[James G. Berchill] The old, dented Chevy pick-up rumbles down the road, toward 6 Cabrini Green apartments on North Larrabee. The old truck billows smoke into the air as if it was the smokestack of an old unregulated coal processing company. The chipped red paint forms a pattern on the hood that somewhat resembles the continent of Africa. The doors are multicolored — one black, one orange — and the tailgate is missing. The driver of the vehicle wrestles with a map as he winds the window down and flicks the ash from his joint out the window.
“6 Cabrini- Green…6 Cabrini Green…Christ! Am I going to have to stop for directions?” A motorist passes him furiously, honking and gesturing with one finger. James looks over the map and swerves.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too” He continues to study the map and steers with his knees
“turn left at…OH shit!” He grabs the steering wheel and whips the car around the left turn and pulls over half on the sidewalks, half off, panting.
“Two tours in the Corps and I can’t drive a fucking truck…”
[James G. Berchill] He puts away the map and looks around. A menacing structure is in front of him about a half mile away, He realizes it might be his apartment building. He looks around the road, but can’t see any signs, then slowly opens his door and steps out to take a look around the area, as his left foot hits the ground, his black smudged boot steps on a road sign. He looks at it, and frowns.
“Larrabee… Well at least I’m here” He completes his maneuver to leave the vehicle and slams the door shut and walks around the car, realizing his parked mostly on the curve. He frowns again. He inhales hard on his joint and looks around.
“The is a fucking dump. I’d rather be back in Baghdad…”
[Moira] The light patting of rain strikes against asphalt and cement, painting them several shades darker than the dull greys they appear. Water drops glisten off of glass, reflecting the flashing reds, greens and yellows of stoplights, neon signs mirror in the puddles on the ground. It is an annoyance, especially to those on the road that aren’t familiar with the operations of motor vehicles.
It could make driving just a little bit more dangers… or fun.
A truck comes barreling up the sidewalk, skidding to a stop just before it manages to collide with something – or someone. Faces appear in the windows of the apartments, glaring down at the street below to see what had just happened. No carnage to amuse them, they disappear again.
James climbs out of his truck, walking around it. He doesn’t see the woman that had been standing in the threshold of the entryway talking with a tenet quietly as they watched the truck come up. She shakes her head, glancing around as a hand comes up to smooth back black hair from her face, angling her head to the side.
“Are you alright?” Moira calls out to him.
[James G. Berchill] He sits on the hood and continues to enjoy his marijuana and monitor the area. Car garage, seven stories, enemies can use them for coverage as well as sniper fire and stinger launch areas. A burned out building, probably from mortar or air to ground missile fire. He shakes the thoughts from his mind. This isn’t the Middle East, these people aren’t trying to kill me.
He hears a voice and looks up to see a shadow in the distance, the rain is running into his eyes and the dope has made them bloodshot, its hard to see who it is, a females voice? He blinks a couple of times but can’t make her out. He yells back.
He starts in Arabic then stops. This isn’t Iraq. He pauses, continues in english — I hope they speak english around here.
“Yeah, I’m fine, this old Chevy has a mind of its own.” He thinks about asking he for directions. Pauses. Then askes.
“Ya know where 6 Cabrini – Green is?”
[Moira] He can’t make her out at first because of the distance between them. Her chest lifts up, sucking in cold air before exhaling it out in a small cloud from her mouth. She excuses herself from the tenant that she spoke with, crossing the threshold to step outside. A simple black umbrella clasped in her hands is lifting up over her head as she opens it, taking shelter from the rain.
Moira tilts her head at him curiously, walking towards him. A leather laptop case bounced against her hip, hanging from a long strap that cuts across her chest. Her long coat hanging open around her. She blinks when he speaks to her in Arabic, wondering if he was a terrorist.
“Yes, this is 6 Cabrini-Green.” She replies with a slight grin, “But I hope you realize this isn’t Kuwait, it is Chicago.”
