AN: Here we are, another piece to this one!
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Outside the café, those that had been eating in the fresh air were gone. The tables hadn't been entirely bussed. There was still a brown plastic tub where Jacqui, needing to step inside because of the gesture of some customer, more than likely, had been gathering up dishes into the brown plastic container that made it easier for her to move the mess. She'd moved away napkins and things that might blow away, but hadn't quite finished with silverware, plates, and glasses.
The women that Daryl was waiting on seemed to take their time paying and making it out of the café. In their absence, Daryl smoked his cigarette and piled dishes into the brown container that Jacqui had temporarily forgotten. When he went back inside, he'd take her the dishes and save her the trip— and he'd tell her it was thanks for putting the crushed glass in a heaping mound of delicious chicken salad for him.
Daryl was, honestly, always happy for something to keep his hands busy.
When the women came out, Daryl followed them a few steps down the sidewalk, given that they were moving too quickly for him to hesitate, and then he called out to get their attention.
"Can I just—talk to you for a minute?" Daryl called out.
Five women stopped. Three turned back to look at him over their shoulders. Two looked at each other like they were trying to decide if he was genuinely going to talk to them or attack them. Daryl kept his distance, just in case his presence made five grown women on a public sidewalk nervous enough to react in some way.
"Just wanna talk," he offered, softening his tone now that he wasn't trying to catch them.
Everyone relaxed and, finally, all five bodies turned toward him. Most of them stood, arms crossed across their chests. A couple looked curious about what he had to say, but he could tell that some of them were already wearing a disgusted face, determined that they already didn't like what they were going to hear.
He realized that they were waiting on him to speak, and he accepted that.
"I'm Daryl Dixon," he said. He gestured toward the patch on his shirt that identified him as "D. Dixon," which separated him from "M. Dixon" since they went on any number of similar jobs, and people might get confused if they needed or wanted to call into the office with a request. "I know you noticed, because I overheard what you was saying about how people like me—people who were the kind who wore their names on their shirts—were given to more of this behavior you were discussing." He laughed to himself. "I'm guessin' you mean white trash like me, right? People who—wear their name on their shirts 'cause otherwise I might not know it was my shirt, and I'd be too dumb to keep up with a nametag."
"That wasn't…" One of the women started.
Daryl held his hand up.
"I ain't pissed. I ain't. Not about that, at least. And—just so you know I'm not some kinda idiot, despite the fact I ain't spent my whole damn life in college like you have, well…we wear uniforms because it's neater. Identifies us readily with the company and brand name. Also, it cuts down on dealin' with not bein' able to find what your employer wants you to wear, and they don't gotta fuck around with a list of what's OK and what ain't. Put your uniform on, go to work. Simple as that. We don't wear nametags because that shit's dangerous. I do a lot of shit—a lot of shit. I can't mess around with the possibility that a tag's gonna get hung on shit. This is simple. If it gets hung bad enough, I'm comin' outta my whole damn shirt, you best believe it. And—am I white trash? Yeah…I prob'ly am. A lotta damn things, really. And that behavior your asses was talkin' about? It's real. It is. I know. I've seen it. A lot of it."
"We weren't…" One of the women tried to interrupt.
"Meanin' to be overheard?" Daryl asked with a smirk. "Yeah, you were. You was talkin' loud enough. You weren't meanin' to be called on it. That's the difference."
"We were working in a public place," one of the sourest looking of the women said. "That hardly means that we should expect someone to eavesdrop on our conversation and overcome us in the street."
Daryl snorted and looked around.
"Overcome you? Lady—there's one of me and five of you. There's four feet of space between us, and the closest thing I got to some kind of weapon is a pocket knife that's got a spring so tight it takes me a good solid two minutes to even get the damned thing open most days, especially since I bite my fingernails somethin' awful. I don't wanna touch a single damned one of you. Not with a ten-foot pole. I just wanna talk."
"What do we have to say to each other?" The woman challenged. "We don't even know you."
"You sure thought you knew me in there," Daryl said.
"Look—we're sorry if our research offended you in some way," the same woman said. She hadn't bothered to introduce herself, but it was clear that she considered herself something of a speaker for them all, and it was also clear that the others seemed to have accepted that. "We're part of an academic community, however, and we're allowed to explore areas of interest and research as a way of uncovering and exploring facts about human nature and behavior."
Daryl hummed.
