jealous over, in case you forgot I'm here with you right now because I love you, not some dame! 'nd because I want more than anythin' for us t'have a beautiful night t'gether for a change— the waitress whose name I've already forgotten doesn't mean a thing t'me, 's all about you— 's always about you t'me, okay?"
Scout sighs, but the soft hand that snakes its delicately maudlin way about his cheek and neck is nothing he can ignore, even if his silence attempts to say otherwise. "I jus' wish sometime's you'd stop 'nd really give it some thought how much you mean t'me…" Jack sighs, falling back against his chair in defeat, picking up the wrapped cutlery and twirling it absentmindedly in his fingers. Larry too exhales, glancing nebbishly up at the Australian, watching him heavily as the man still seeks entertainment from the perfectly glistening eating utensils.
"...cheer up, Jack…" Scout whispers, Sniper smirking, his eyes still on the twirling fork he focuses on. "This is a nice night. I love it…I love you..." he adds apologetically.
"I got out the van 'nd am interactin' with people,"
"I know—it's weird bein' with you out of it," Scout chuckles.
"I'm tryin' t'be a gentleman—your gentleman. So let's make this a special night 'nd get the suspicion out your eyes—'s a shame to see such pretty blue ones like yours all bogged down in jealousy…"
"Like mine, huh?" Scout smirks.
"Hm—maybe," Jack grins, and the waitress returns with two frosty glasses in her hand, placing chilled water in front of the Bostonian and a contrastingly steamy ceramic cup of smooth, frothing black tea in front of his Australian counterpart.
"You always gotta get the tea…" Scout notes, letting his head crook a little to the side on the edge of his neck. He quietly watches the man pull on the water soaked string of the soppy teabag with uncharacteristically clean nails and cuticles, placing it gently onto the saucer supporting the beverage as a whole. "What's it even taste like?!" Scout asks quietly, dragging the cup to himself and shaking his fingers as the warmth catches him by surprise, the quarry of unsweetened liquid swishing along the edges of the mug and forming lukewarm brines of leafy wetness against the surface of the smooth table, appearing transparent as they dry due to its hue.
"I try t'get ya t'taste it all the time back in the camper, but no 's soon as y'see me with it out in public y'wanna slobber all over it,"
"Slobber?! I ain't slobberin'," Scout hesitates to bring the scalding drink to his sensitive lips, daring forward however and taking the a quick, noisy slurp before setting it back down and grimacing instantly and pushing it away.
"I said it was hot…"
"Nah, it just ain't even sweetened,"
"Y'know I never dump that silliness in my drinks—I prefer it the natural way…"
"Yeah well, here I was thinkin' maybe bein' in a restaurant it woulda tasted better,"
"'Nd did it?"
"No," the young man grumbles, taking a generous sip of his icy water.
"'S funny, I mean—considerin' the tea I've got back at the camper's nice, natural, fair trade leaves, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that the stuff they're servin' ya here isn't quite up t'par,"
"The natural stuff tastes bad too," Scout argues, twirling the tip of his straw so it clings against the frored glass, remarking at how it all resembles a delicate, subtle song. "Tastes like how your armpits smell, when you don't wear deodorant,"
"Oooo yum," Jack chuckles, bringing his arm to his nostril and taking a soft whiff. "Then I s'pose I could find a way to capture the natural smell 'nd turn that into a teabag, eh? Sell it 'nd maybe make us some extra cash,"
He laughs at Scout's mortified expression, the young man shaking his head before twirling at the bed of ice melting in the bottom of his cup. "Money you should use to buy yourself some deodorant…"
"Oi, I got some, I'm just not all too int' usin' it…"
"You know my grandma would kill ya,"
"Hm—'s always nice t'hear…"
"Or maybe she'd kill me first—I dunno…"
"Might I ask why your granny would want my head?" Sniper asks calmly, Scout emitting a soft sigh and leaning back in his chair, tapping lightly at his chin.
"Alright, lemmie start with this; you got any Irish blood or relatives in ya?"
"Hm, if we do, they're not too vocal or invested in the heritage—I mean, the whole o'my family's been in Australia for at leasta century 'nd a half, I rekcon they even were amongst the original prisoners who were banished here,"
"So then you are English,"
"No, I'm Australian, born 'nd raised, so was my family. My ancestors were amongst the first ones t'settle there,"
"Yeah, but you ain't Aboriginal, the white boy had to come from somewhere,"
"Well my family's been in Aussieland since it was first colonized by Europeans—I guess my Great Great Great Great whatevers were English or somethin', since they were the ones really claimin' the island—"
"AND THEN YOU GET ALL MAD WHEN I CALL YOU BRITISH!"