[James G. Berchill] He throws the joint to the ground and snuffs it out with his right boot. Once spit shined till he could see his face in them, they are now smudged and dull. He looks through the front windshield of his truck and sighs relieved notes the M14 standard usage, Marine DMR, in the gun rack within the cabin. The frowns and reminds himself again. No one is trying to kill me. He reaches into his coat pocket — a brown Carhart working jacket, something a trucker would wear — and pulls out a small key and a note, he massages the key in his hand and smiles.
The woman approaches and speaks to him, he slides off the wet hood and quickly places the note and key back into his pocket. He looks her over. Progesterone cause increase blood flow and swelling of the breasts. He shakes his head. Looks her in the eyes, quickly.
“I live here.” He says it slowly, with disbelief. It’s much different from Rural New York. He clumily puts out his hand. This is the first woman he’s seen in 2 years. Prison can be cruel.
“I’m Jimmy…err…James…but you can call me Jimmy…” He stutters. Stupid. Attraction causes increase blood flow, body temperature, and heart rate. Has it really been two years since I’ve been this close to a woman?
[Moira] Two years can be a long time to no be around a woman. Good for Jimmy to know his body still reacts to such feminine delicacy. Prison sometimes changes a man… She is apprehensive at first, her eyebrows rising up to disappear under sweep of bangs that fall across her forehead and into her eyes – eyes a vibrant shade of cobalt blue.
She clears her throat, tries to put on her best face for the stranger and gives him the benefit of the doubt. Moira approached him with the caution you would give a strange dog you meet on the street, but when he offers his hand out to her. She extends her own to take his.
“I’m Moira.” She smiles, drawing back her hand to the umbrella’s handle, she looks over her shoulder at the building and then back to him. “You live here?” blinks once, “Jimmy you said was your name… where are you from Jimmy?”
[James G. Berchill] When holding a hand grip the other’s wrist, lift up on the hand and twist, using your other hand reach behind the neck and apply pressure to the spine — twisting may cause paralysis or death. Her hand seems soft to him. It’s much softer than a bunk mate in Afghanistan or Iraq, and definitely softer than any bunk mate in the Brigg. He smiles the best he can under his light beard. Removing the razor blades from your razor can create a beautiful prison weapon – and can be easily hid under your tongue or lip. Another weapon of choice is a sharpening the end of a toothbrush.
“Is it always this shitty here, or this the beautiful time of day?” The words seem to run their course at the same time as Moira’s second question. Stupid. He thinks for a second. He drops her hand.
“Yes, I live here. Staff Ser…” He pauses, old habits die hard. “…Jimmy is fine. It’s nice to meet you Moria. Do you usual stop and speak to every guy you see randomly on the street?”
He uses his hands to straiten the jeans he wears in the front. Attraction cause other things. He hopes she doesn’t notice. This is my rifle, this is my gun. This ones for fighting, this ones for fun. Is this how it’s going to be for the next couple of months? He feels the weight of his shit under his unzippered coat. It is heavy with rain, the USMC barely sticking out of it, black letters on an olive t-shirt. He zippers up his coat. He shivers as the cold zipper touches the wet shirt.
[Moira] If there is one thing that Moira was good at doing. It was reading people. She can watch a person, study their facial expressions and body language in a few passing sweeps of her gaze. She seems innocent – a harmless, at best.
He amuses her Moira, her head angling to the side as she studies him. Picked on the little phrases in his speech and makes quiet connections in the back of her mind about him. “It is winter,” she says about the weather, “And I have a soft spot for taking in stray dogs like yourself.”
Moira turns away from him, stepping around Jimmy to the truck and glances in through the window. “You murdered a poor street sign. They hang people around here for that.” She flashes him a cheeky grin, “So, where were you deployed from, soldier?”