"You are," he said. "And as part of the overall human community, I'm allowed to comment on it if I figure that it needs further discussion. Listen—maybe what the hell I have to say will just add to your research or whatever you call it."
"You're going to tell us that not all men behave in a given manner," the youngest of the women said. Daryl could practically hear her roll her eyes—not that he couldn't see it, too.
"I could," Daryl said, "but I could see it wouldn't do no good. Listen—I won't stand here and tell you that men don't act like assholes. I can be an asshole of the first damn degree sometimes. Surprise myself. And I'm not even as bad as some people. Hell—some people get their damn rocks off just bein' assholes. It's what they do. But there's women that's just as bad. In fact—there's this group of women that pretty regularly terrorizes my damn wife just for the fun of it. Just because it makes their asses feel superior or some shit. Bunch of damn assholes, if you ask me, to go outta their damn way to make my wife feel like shit just so they feel better about themselves."
Daryl waited to see if there would be some spark of self-recognition. Perhaps, even, he might see some show of sorrow or regret. Instead, they seemed to be waiting like they were simply bothered by his delaying their moving on to some other location where they might terrorize someone else.
Assholes, in all forms and fashions, rarely recognized their own piss-poor behaviors, Daryl decided.
"Look—I won't stand here and defend men. I don't even care enough to defend myself. If every last one of you thinks I'm an asshole that don't deserve the air I breathe, it's really no skin off my ass. But I am gonna defend my wife. See—she comes home sometimes, from work, and I can tell when y'all have been there. Now—she loves y'all comin' in just as much as any other customer, except for the fact you think it's OK to say shit to her about me and about our kid."
"Nobody has said anything to her…"
"Except you have," Daryl said. "You make it sideways shit; I'll give you that. You don't come right out and say it, 'cause that'd blow back on your ass. You ask questions. You say shit. You give her sideways looks."
The woman who appeared to the be ringleader of the group changed her stance. Daryl thought she showed interest. Maybe, her change in stance was simply her effort to assert some kind of dominance. He'd struck a chord.
"Anything that any of us have said to your wife is simply to bring her attention to her situation," the woman said.
"What the hell do you know of her situation?" Daryl asked. "It's me that knows her situation. It's you that sends her home with indigestion and anxiety. It's me that's rubbin' her back and reassurin' her that you're full of shit."
"Self-serving reassurance, no doubt," the woman said.
Daryl laughed ironically.
"You're a piece of work," he said.
"And you're a man who wants to keep a woman as a trophy. A plaything."
"You know a lot about my ass, considerin' we ain't never met before," Daryl offered.
"You're not that complicated," the woman countered.
"Neither are you," Daryl said. "I'm sorry nobody ever bought you flowers or…candy…or whatever trips your trigger." She opened her mouth at him, clearly offended.
"Women who can be bought with such things don't realize that they're just attempts to manipulate."
"Everything is, if you wanna pick it apart enough. If I smile at you when I see you, I'm tryin' to manipulate you into bein' more comfortable…likin' me…trustin' me…whatever. Stand a certain way—well, hell, that's because I want you to respond a certain way. We're all animals, lady."
"Only a man would try to put me in my place by calling me lady," she offered with a quirked eyebrow. She looked like she believed she'd won some kind of point.
"You ain't told me your name," Daryl said. "And I figured you'd object to me callin' you any other number of names I might be thinkin' suited you."
She looked offended. He didn't care. If she thought he was an A-rated asshole, he'd be one. Carol might lose some customers, but he didn't figure she'd lose a lot that mattered. If he had to, he'd keep fliers for the café and pass them out as he went from job to job. Plenty of people liked coffee and good-ass food. He'd take cookies for samples.
But he wasn't about to back down from these bitches. Daryl lit another cigarette. One of them curled her lip and he winked at her.
"Don't worry," he said. "I won't ask you to kiss me. And if I did—it wouldn't be my lips that was on offer."
She scoffed and backed up a step. He laughed to himself.
"Clutchin' your damned pearls," he commented. "Listen—I do think my wife is a trophy. I'm fuckin' proud to have her as my wife. You ever met her? Really met her? Woman is fuckin' gorgeous. Beautiful. She's funny, and she's smart. That café? She started it from the ground up. Keeps it goin'. She's got a damn good head on her shoulders."
"But you'd rather have her barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen," the woman challenged—the same who preferred him not to call her "lady," but hadn't yet provided him with a name that she preferred.