"But I'm not British!"
"Yeah, but it don't matter 'cause Australians are just British people that've been on the bottom of the Earth for too long,"
"Fine, then you Irishmen 're nothin' but funny talkin' Scots,"
"See? That's the kinda stuff Grandma would kill ya for,"
"Well all I'm sayin' is that there's a difference between heritage 'nd nationality. Let's put it this way; you're not Irish jus' 'cause you've got Irish blood in ya,"
"Yeah I am, I'm one hundred percent Irish on both sides of my family, Jack!"
"But you're not Irish 'cause you were neither born there, nor were you raised in Ireland! Y'didn't grow up Irish, y'can't identify with it!"
"Dude, my dad was Irish, he was born there!"
"What?"
"Yeah, and Ma's parents were from there, too! Both sets of my grandparents were from Ireland, and my Dad actually movedhere when he was like, eighteen or somethin',"
"'Nd your Mum?"
"Yeah, she was born here, but she speaks Gaelic, you know," Scout adds proudly, the two men beaming as Katherine places their meals in front of them quietly, the young man wasting no time in digging into his food and chomping away though very raucously, he managed to do so with his mouth closed at the very least. Slurping the pasta and fluttering his eyelashes pleasantly, Sniper can only assume the young man enjoys his meal at the very least.
"Did y'remember, the…?" Sniper whispers in to the ear of the rosy faced waitress, who gasps before nodding and setting off again. "Right," he clears his throat, Scout looking up from his plate attentively.
"'S funny, your Mum's got that pitch black hair,"
"She dyes it, it's actually a light brown like mine,"
"Oh…"
"Yup,"
"I mean, 'lright, you're 's Irish as can be, but you're still not Irish, you're American; you were born 'nd raised here, speak American English, 'nd identify with American culture,"
"…nah, I can see that…" Scout nods thoughtfully in between a large chomp of linguine, shrugging and, in wake of the close to which the debate descends, he finds his back loosening and his posture comfortable against the back of the cushioned chair once more. "I see where you're comin' from…"
"I mean, don't get me wrong, 's real interestin' that you've got such, a, well, rich Irish heritage; I don't have any livin' English relatives, let alone two sets o'grandparents 'nd even a biological parent," Sniper adds, careful to avoid insinuating that the young man "had" a father. He stabs a cluster of kale greens from off the ceramic of the cool, mosaic patterned bowl which contains his salad, chewing modestly as Scout nods in reference to the older man's statement.
"I mean, yeah, dad had his accent and everything," Scout recounts with a light smile, cupping his empty glass smally. "Will and Roy used to make fun of me 'cause when I was younger I had a bit of it, too; we all did, though…"
"So then he came with his parents in the mid Twenties? Guess it woulda been hard for him t'lose it either way,"
"Yeah, they came through Ellis Island; apparently my Grandpa and Grandma intended to live in one of the Burroughs of New York or whatever, but, well…."
"Well what?"