[James G. Berchill] He looks her over. Moria — a variant of Maureen, from Gaelic, means “star of the sea”. She stands between him and his truck, but more importantly, him and his rifle. DMR – M14, Designated Marksman Rifle, gas-operated rifle chambered for the 7.62x51mm NATO cartridge – full metal jacket. He hears her words echo in his mind *hang people around here for that*. He becomes apprehensive. He calms. No one is trying to kill me. He calms himself and smiles as confidently as possible. He places one hand in his pocket and fiddles with the key to his “new” apartment.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about? And as for where I’m from. Well…I’ve been known to wander. California, New York, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Texas…I lived a few places over seas, as well.” He isn’t lying, but he cannot hid his thick New York accent.
“How long have you been gracing my apartment…” Freudian slip. “…this apartment building…? Are you a…” Chicago-an? Chicago-ite? Chicago-ino? “…Chicagon…?”
[Moira] “Chicagoan.” She corrects him, “I’m not a native. Lived in the city for a few years. I don’t live here at this complex.”
His accent is thick like he was from New York, she has been there only once, passing through in the airport to catch a flight overseas to Scotland. She doesn’t know the things that go on inside his head, continues to be blissfully ignorant of the crazies that lurk in this stranger’s thoughts – something she’d be glad to not know. He calms himself while she peeks into his truck, noticing the weapons.
Her eyes widen slowly, her right hand coming up to wipe the rain from the glass as she stares inside it, then steps back and promptly opens the door to get a closer look. Her mouth twitches, gaping open. She half-chokes on a sudden inhale of air and her head whips back over her shoulder to look at him. “Are you drunk? On drugs, or just crazy? You have assault — ” she can’t bring herself to finish the sentence, slamming the door shut and steps away from it and him.
[James G. Berchill] “Where can I park this clunker, by the way?” He walks past her and slowly, carefully opens the black door on his red, rusty truck. It smells of marijuana, chewing tobacco spittle, and used gun powder. The interior is black with several burn marks on the seat. He grabs his ball cap — a USC trojans hat and puts it on, pushing the front of his long hair over his eyes. He closes the door and winds down the window. He leans out of it and smiles at her.
“Wanta ride me…” Freudian Slip. Fuck. “…ride with me!…with me. I mean, I don’t know where I’m going anyway. Maybe you can show me into my apartment. It’s 235 C.” He meant that with all good intentions no double entendre.
“The weapon was my pappies. Its the only way to keep it out of the elements. Don’t worry, its not loaded. If you must know, I’m relocating from Ft. Brag, Carolinas. It’s a long and convoluted story. One that I’d rather not share with a random person. I’m not too crazy, I’ve never killed anyone that didn’t try to kill me first.” the last words strike him odd. That’s not what the UCMJ decided. He continues, there was not change of tone in his voice, still laid back, calm. “I don’t care if you don’t live here. I haven’t had the company of someone normal is a while.” What is normal? “I promise I won’t cut you up into little pieces right now.” He smiles like a child. He turns toward the inside of the car and fidgets with his filled duffel bag, olive, and the few other worldly possessions in the car. The passenger side is clean, now. He turns back toward her.
“If you care to join, I’d love to have you. To tell you the truth, it’ll be the first time stepping into this apartment.”
[Moira] Moira stands there watching James, the rain pelting the nylon fabric that shields most of her from getting soaked. Her shoes were soaking up most of the water that she stood in and can feel the soft leather of her calf-high boots tighten around her calves. She wrinkles up her nose, unsure of what to make of this man as she listens to him. The constant Freudian Slips continue to garner several arcs of her eyebrows and narrow-eyed stares.
She purses her lips together, looking away from him towards the apartment building she had just came out of. Her shoulders rolling up underneath the black wool long coat that covers her, hiding the warm layers of a tunic sweater and jeans that hide the curvy, supple shape of an hourglass frame. Long black hair fell in a long braid down the center of her back, nearly touching the center of her waist. Stray damp wisps of hair cling to the temples and cheek bones of pretty features.
She doesn’t look like the type of girl that should exist in this part of town. Didn’t fit in with all the lowlifes and druggies and poor folk that live in the building. Moira jerks her head to the side, stepping away from the stench that assaults her nose, crinkling it up to keep from sneezing.