"I like her barefoot, with shoes on…pregnant and not…and she's damn good in the kitchen, but her ass is good anywhere she is," Daryl said.
"You're the kind that thinks a woman's job is to marry, have children, and serve her husband," the woman said.
"Am I?" Daryl asked. "Damn…if only I knew me better. Listen…I think Carol's job is runnin' that café, because that's her damned job. I'm a handyman. She runs a café. That's what the hell we do. It ain't much and it don't land us on television or nothin', but it puts food on the table. What you don't know about her is that she was married to one of them assholes that you're tryin' to turn me into. One of them that thought he owned her. She got free from him, and I'd kill him for all he done to her, if it didn't mean I had to go to prison and miss out on bein' with her and our kid. She got loose from him. On her own. Started that café. Bought her house. On her own. I didn't think she'd marry my ass and she coulda done a hell of a lot better, but I hope she don't never figure that out, because I wouldn't want to spend a single day of my sorry ass life without her. And havin' kids? You don't know her story, and I won't tell it to the likes of you. Suffice it to say that this baby? She wants her…she wants her so damn bad…and so do I. I'm sorry if it offends your ass that there are women who wanna procreate, but it is what the hell it is. We all come in all types, and someone's gotta keep the species goin' while you look down on all that do. And she does serve me, sometimes, same as I serve her. Not because I expect it, or because she has to, but because she loves me…same as I do her."
"You want to possess her."
Daryl laughed.
"You don't stop, do you?" He asked. "If any one of us owns the other? She owns my ass. I'd follow her through hell like a mangy pup if that's what the hell she wanted me to do. I don't even think she realizes it. If she does, she don't use that power against me, so I'm thankful for that. But—it ain't me. I don't care to control her. I want her to have what she wants—that café, our baby girl…everything that makes her happy. I want her to keep the house she's got for as long as she wants, rent it out, if she wants, even after we build a house together, so she don't feel like she's up some kinda creek without a paddle." He shook his head. "I don't ever want her to feel like she has to be with me. Our relationship ain't no good to me if she's with me outta obligation."
"Of course…you'd say that," the woman said.
Daryl couldn't quite tell if she was feeling like she was losing ground, and that made her uncomfortable, or if she simply was so set on her beliefs that she simply wasn't going to hear anything he had to say.
"Whatever—it don't matter. It don't change my life if you don't believe me, and every damn story needs a villain, don't it? My only point is that Carol's fuckin' happy. She's as happy as my ass can make her. And this baby, and this baby shower? They're what the hell she wants. She wants 'em both. Desperate. Don't ruin her happiness just to suit yourselves. That's all the hell I'm sayin'. You think what you want about me. Hell—you think what the hell you want about her. But keep your damn thoughts to yourself, and don't go fuckin' up her happiness just because you got none of your own."
"Is that some kind of threat?" The woman asked. "Some kind of…or else?"
Daryl bristled, but he got it under control. He could tell that she was the kind of woman that would call the police on him. She would say that she felt threatened. She'd try to have him hauled in as violent and out of control.
"No," Daryl said. "Hell—it's just a simple damn plea to human fuckin' decency. That's all. I'm askin' you to not hurt my wife. I'm askin' you to let her have her damn happiness. She's had enough hurt, and she's had enough fuckin' sufferin' at the hands of damn men you say you hate so much. If you hate them men for hurtin' women and whatever…well, don't do the same damn thing in your own way. That's it. That's all this is. A fuckin' plea for decency. A request that…you don't be what you hate so damn much and tear down my wife for just tryin' to live the life she wants."
Daryl laughed and shrugged.
"Don't be what the hell you hate so damned much and tell other women how the hell to live their lives," Daryl said. "Leave that to the men, right?" He winked his eye at them, and he turned, not giving them a chance to respond to him. There was no need, after all, to hear what they had to say. He wasn't going to "win them over" in some kind of argument, and he wasn't even interested in trying. Likewise, they weren't going to change his mind.
The best they could do was part company, and he could hope that they at least saw fit to leave Carol out of things.
It was fine to him if they hated men. It was fine to him if they hated him. He didn't care if they hated Carol for being a representative of everything they seemed to hate about other women. He didn't care if they thought there was something wrong with her because she loved him, and loved their daughter, and loved the life they were creating.
All Daryl really cared about was that they kept their thoughts away from Carol's feelings.