"Let's just say my Grandpa went to the grave hatin' Jews," Scout mumbles under the cover of a nebbish, lowered voice, darting his eyes to the floor before taking a breath and deciding to continue further. "And I'm pretty sure you know the deal with New York; 's just a bunch o' immigrants barely makin' it, barely speakin' English, and they're all just festerin' around and hatin' each other. Well, in the City, neighbourhoods turn over fast; and like Hell if they ever mix with each other. An Irish neighbourhood could turn Italian could turn Polish could turn Chinese, but then when it would get taken over, whoever was there last would just move to another part of the city instead of tryin' to get along. 'S just how it goes. And the Jews? It's sad, it's wrong, but no one liked 'em. Some groups would kinda band together, you know? Like maybe Germans with Swedes or Italians with Spaniards or whatever. Dunno why, maybe they learned that makin' a friendship somewhere was the only way they could keep goin', stay strong. But no matter what it was always them against the Jews,"
"Doesn't quite seem right, I mean, apart from the fact 's just silly anyway, you'd think a hodgepodge o'immigrants would be bandin' t'gether t'live the dream 'nd not start race wars in the streets,"
"Yeah, but you gotta remember Jack, these were all sorts o'groups of people comin', all thinkin' their way's the best; theirfood, their culture, their language,"
"Sure,"
"So when you got poor, uneducated laborers just workin', 'sweatin', and hatin', there ain't gonna be a lotta people tryin' to change peoples' minds and tell 'em to love each other,"
"I guess, but it still doesn't make any sense; I mean, I'm familiar with the anti-Semitism that went on back then but, er, the Irish Catholics were right on the same tier, eh? No one wanted the Irish Catholic or the Jew 's their neighbour; no offense,"
"I ain't disagreein', but I imagine it made my folks feel better about whatever, thinkin' that as long as they was hatin' on someone they was still a part of the chain; every group had another that wanted 'em out, 'cept Jews and Irishmen were hated by everybody like you said…"
"Y'sure do know a lot about it for someone who was never there…"
"Well, I've heard stories, and never good ones. So anyway, my Dad and Grandpa were workin' in some mills or some shit, and like father like son—I don't blame my Dad, he was only mimickin' what he'd seen from his parents, but…"
'Of course y'don't blame him…' Sniper muses, the young man, he wagered, even able to excuse his own father of murder if such an action were to come into question.
"The two would get into it with Jews, and start full blown fights in the street—my Dad was young though, probably pissed and angry the whole world was hatin' on him, 's like a cycle, Jack, you hate 'cause it's all you see; but the KKK was real big around that time too, and they hated Jews and Irish Catholics more than the blacks, I'd wager,"
"…Oi, where's this goin'…"
"My Grandpa got into some shit with 'em; ended up takin' what little money they'd managed to save and take the first train north to Boston they could. He claimed it was 'cause he couldn't stand livin' near Jews, but I got a feelin' it's 'cause the KKK was threatenin' him and Dad, for real. They left behind everything—not that there wasn't nothin' to take, but I mean, come on, it made sense, right? Boston was all Irish Catholic, it made sense that they'd try to make their way up there, huh? No KKK, no Jews, just people that looked and sounded like them,"
"Yeah, 'course…"
"So yeah, they made it there or whatever, settled right in; 'cept this time they were workin' docks and wharfs and shit, and my Dad met my Ma 'cause she was always down there with her girlfriends flirtin' with the sailors and stuff; I dunno, that's pretty much it, my Grandad told us a lot of those stories, back when him and Grandma were still alive…"
"When did he pass, love?"
"Was about, I dunno, maybe ten years ago? Didn't matter anyway, he moved back down to New York with my Grandma so I didn't see 'em too much anyway; for some reason Ma wouldn't let us visit so, I mean, we didn't lose complete contact or nothin', but the last time I got to see 'im was in a casket smellin' like your cologne,"
"Well, I don't wanna come too harsh on your Grandad, but perhaps 's better if the man was spewin' hate speech all over the place; I'm sure your Mum didn't want her boys bein' influenced by that sort o'attitude,"
"You know when I was a kid I wasn't really noticin' it for real; it wasn't like I had any friends and I went to an all white school, you know? Even then I was in a stupid special class with slow kids 'cause I would act up, even though I was smart. But there was this one time, where it was just me and him, right? He took me to the park, me and Grandpa—he was talkin' 'bout 1943, the year I was born—and how the only thing goin' on at the time was disease and Nazis. And he turned to me and said, 'the only thing I hate more than a Jew or a Nigger is a Kraut,'"
"Lawrence!"
"I'm just repeatin' what he said!" Scout hiccups, though reddening and taking the moment to take another bite of food.
"'S there anyone that man didn't hate?!"
"Irish Catholics—my Dad was just as bad—if he knew, about Doc, or Mikhail, or Tavish, my as—butt, it would be on the line, Jack…"
"Oi, 's a terrible thing t'say; so y'mean he would beat ya a new one if he knew Heinrich is German, Mikhail's Jewish, 'nd Tavish is Black?"
