Participants:
| Scene Title | Second Introduction |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sable and Tasha chat one on one for the first time. |
| Date | May 7, 2010 |
The kitchen.
There are a few points Sable is always firm on: that being a musician does not make you automatically useless in practical matters, and that she is /not/, definitely /not/ a freeloader. At least, never by choice. So, when given the option, Sable will often take the more onerous tasks on any chore list (what she sometimes calls 'the dirty jobs), just to send a message to any that might doubt her industry and investment.
This lands her in the kitchen after most meals, monopolizing the sink as she furiously scrubs at the accumulated dirty dishes. This isn't a mean task, given the population of the Lighthouse, but Sable makes the best of it. Anyone entering the kitchen at this time generally gets to see Sable, ears clasped by hefty headphones, taking shuffling dance steps and mouthing the words to some unheard song or another as she transfers a newly cleaned plate to the drying rack. It looks kind of like fun, at least in her crazy little world.
At this instant she has just finished with a wooden spoon, the kind used to stir boiling pasta. But, rather than deposit it with the other larger utensils, she stops, head bobbing, waiting… waiting… until suddenly she starts to rattle the upturned bottoms of four drying pots, the clangs ringing out clearly through the kitchen and out into the living area beyond.
Tasha enters the kitchen carrying a tray of dirty mugs, having picked them up from various rooms in the house where they've been left. The cold weather means lots and lots of hot tea, hot cocoa, hot coffee, and no one is very good at remembering to pick up the cups and bring them to the kitchen, a task Tasha has assigned to herself tonight.
Seeing Sable drumming on the pots and pans, the teenager grins, leaning in the doorway with her head tilted as she takes in the impromptu drum solo. Knowing the music in the headphones is likely too loud to hear over, she keeps her comments to herself. After a moment, she heads toward the sink to set the tray down on the counter, grabbing the dishwasher detergent to squirt a little into one of the more corroded cups.
'Tok tok tok', Sable's drumming ends with this sound, and she lets the spoon slide from her hand, into the pocket in the dish rack. Then she spins on her heel, and does a side to side dance shuffle, with fingers pointing, first hither, then yon. At least, this is what she was getting ready to do… when turning around confronts her with Tasha. She stops in place, looking a little startled, but doesn't seem ashamed or embarrassed. She pulls the headphones down around her neck, and her hand slips into the pocket of her cargo pants, depresses a button, and the music stopping.
"I got the dishes, it's cool. You don't need to lift a finger," she grins crookedly, "You can handle those kids, a rare talent of sorts. Me… Lord knows I'm more likely to get into an argument with 'em. Can't even help but call 'em names. It's how I grew up. Bad habits, eh?" Not bad names, though. Just stuff like 'small change' or 'munchkin'.
"Me? Good with the kids? I don't know about that. I'm about as likely to swear at Paul as he is at me. Hell, I probably taught him some of those words — don't tell anyone," Tasha quips, but she flips the water on to at least make the soap she poured into the cups start to bubble and soak in to make Sable's job easier.
"I know you're in a band — you the drummer? A petite and pretty Nick Mason? No, wait, you asked if I drum, so probably not. Though it'd be hard to front the band and drum at the same time, so maybe you do both." Tasha leaves the sink and hops up onto the counter, crossing her ankles as she surveys Sable. The slightly younger girl looks tired from taking care of Colette, her eyes a little red and swollen from lack of sleep or perhaps something else, but she seems to be in good enough spirits.
"Worked for Phil Collins, but Genesis turned into a fuckin' cesspool after Peter Gabriel left, y'know?" Sable says, with all the frankness and earnestness of a deeply felt opinion, "But naw, I'm guitar. 'course I can do bass a bit, and some stuff on the keyboards, but guitar's really where I'm at. Lead," she grins, "'cuz I can't bear not to be the center of fuckin' attention."
She turns back to the dishes, arms plunging into the water, feeling around for the brillo pad. "You still gotta show me your art whatsit," she says, starting to scrub at a particularly vehement pasta sauce stain, "And I can always play somethin' for you, if you'd care to hear me. I can cover quite a fuckin' lot, got a good head for notes and words," she taps the side of this good head, "Just less room left for other things, eh?" She gives a small snicker.
