Let Me


devon2_icon.gif jet_icon.gif

Scene Title Let Me
Synopsis A little help for a local homeless shelter brings about a brief conversation and one teenager's awkward side.
Date April 19, 2011

Washington Irving High School

Washington Irving High School never regained its balance after the terrorist attack in 2008. Although it was closed for 20 months after the bomb exploded in Midtown, the high school managed to survive that catastophe and come out stronger, but the loss of life and the damage done to the school in the 2008 rocket attack simply was too much. The windows of the school are broken, walls graffitied by mischievous teens and the west wing of the school still looks gutted from the rockets that tore thorugh the building. The interior is exposed to the elements, blue tarps covering the ground floor and chain link fence closing off the area from the public. It's one of many scars in New York that haven't ever healed.

Only the Barrows Memorial Gymnasium remains open to the public now, and no longer does it serve its original purpose. The large Gymnasium was constructed only a year before the bomb in and memorialized in the name of a student killed in a traffic accident in Queens. Now this large gymnasium serves as temporary shelter for the destitute, homeless and desperate of the city. Soup kitchen trucks operate out front of the gym, rows and rows of folding cots and portable partition screens create a makeshift and temporary living environment for over three hundred residents seeking to escape the cold.

On any given day, the residency of this shelter can peak around three hundred, though now that the weather has turned for the worst, it can sometimes reach near five hundred desperate souls clinging to warmth and shelter where there is none left to give.

Mornings mean deliveries for a place that survives on the good will of others. Food and clean linens and donated clothing are needed to be brought in and sorted out for the residents whose only claim to property is what others cast aside or prepare for them. And this morning, though breakfast has long since been served and people are starting to consider lunch, is no exception to the endless charities that come through those doors.

And through those doors is Devon Clendaniel. His mentor has been on a cooking spree. Again. There's been no clue as to why the host of The Advocate is on another of his culinary binges, but it's way more than enough food than two men could eat alone. So it's fallen to the intern to give it a new home and bring it to those who need it most.

The teenager, shirking the suit and tie he'd normally wear on work days for simple blue jeans and long sleeved tee, balances two boxes laden with food of all sorts while he works the door open. It's an awkward task, blindly feeling for the handle to unbar the way inside while maintaining his hold on cardboard boxes precariously stacked upon each other. And it's a task he might have griped over any other day, deeming it more worthy of a certain executive assistant and not a lowly intern. But it came with the option of not dressing up and keeping him out of the studio for a few hours at least.

"Let me." A female voice, as warm fingers slide over Devon's own before simply pushing them out of the way as she grips a hold of the handle. Tugging the door open, her foot holds it open as Jet now moves to take the top most box from the stack that Devon is holding. Balancing that one box, with her foot holding open the door, she jerks her chin to the inner gym part "Go on then, I got the door. A faint smile from her, but then it falls to nothing.

Moreso at the touch than at the voice, Devon jerks back and nearly spills his parcels. He opens his mouth to say something, turning a face shadowed with bruising toward the young woman. However, he's uncertain of whether he's intending is a protest or a simple word of thanks instead, instead sufficing with a small, unsure nod. Shifting his grip on the box he steps through the doorway, eyes slanting toward Jet in passing. On the other side, the intern glances in the direction the kitchen should be, then turns back to wait for his other deliver to follow. Or be returned to him.

Jet narrows her eyes a bit when she catches sight of those bruises, lips pursing into a line as she simply walks silently behind Devon. She follows his lead, her doc martens thunking on the ground as she walks behind him. Glances around to all the homeless hanging around with their bed cots, before she turns her attention more so towards the soup kitchen area. "I do not remember much about high school, just the dark parts." Says the seventeen year old looking female. "But I did enjoy mathematics."

The frown doesn't go unnoticed, but Devon doesn't offer an explanation. Stubbornly. He turns and leads the way, eyes sliding past the cots and those without a home to call their own. When Jet speaks up again, he slows and looks toward her, a brow arching. "You talk like you graduated about ten years ago," he returns, his tone quiet and seeming naturally so.

Jet gives a soft laugh to Devon's words about graduating ten years ago, the black haired female simply offering an "I wish it was ten years ago." Nothing more from her at this as she continues to walk after Devon. Her eyes skim over his bruisings once more, "So who did you piss off?" She just simply asks, adjusting the box she's holding in her hands, "Or do you just like it rough in the sack?"