"And that you were gay, yeah, but—I don't blame him, Jack, he grew up with that hate, he didn't know no better,"
"Well your Mum seemed clear about makin' sure you boys grew up knowin' that sort o'nonsense was wrong,"
"Yeah, but, they didn't talk politics, you know? I know it was wrong what they were sayin', and it was the first time I'd stopped and really thought about the sort of stuff my Dad and Grandpa were teachin' me, you know? He said the war should have gone on until they wiped each other out, and I remember cryin' for some reason; I don't know why, but I just started cryin' after he said that. Maybe 'cause he said it in this real angry tone, and I felt like I had done somethin' wrong, 'cause of the sound of his voice. But he told me that as long as I grew up and got with an Irish Catholic chick, he'd still have a reason to call me a grandson,"
"Lawrence, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard," Jack growls, Scout nodding and placing a hand on his full stomach, the empty pasta bowl visual proof of the young man's enjoyment of the meal. "Yeah…" he sighs, and they sit quietly for a few moments, leaving Sniper to finish off his own food in moderate discomfort. "But that's life, you know? Dude Alex hated him, he didn't even go to his funeral,"
Sniper stops himself from physically uttering a booming, aggressive "Good!" in response, though he halts himself and instead clears his throat loudly, shoving his empty bowl to the side and starting instead on his chicken. "So, uh, what about your Mum's parents?" Jack asks with renewed fervor, Scout smirking a bit before raising his eyebrows quickly. "Remember how I said my grandma would like, kill ya?"
"How could I forget…?"
"Well, her and Grandpa were a lot nicer than Dad's side, but they were also kinda like, Catholic,"
"Oi,"
"Irish Catholic,"
"Weren't your other grandparents?"
"Well yeah, but it was more about the heritage with them; Ma's side was waaay more religious; you'd never hear them hatin' on other people or races like the Fitzpatricks. Naw, the Mathers were nicer,"
"Mathers?"
"Ma's side,"
"'Kay,"
"I mean, they weren't invitin' Protestants to move in next door, but if I brought a Black or Polish friend over for dinner they wouldn't be bad about it at all,"
"They already sound leagues nicer—"
"They don't like weird stuff and they don't like gays…" Larry begins, Jack clearing his throat nodding softly. "I see."
"Yeah, but—that ain't why she'd kill ya, she'd just—you know, fair trade, organic tea—she thinks that sorta stuff is un-American, un-Christian, un-Catholic,"
"Y'mean eatin' healthy is un-Christian in her eyes? I seem t'remember the Bible actually promotin' a clean diet…"
"She also thinks you're gonna go to Hell if you don't go to church every single Sunday—there was this one year where I was in bed all winter with Pneumonia, right?! Well yeah, I couldn't move and Ma even had a doctor over 'cause I was actuallydyin'—and I couldn't get to church that weekend. Now Grandma was a real nice lady, right? I loved her to death. We all did, really, and when she'd visit it was still a treat, 'cause she was old. She lived on the other side of Boston and it was just as hard for her and Grandpa to get on the bus 'cause of their old peopleness, just like Ma could rarely ever afford for all eight of us to ride—Luc was gone somewhere, prolly France or some shit,"
"Y'know he was over there 'cause o'work, right? That he could never give any o'you guys details 'cause it breached his contract?"
"Yeah sure, like he wasn't on holiday, but screw him—anyway when she came over it was always amazing. Dad's Mom and Dad moved back to New York shortly after he left, like I said, so seein' Mom's folks was always awesome and stuff. But the day she came to visit me on my freakin' death bed was like somethin' outta a Frankenstein movie,"
"Why's that, love?"
"Dude, okay, so this lady," Scout chuckles, the memory obviously resurfacing from his subconscious with a hint of humourous recountance. "Grandma…" he chuckles once more, busying himself so profusely with a hibiscus flower display on the window sil he misses completely as the waitress returns to their table to set down a tall, nearly black bottle of finely aged wine—a rich bottle of Casella, a gourmet Australian brand dating back to what appeared to be 1853, though the smokey, crumbled, and ancient parchment and faded, washed away ink makes reading the label for accuracy a folly. Scout sneezes as Sniper brushes a hand across the smooth, antiquated glass, gripping the wine opener along with two generously sized glasses the woman hands him before slipping away again, the Australian bringing a secretive finger to his lips.
"It was winter, right? And this woman came in like—dude, I swear, I was thirteen years old and this woman looked like theReaper. She was wearin' these dark shawls, 'cause you know, you're supposed to wear dark colours when it's cold and stuff. Jack, her dress was black and wet 'cause she'd been in the snow. And she had a real thick black headscarf goin' with her shawl. The shawl looked like a blanket or somethin', like somethin' she stitched. And here she comes—she had grey hair likestraw—here she comes, hobblin' up the steps and creakin' the floor—'cause this was before Ma got the carpet installed, she didn't do that 'til '57. She comes in my room lookin' like Death Jack. I swear. You know Wagner, right? Like the composer?"