"Phil Collins… his best work, from what I can figure, was in that Disney movie. Those gorillas all being like Stomp or Blue Man group were pretty cool," Tasha says, with a bit of a smirk. "I think my parents might have listened to Genesis, not my cup of tea. But then they might have listened to Pink Floyd, too. I don't plan on asking, because if they did I'd probably have to kill myself by the whole 'nothing your parents did could possibly be cool' rule, right?"
She brings her feet up and crosses them Indian-style on top of the counter. "I don't have any of my stuff here, but I mean, I can doodle out something for you if you like. And of course I'd love to hear you play." She chuckles at the the self-depracting comments and shrugs in return. "There's a lot of kinds of intelligent. Most people'd kill for a head for music, you know?"
"The fuckin' shame of it is, our parents, and their fuckin' parents, listened to the goddamn height of the art," Sable says. This tone is a bit uncommon for her. The accenting is less prominent, and with fewer 'likes' and 'ehs'. She's opining without thinking too hard… just speaking her mind. She seems, washing dish after dish, strangely relaxed. The wild show has been temporarily paused.
"The Who, the Rolling Stones, the fuckin' Beatles? Jimi Hendrix, for God's sake. We get, fuck, who? Rivers Cuomo?" Sable snorts, "Harvard Educated bastard. Made one really good album, and most of it still about his creepy fuckin' asian fetish." Wow, she's really rambling, the pace of her cleaning quickening, but still controlled, as if on automatic. The ramble ends, but she's still in a groove. "Naw, naw, don't get me wrong. I'm glad I'm the way I am. Y'know, I'm Evo?" She looks up at Tasha, grinning wickedly, "Know what power I got?"
"The Doors. I'd give my left nut — if I had one, mind you — if I could hear The Doors play in person. I agree. Soooo wasted on my parents. They're yuppies." Tasha rolls her eyes as she picks at the threads of her everpresent fingerless gloves. "Oh, well, maybe the best minds of our generation are yet to come, right? Like, your band." She flashes a smile, and there's nothing cynical in it for once.
"No… I mean, I don't really know anyone's power unless it's obvious, and I've learned not to ask. What do you do?" she asks, curiously, knees coming up as she wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees.
"Shit, what /do/ we have to give up? Ovaries? Fuck 'em, got no use for 'em." Sable says, putting the last touch on the last glass before setting on the dish rack, and lifting her arms, squinting at her fingers, "Prunes. Of fuckin' course. What the fuck does that happen? Has science been able to explain that shit?" She looks Tasha in the eye, "Honest fuckin' question. Do you know?"
She shakes her arms, showering the kitchen floor with a light drizzle of dish water, "Me?" she flashes a grin, "I'm genetically an incredible musical genius. I mean, I knew it before, but now it all makes sense, eh? I've this feelin' my whole life, that I was somehow different." It's impossible to tell from her tone of voice if she's joking, serious, or joking about something serious. This may be to some purpose. Her looks a little sly as she waits to see how Tasha will respond.
Tasha laughs at the prune question and shakes her head, her shaggy locks falling across her eyes. "I got A's in bio, but I don't think that came up. I'd guess that it's just the skin getting all waterlogged, but you'd think it would look fatter and plumper, not all wrinkly or something. I don't get it, no. Maybe a doctor could tell you."
At the announcement of her being a musical genius, Tasha just tilts her head. "I don't know if that's a power. I mean, can't you be a musical genius — like, talentwise — and have another power? Because you could be extraordinary in more than one way. I'd bet that some of those greats you were mentioning - Hendrix, Lennon — I'd bet they're not technically evo, but still great."
"Sure, sure. But how the hell do we know, eh?" Sable says, "Which is why I thought this whole Evo registration bullshit was, well, some fuckin' bullshit," she dries off her hands, just a little damp now, on her tanktop. Up down, up down, a habitual motion. "Far as I'm concerned, if what, say, fuckin' Beethoven could do ain't a goddamn super power, if he ain't some sort of mutant or somethin', what the hell's your fuckin' criteria, y'know?"
"Well, true. I mean, it is kinda bogus what amazing powers are considered Evo and what aren't, based on if you have the SLC bullshit or what not. I mean… the ability to hear perfect pitch — why is that not a power but like, someone able to decode an encrypted message at a glance is… because of a gene? It'd be pretty interesting to go … what do you call that, when they bring up the dead bodies… exhume! Go exhume all the famous musicians and artists and scientists and see which of them had SLC in their DNA and all," Tasha says, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes.