A brow ticks up at the laugh, but following suit, the intern says nothing more on the subject. He hefts the box slightly, adjusting his grip on it while glancing toward the kitchen space again. He'd brush off the question with a shrug, normally, bruises aren't anything worth commenting on. But the amendment catches him off guard and he looks at her again. "…What? No. That… No. Just… got taken by a couple of thugs looking for a hand out." An edge creeps into his tone, not complaint or hope for sympathy, just statement of simple fact.

Jet continues to walk behind the young man, but she pulls up slightly to his side so she can look sideways at him. "Thugs huh? That sucks. Did you at least get a good punch for groin kick in?" Another slight smirk of her lips, then a grin to Devon. "I'm Jet by the way. Do you work here?"

This time a shrug does seem sufficient enough, and so the young man's shoulders rise and fall. "It was just a little scuffle, got roughed up a little and they left." It was more than a little roughed up, but most bruises are easy to hide. Once more his demeanor seems apathetic toward the incident. "I'm Devon," he returns after a brief pause, "and no. I'm an intern at Studio K, just here making a delivery. My employer …is in a cooking mood." That's putting it lightly, both boxes are filled with dishes of all sorts, well packaged for the trip over.

"What is Studio K?" Another glance to Devon then away as she carries the box a bit more delicately now, perhaps knowing what's in it. "I do not work here either. Gonna help when the lunch rush starts though, because I'm bored. Not because I have a bleeding heart." So there. Another shifting of the box as she steps around a stray leg sticking out from it's owner. "You gonna stay and have lunch? IT's not, you know, great." A slight wrinking of her nose then it softens. "A scuffle. You still should have groin kicked them."

For all the world, the young woman could have been asking if water was wet. Devon stares at her, trying to comprehend the question. "Studio K is… a studio? It's the studio, where Ms. Quinn's radio show happens and Mister Russo hosts his show. The Advocate?" He studies Jet, watching her expression and wondering how anyone could have missed any of that. As he comes up to a counter, the box is placed on it. "I'm just here to drop off food, probably grab lunch at the studio or …something."

"Oh. I do not listen to the radio much. A bunch of whining, and arguing, and stupid people." A shrug of her shoulders at this as she puts down the box she was carrying next to Devon's own, hands rubbing on her thighs a bit before she flashes him a grin. "Is it a good radio show? What do you talk about? And please don't say the Evolved. I would actually like to listen, and that topic is tres boring."

"I don't know what Ms. Quinn does," Devon admits. After pushing his box just a little further along the counter, he leaves it for the staff to handle themselves. Arms fold across his chest as he looks back to Jet, uncertainty still etched in his expression. "I guess it's a good show. I… I'm Mister Russo's intern. Or assistant. Also… he's… it's television, and political."

"Ok." That's all Jet says to that, lifting her wrist as she notes the time on her watch before her said arm lowers once more. "I should get going, I have been gone longer than I anticipated. But I saw a man in need." Another light smirk from her at this, then a grin. "Come around again some time, I come here a couple days out of the week, but I ain't never for sure when I shall be here, ya know? I will have to listen into this Studio K thing. Sounds like a decent job though, pays well? Oh, an intern. You don't get paid, do you?"

"It… Um, yeah." Devon shrugs a little, still staring at her and brows furrowing. "I don't… it's just an internship. Paid through learning." He watches Jet a moment longer then shakes his head and looks toward the doors he'd come in through. "Uh.. yeah. Yeah, I should go. To work I mean. But, when… whenever Brad… Um, Mister Russo cooks. I get to bring it in." Usually. "…Is that what you do? Volunteer, I mean. And reminisce about high school?"

"I miss the days past at times, but such is life to move forward." A hip of the table as her arms cross over her chest. "I do work when I get bored, I do not seek money for it. But yeah, nice meeting you Devon. Take care, alright?" A hand to his shoulder as she gives him a squeeze, before pushing off of the table and heading towards the exit of the gym. "And don't be going into any dark alleys, got it?"

A flinch and reflexive pull of his shoulder is Devon's reaction to the touch. Not in pain or discomfort beyond a wariness for strangers. "Sorry. It's… Yeah… Nice to meet you too. Thanks for the help." He watches Jet go, brows drawing down into a decidedly unsure expression. He gives her a moment, or three, to leave before making his own way toward the exit. "Man, I'm a freak," he chides softly, hands lowering and digging into hip pockets. It's not long before he's pushing through the doors himself and finding his way back to the studio.

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