"'Course…"
"You know the song he wrote for the Faust Overture?"
(A/N: If you haven't heard the song, this is what it is: watch?v=-VcPyK-SSfQ )
"I'm surprised you do,"
"Ma had a record she played all the time—that song gave me the freakin' creeps, and I swear I heard it when she came in through the door,"
"Well your Mum prolly had it on, love…"
"Dude, it didn't matter, 'causenormally when Grandma visits it was excitin'. But nah, the lights weren't on, this creepy as fu—fudge old German stuff was playin' and I'm shiverin' and dyin' and my brothers are holed up in the livin' room. I shared a room with Will, Roy, and Paul 'cause we had three bedrooms—you saw how it was set up—but they was all sleepin' in Anthony's, Chris' and Alex's room 'cause I was infectin' our room. But here she was, right? Hobblin' like I freakin' said. She justwatched me, dude. She stood at the edge of my bed and was watchin' me wheezin' 'n stuff. Grandma wasn't fun that time. She just stood there for like, five minutes, then she walked out and closed the door. And my room was all cold, and the radiator was freakin' busted but I was overheatin', so I wasn't under the blankets. Next thing I hear? Dude, she's in the livin' room yellin' at Ma—her daughter—'cause I wasn't gonna go to church the next day,"
"Come off it!"
"Nah, I'm serious!" Scout barks, leaning forward, the story telling so intense for the young man he actually leans forward with passion as an excitement within him encourages the momentum.
"You're dyin' 'nd breakin' a sweat 'n a freezin' cold room 'nd your Grandmum banishes y'to Hell,"
"I wish I were makin' this up, Jack,"
"The Bible places importance on church, yeah, 'course! There's power in fellowship, but it never once says you'll go t'Hell for not attending!"
"It doesn't?"
"No!" Jack scoffs. "'Nd it was wrong o'her t'scare a young boy into believin' it! Either she knew 'nd jus' tried scarin' your lot into goin' every Sunday, or she doesn't even know about the religion she's so devout to…"
"Well how do you know so much? Scout asks curiously, taking no notice to the loud Pop of the cork expelling from the bottle, relinquishing its title of stopper and allowing the man to pour them both man a glass of the tart alcohol, swiveling it as per customary expectancy. "ooo, 's right ripe, that is…"
"And what's that?" Scout nods as the man takes a prim sip before smacking his lips pleasantly.
"'S a nice old wine I thought I'd treat y'to,"
"Wine? You mean like, real, expensive wine?"
"'Course, 's so hard t'believe about that?"
"I dunno, I guess—I guess I just saw myself like, never sittin' in a restaurant with you sippin' on old wine, you know? I feel like a king or somethin',"
"Hmph—'nd not like you're lookin' death in the eye?" Sniper chuckles deeply, reveling the feel of the warm, fermented juice and its downward travel down his esophagus, heating his insides with an intoxicating burn like mercuric, plum shaded molasses were pooling in the bottom of his stomach, heating the rounded organ like a stony hearth.
"Oh my God, Jack, I swear I'll never forget it—jeeze," Scout sputters, having taken too much of a sip at once. His eyelids flutter as the intensity of the wine temporarily clouds his chest, misty and gaseous as the burn slowly pulls back on its ruthless stifling of his senses. "It was like somethin' outta Dickens…"
"Dickens didn't write Frankenstein, Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein,"
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Scholar," Scout slurs, taking another strong gulp of the juice, going even so far as to tilt his head back.
"Don't chug it, love, have some class…"
Scout smirks, before positioning his hands much like royalty going to grab the handle a teacup with only the nail of their finely groomed pinky, though he bursts into a fit of his usual laughter at Sniper's bemused though bewildered expression.
"Either way, you've got a right interestin' Grandmum," Jack smiles, Scout nodding before chuckling once more. "I got someweird family, wombat…" Scout shakes his head, the Australian sighing before patting him on the leg underneath the table. "Well even still you've got six amazin' brothers 'nd a beautiful, wonderful mother, 'nd no matter what, love, you've always got me," Jack grins, Scout rolling his eyes but mouthing a thank you to the man nonetheless.