"In case you're wondering, I'm not," she adds, as an afterthought.
Sable squints at Tasha, looking almost suspicious for a moment. The moment passes. "Y'know, I wasn't sure if I'd take to you at all. Didn't expect to, honest to God. But you're fairly cool. You're bourgie as all hell, but you ain't square, so that's okay. And the bourgie sorta suits you," she wrinkles her nose, "Girls pretty like yer pretty can get away with bourgie. Which is a dirty sort of trick. The kind that makes you not care 'bout being tricked, which is the dirtiest damned trick of all."
She suddenly sticks out her hand, offering a shake, "Lemme introduce myself. I'm Sable. Good to fuckin' meet you."
Sable's words confuse Tasha and her brows lift a touch. Bourgie? Pretty? She laughs despite the confusion and gives a shake of her head. "My parents are pretty 'bourgie' as you call them. Yuppies, like I said. They'd probably wish I was a lot more like them, all working for the man and that sort of thing. But no, I'm the hippy art school type who likes Tim Burton and the Ramones instead of Gossip Girl and Britney Spears, much to their dismay. I'm sure," she says, taking the hand offered to her, with another arched brow.
Didn't they do this already? "I'm Tasha. Nice to meet you, Sable."
They did. But apparently Sable thinks a second one is needed. For whatever deranged reason.
"The Ramones, shit, yeah," Sable says, nodding her agreement, "A lot of punk has attitude, but not fuckin' artistry. The Sex Pistols, they had, what… spit and vinegar? But that shit's mostly just noise. If it's lucky, catchy noise. God Save the Queen I still gotta listen to once and I while. Almost like a cravin', y'know what I mean?" She shrugs, "I'd have dug music school, I figure. Just to learn the fuckin' theory. But I dunno how long I'd last in a school. By the time I was thirteen like fuck I was going to bother goin' to school, y'know? Too old to bother makin' me."
"The Ramones, though," Sable amends, "God good sound. One of the few punk bands I can really groove to."
Tasha grins and nods. "You can always still go take some classes. You know, community college or something, just what interests you — just the theory and stuff, and screw the rest of it you need for a degree, right? I admit, I like school and I kinda miss it, wish I hadn't dropped it, but I'm going to look into it here again. Maybe Parsons, if I can get in… I'm sure the fact I dropped out mid semester isn't going to be a glowing review but if not, I'll just go take some classes at the community college til I figure out my shit. If I have time." She glances out the window. "If there's ever a spring."
The look on Sable's face is a very specific one. She's listening to Tasha, her attention full, trying to look like she's following… but it's more than obvious that some of this stuff is going right over her head. "Well…" she says, sifting through what little of that she really knows she understood, "Mebbe you can lemme know if there's a decent community fuckin' music theory class or somethin'. I'd certainly appreciate it," she gives a snort, "And you've a fuckin' point there. At this rate, we need to worry more the fuck about havin' to learn to hunt fuckin' mammoths and shit."
"Man, I wish there were still mammoths. I'm getting really fucking tired of meatloaf and spaghetti," Tasha quips back with a toothy grin. "Anyway, community college, anyone can take. You don't have to have a diploma from high school, you know?" She guesses that might be some of the other girl's worry in regards to setting foot on a college campus. "If I check out the art programs at any in the city, I'll let you know. I was thinking I might try to at least get some classes in the summer. That's again assuming we have a summer." She makes a face.
"Y'know, you northerners get a shit deal," Sable says, decidedly, "Cuz, while summer in Georgia is pretty fuckin' serious, we don't usually get any shit like this," she gestures all around… really referring the exterior of the building, where the city lies caped in white, "Makes a gal almost wish she were back south of Mason-Dixon," she snorts, "Almost." She lifts her brows, "Chicks are better dressed up north, though. Classier. Which of course means bourgier, but hey, I already admitted some of y'all can pull it off."
"This is not normal, like ever," Tasha says with a chuckle nodding toward the snow. "And people do dress nice up here. I'm not one of them." Certainly today she isn't — wearing her Gir pajama bottoms, Colette's red hoodie, pink and purple cheshire cat socks and her black and white striped fingerless gloves, she's more a riot of motley if anything else. "But then I'm dressed for comfort and who the hell is gonna see me besides everyone here who's already seen me at my worst?"