"And I mean, comin' out here is the first time I really got to know people from different countries, who spoke different languages and were clearly like, different—Luc has an accent or whatever, but he's been here so long, he's pretty much an American, you know? But you guys are like…"
"What?" Jack beams, noticing the young man's dilating pupils as he too finishes his first glass along with Sniper.
"I dunno. Don't get me wrong, I'm freakin' proud of my heritage, and I love Boston, but I guess it ain't never really hit me I was just surrounded by the same ol' people up there until meetin' all of you—even the ones out to kill me…" the young man chuckles, holding out his glass as Jack treats him to yet another dousing, his wrist tipped lightly, though careful in its inclination.
"Same people?"
"Just, you know, it ain't like you get much variety up there, it ain't exactly all that welcome…"
"'Nd y'know, it's funny y'say that…"
"Mhm…" Scout nods attentively, slouching on his wrist and allowing himself to fall into a comfortable stupor ideal for listening to the man with leisure, taking the full wine glass into his hand absentmindedly, though not yet sipping from it.
"'S just a product o'the times, all that xenophobia, eh? I mean, y'gotta look at it this way; a lot o'old blood resides in Boston. Generations o'the same families, all interactin' in one little town that eventually grew city I reckon your lot knows a lot o'others around town despite its size, eh? When you're all so nestled like that, y'don't see the need t'move or for others t'move 'nd establish themselves as residents, not if they hadn't been around for a while themselves. 'Nd while I can't I felt the most welcome in Little Ireland—"
"Not welcome? What—what do you mean, Jack?"
"Aw, 's nothin', love, I didn't sense the vibe at all from your folks or anythin', 's jus' I really get the feelin' ole Boston likes her archetype like y'said; like if y'aren't a Gallagher, Murphy, or O'Brien, y'don't have much business there,"
"No one messed with ya, did they? Jack, why didn't you tell me?!"
"No, but I could tell I wasn't the jewel o'the city, what with bein' 'n Aussie 'nd not from the land o'Eire," the man takes a break in his grave dialogue to take a generous sip of the cool, concord concoction, the insides of his fleshy cheeks shriveling and reacting as the bitter liquid washes in between his tongue, teeth, and the back of his throat, the man gasping slightly but patting his chest in ultimate approval, his lips stained a sweet, puce hue. "'S a beautiful city 'nd it was wonderful sharin' it with ya, love, but I can tell 's not meant for me, 'nd that she'd rather keep it that way…"
"Sorry, Jack…"
"'S not your fault, like I was sayin', there're a bunch o'old family lines livin' around there, 'specially from the very generation you were tellin' me about; y'know, with your Grandpop,"
"Yeah,"
"So 'cause you've got a tight community with those outdated views, you're not gonna encounter anythin' that isn't like what you're used to. You ever see many Irish Protestants?"
"Dude, Jack," Scout's eyes widen, as if the mere insinuation threatened to give the young man a heart attack. "If they're there then they're real freakin' good at pretendin' to be Catholic,"
Sniper grumbles, but sees that Scout continues to sip comfortably from his glass, the man parting his lips slightly before bringing Scout's into his own, covering it in a loving grip. He gives the Australian a slow but heartfelt, wobbly smile, the young man's soft fingers trailing softly against the back of Sniper's warm hand.
"So…" Sniper begins, Scout starting and looking him in the eye. "…Where's your Dad's family from? Which city in Ireland was he born in?"
"It's a place called Ringaskiddy, near Cork. They came to the US in 1927,"
"Really now?"
"Yeah,"
"You ever been?"
"Who, me?! 'Course not! Though Ma said Dad took Alex when he was around four, so in 1936 I guess they musta flown back with my Granddad for a while. I mean he was the oldest, and it was before we were poor 'cause it was just him, Chris, and Anthony…"
"What's he think of it?"
"He never talks about it," Scout shrugs. "He's the only one who ever went and acts like it never happened,"
"'Nd you guys don't keep track o'your history, do ya?"
"Uh, you kiddin'? Ma has trees for her and dad's side in her bedroom. Those things date back to 1635, but they end with me and my brothers, Ma's gotta add on Ginny and her sister, the baby…"
"Hm, 1635? 'S nothin' t'scoff at, y'know? 's over three hundred years o'family history,"
"Dad's side starts with a dude named Lóegaire Fitzpatrick, he was a cowherder in the hills,"
"Sounds right nice, 'lmost dream like; a nice, modest profession in the Irish hills, nothin' but sweet little calves 'nd maybe a cottage…"
"Sounds like someone's got a fantasy,"
"Oi, livin' in the wilderness with animals 'nd the van's been a dream o'mine since I was twenty years old,"
"And you say you ain't a hippie,"
"Oi! I'll still manage t'have a job, unlike those grovelin' little wastes o'my tax dollars,"
"Aw come on, Luke's a total hippie and he has a job," Scout grins, referring to Jack's own comrade and friend, the RED Pyro. "Don't think I didn't notice the time you two was outside chirpin' and callin' birds,"
"That doesn't make me a hippie!"
"You smell like one,"
"Only 'cause I refuse t'plug up my underarms with that toxic hogwash!"
"Right, 'cause not wearin' deodorant 'cause it's not organic isn't somethin' a hippie would say…"
The candle, now flickering a dim crimson, fogged against the maroon velour curtains and suggesting the wick is flickering under only a few inches left of life, casts a soft light against Lawrence's warm, flushed face. The influence of the alcohol filling the young man with mellow, sluggish beatitude that causes the length of Scout's lips to curl into a smile of utter, drunken complacency. "'S'ppose y'think you're funny or somethin'…" Jack chuckles, and the two men toast to the statement, smiling at each other heartily before downing the rest of the bottle in less than fifteen minutes. It isn't until the candle dies entirely, in fact, when Katherine returns, a small leather booklet in her hand, presumably with the bill
"Ah—forget about it, love, I'm takin' care of it…" Jack beams as he catches the book before Lawrence can carry through with his plan of wrenching the flap to take a peek at the bill, the man producing a dark brown wallet and sifting through a neatly stacked arrangement of bills, alternating between twenties and fifties. Scout's eyes widen, though Jack's nimble fingers are too quick for the young man to actually catch and determine a total cost for the night's excursion; not that he wouldn't have been too drunk to do so anyhow.
"…was a pleasure, Katherine, 'nd thanks for your service," Jack grins, Lawrence however grimacing at the blonde and her modest smile directed at the satisfied though composed Australian and his handing to her what Scout considers to be ahighly exaggerated tip, though what truly catches his eye is the soft smile in her eyes, and the scrawl upon torn white paper she subtly slips the unknowingly taken older man.
"'S wrong with you, love? Y'look rather ticked," Jack smiles, Scout sending a hand to grip onto his wrist, prying the note from his hand and uncrumpling it quickly, the sloughly inebriation from before proving to disintegrate as instead a rising fury means to replace it.
"The fuck is this, Jack?!" he spits, slamming the balled up wad so it crashes against the table, Sniper stuttering as he meets the Bostonian's eyes. "The FUCK—"
"Larry, love—"
"FUCK YOU, JACK!" Scout roars, rising from his chair and throwing the crumpled ball at the man's chest, Jack catching it as upon the note is Katherine's name and number, his stomach falling through his feet and floor, sinking well below any inhabitable part of the earth's surface.
"Lawrence, please…" Sniper begs quietly, though the other diners do not seem too intrigued by the man's cautious entreaty. Instead they watch the fuming Scout with quiet, unabashed and blatant interest, the young man's deafening rant about hitting on skanky waitresses whilst on a date clearly more captivating than any meal on their plate or the words of any lovers of their own.
"SO WHAT WAS IT, JACK? JUST A QUICK MEAL SO YOU WOULDN'T FEEL SO BAD ABOUT FUCKING ME IN YOUR SHITHOLE OF A VAN?! SO YOU COULD FUCK ME AND LOOK ME IN THE FACE AND NOT FEEL GUILTY ABOUT IT?! SO YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO BE A FAG AND A CHEAP BOYFRIEND?!"
"Lawrence, that's enough, you're drunk—!"
"I AIN'T SO DRUNK THAT I DON'T SEE HOW MUCH OF A SLUT YOU AND YOUR WAITRESS WHORE ARE! DO YOU LIKE IT WHEN YOUNG DUDES FALL FOR YOU?! 'CAUSE YOU DON'T GOTTA PAY FOR 'EM?! BUT DUDES LIKE YOU WHO'VE BEEN ALL AROUND THE BLOCK KNOWS HOW SHIT WORKS, HUH?!"