"Aw, yeah, but what of your adorin' fans?" Sable says, arms crossing, her grin crooked but good natured, "Don't they deserve t' see you at your best? I mean, things being as they are, there ain't much to look at. What we got to look at… might as well look its best, eh?"
"Adoring fans… I might have one," Tasha says, a touch shyly, eyes dropping and dark lashes fanning her cheeks as the skin flushes there. "But she knows I don't have a lot to choose from. I have a single duffle bag of clothes with me, you know? I have a little more than I came with — since my mom took me shopping the one day I managed to visit her before the snow got so bad." Tasha shrugs, hopping off the counter to get a cup from the cupboard and then to the water dispenser in the fridge to fill it.
"Dear lord, girl, if you think the only eyes on you are our Fearless fuckin' Leader's, you've descended into delusion," Sable says, stooping down to open a pair of drawers, rooting around amongst the supplies, looking for something or other. "'course that obviously don't mean a thing to you now, bein' in the golden three as you are." She lifts three fingers above her head, a visual aid, while her other hand continues its rummage. She lets out an 'Ah!' of triumph, and when she turns, a box of Graham Crackers is in her hands. She waggles her brows.
Tasha blushes some more and shakes her head. "I don't. Have other fans." She peers at the three fingers. "Golden three?" And then she glances at the box of crackers. "Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallow are pretty damn golden of a trio if you ask me, but which would I be?" she says, looking for the joke to sidestep the compliments.
"Okay, then you're cracked," Sable says, simply, giving a shrug as she opens the box and peers inside. She plucks a cracker out, examining it, "Which is alright. Sanity ain't all that attractive anyhow. Mostly linked to squarishness," she tips Tasha a small wink, takes a bite out of the cracker, chewing, chewing, swallowing. "Golden three," she says, pausing to give her lips a lipstick-application roll to clear them of crumbs, "Are the three months at the start of a love affair, dig? Those are the heady days, where your mind ain't never off them, and you can never get enough. Almost painful, the feelin'. No matter where you are, it'd be better if they were there. Every bit of them just… shines… almost to pretty to stand," her eyes have lifted during this revery, but the slide back to Tasha when she'd done, "Those three months. Pure gold."
"Ooh," Tasha says softly, cheeks coloring again as she examines her water in the cup, taking a sip. "That's a pretty way to put it. I… I've only had one other serious relationship. Not a lot to compare to. And we were only just five months old when it ended, but I thought it was still pretty … shiny… then." She looks up and then away. "But…" Tasha turns the cups in her hands, not looking really anywhere. "But I think that she shines anyway. To everyone. Not just me. And no calendar will stop her from shining. Three months wouldn't hold it all." She smiles shyly back at Sable. "I just hope that in three months, I still shine at least a little for her."
Sable blinks. Once. Twice. She gives a looow whistle. "Don't burn yourself out, hon. You're gonna need some of that along the line. Use it at this fuckin' rate and you'll drain it dry. Love can't be lived at that fuckin' velocity," she squints with one eye, "'specially when it makes you think less of yourself. That ain't no way to conceive of it, hon. I know, I know, that ain't how you think you mean it, but it's how you /say/ it, and that's tellin'. You be careful, arright? You feel that feelin' inside of you right now? That great, deep warmth, like a breath of rainy air on a hot summer day? How it grows inside you 'til you feel you might burst? Imagine that shit in reverse, that same force turned back in on itself. A withering cold. That's what the fuck's at stake."
These are very grim words, but Sable looks deadly serious. Not trying to scare, there's none of the theatricality she'd use to do that. It's honest, albiet a dark kind.
Tasha nods slowly, moving to the sink to empty the unfinished water. "Love moderately. Long love doth so," she murmurs. Ironically, she quoted lines from the same play to Colette a couple of days ago, though the allusion was lost on the other. "I know. And I know what's at stake." Her words are soft and matter-of-fact as she looks at Sable, then at the clock. "Speaking of… I should go check… on her." The unspoken name, so unnecessary to say. "It was nice talking to you, Sable. I'm glad you came to the Lighthouse."
Sable's smile takes on a slightly wolfish caste, enhanced by the sharpness of her canines. Choppers like they might have really pinched that dog. "Real pleasure, hon. Pay me a visit sometime. I'm thinkin' of staying for the the week, at least." As if she could leave.
"You know where I camp out," the yellow eyed girl adds, a touch sly.