"Larry, we are causin' a disturbance—the manager's lookin' at us—the whole restaurant's lookin' at us!"
"I DON'T HEAR YOU DENYIN' IT—!"
"Larry, love, you're so drunk—I can't help what she wrote, love, I don't want her, I love you! T'night wasn't about anythin' other than makin' y'happy—!" Jack pleads as he places his hands on the frame of the heavily breathing Bostonian, Scout pushing him away so violently he crashes against the sil of the window, Sniper groaning as the hard oak collides with his lower back.
"YEAH RIGHT, JACK! I LOVE YOU AND YOU DON'T SEE ME TAKIN' SOME GIRL'S NUMBER! HEY KATHERINE, YOU STUPID BITCH—HOW DO YOU LIKE SINGLE AUSTRALIANS?!"
"Larry!"
"FUCK YOU JACK, FUCK YOU AND YOUR STUPID PLAN! WE'RE FUCKING THROUGH!" Scout glares at him for only a few seconds' more before tearing from the restaurant proper, the eyes of the patrons following him insofar they can before detaching from the cavaties of their skulls and following the young man with an indignant, violent stride through the double doors of their own.
"Fuck, Lawrence!" Sniper growls as he grabs his suit jacket and wastes no further time in trailing the drunkenly infuriated young man, the air cool and the streets just as lively as they were some three hours ago, despite the fact his wristwatch reads 10:39 pm. "God fuckin' dammit."
Slipping on the garment, he checks to make sure his wallet and keys are still in the breast, though his hands clamp around them as he picks a direction and runs in it, hoping to God it's the correct one. 'Guess I should try findin' 'im with the van'Jack reasons mentally, hoping the young man doesn't cause any further trouble; walking around in decent suits, dark and alone in an unknown part of the city, was never the wisest of ideas, no matter how certain Jack was the young man could take care of himself.
'Lawrence you bloody idiot'
"OI!" the man roars as he rounds the corner and catches Lawrence mid swing, a shattering of glass echoing throughout the alleyway seconds later as he brings the chunk of concrete in his hand to collide against the van's windshield, splintering from the epicenter of impact in veiny trails up to the steel wiring of the windows themselves, shards sprinkling to the ground in powdered flickers.
"THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, LAWRENCE?!" Jack wails as Scout knocks out the other before bringing his hand to smash out a headlight.
"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY VAN YOU DELUSIONAL LITTLE SHIT!"
"WHERE'S KATHERINE?! YOU COULDN'T BRING HER BACK WITH YOU TO THE VAN?! GUESS YOU'RE NOT AS LUCKY AS YOU THINK, JACK—"
"THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! OI!" Jack roars as Scout takes off down the alley, his natural inclination for speed clearly refusing to falter even in his drunken state.
"My baby…" Jack weeps as he surveys his damaged van, sparing her a good thirty seconds before a woman's shriek sounds from a few streets' over.
'Larry, I swear if that's you 'causin' more of a scene….' Jack roars before starting himself, his heart racing as he twists down back streets and alleys, sweat drenched and rancid, the natural perspiration mixing with the faded cologne.
"HE'S GOING TO JUMP!"
Jack whips around to find a modest crowd has gathered on the center of a cobblestone bridge, riding a good twenty feet above a rivers whose darkened waters Sniper cannot determine a depth for. Standing upon the intricate steel castings painted white is Lawrence who balances himself dramatically on the edge of the bridge, Jack making a motion to wrench him down but instead sighing as the young man turns his head to steal a glance at the sweating man.
"Lawrence I swear t'everythin' that is Holy if y'don't get down from there,"
"What, Jack?!" Scout snaps, turning to glare at the man before facing the water once more.
"Someone stop this young man!"
"He's drunk, Miss!" Sniper growls, eyeing the young man's back angrily. "He's in a right state 'nd he's bein' ridiculous!"
"Someone call the police!"
"'S no need t'get the police involved, Miss!" Jack roars, his expression loosening as Lawrence lifts a foot, turning to give the Australian a final look back.
"Goodbye Jack."
The same noisy woman screams as without further ado the young man plummets below, Sniper trailing right behind him as he tosses his jacket aside and dives after him without a second thought.