“I’ll show you inside. I know the layout of the building pretty well. I was just here visiting a client of mine. What apartment are you staying in?”
[James G. Berchill] He places his foot on the clutch and brake and starts the car. It groans to life, like a monster. He wonders why no police officer has shown up to ticket his car yet. He’s parked on the sidewalk. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he’s fully displaying a assault issue rifle in his rear window. The lights inside the cab flicker and then the radio starts up blaring a scratchy cassette of Greenday’s “Dookie”. “She” is playing much too loudly, it turns it to little above a whisper. The digital numbers on the truck clock say 9:35. It’s never right, the next time he glances at it, its now 10:46. He flips on the windshield wipers. They have one speed and flick back and force with crazy abandon.
“235 C” It isn’t his, but rather a relatives. It was a relatives. It’s his. He adjusts the USC hat, the red brim covering his face. “Listen, I know this piece o’ shit smells bad, but come on, get in. it’ll take a few minutes to park and then you can show me around. I’ll even leave the windows open. He jams the stick into first and leans over and forces the door open. He thinks for a moment.
“hold on” He keeps his foot on the gas as he reaches over the mountain of stuff in the center of the seats to the glove compartment. He opens it and pulls out something small wrapped in plastic. He unwraps it and dangles it out the window.
“See.” He shows her a cherry red scented tree. It smells like a mix of aerosol and candy cherry. He smiles and hangs it on the rear view mirror. The smell seems to dull the disgusting scent, only masking it. Deer Urine masked human sent when traveling under the cover of night. Deer Urine will throw scent tracking dogs off. Prison toilets can be used to produce low grade alcohol.
[Moira] “Oh, sweet Gaia.”
She can’t keep herself from saying it, it just comes out as she stares at the swinging truck door, the man inside who she confirms as being batshitcrazy, and the pungent smell that wafts from the interior of the cab. There was a mountain of junk inside, sitting in the middle between the seats. She wonders if he is a relation, or just some nutty human… Gnawers couldn’t be this bad could they?
Moira approached the open door, glancing around like it might turn into a gaping maw and swallow her whole. She knew – just knew! – this metal contraption was going to be the death of her and this guy was going to be her demise. Worse things have happened to her… damn her girl scout tendencies.
She closes the umbrella, carefully climbs inside and sits in the seat, huddling up. Arms and legs drawn in close to her body so she can touch as little of the filth as possible. She wasn’t going to be able to get that smell out of her clothes and hair anytime soon. She points to a parking lot around the corner of the building. “There you can go.”
[James G. Berchill] He jams on the gas and whips around the turn and into the parking lot. Following Moria’s finger. He whistles along to the Greenday cassette as he drives. He takes his hands off the wheel and begins drumming away in the air guide the monster with his knees.
“I love this song.” He grabs the wheel with one hand and turns into the parking spot, and turns the key off. The truck slumps and lurches to a halt, inches from the car parked in front of him. He kicks open the door and grabs his olive duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder, as she slides out of the car. It’s getting dark. He leans back into the truck and pulls out his rifle and slings it over the other shoulder. He opened the glove compartment and threw a few odds and ends in the car. He slammed the door shut with his but leaving a beautiful wet pattern on the back end of his jeans. Something out of a Rorschach. He walks around the truck and looked into the passenger window. He smiled and opened the door.
“I think I’m on the second floor” He places a hand out to help her out. He stands 6’3″ and is hulking man of size and muscular girth. He barley fits between the passenger side and the small fiat parked next to him. He looks a child in a Goliath’s body.
[Moira] Moira’s knees can feel her knees turn to jelly and not in a good way. Her stomach lurches – nauseated from the sudden jerking motions of the car and the pungent stench inside. She sways from side to side, until she forces herself to grab a hold of the dashboard to keep from moving as he throws the truck around the corner and finally into a parking spot.
Once it has stopped, her pale features turning a little paler than usual, Moira slid down in the seat as her legs buckle up… not moving until the passenger door squeaks open and the Goliath of a man is standing there, extending a hand out to her. She oozes out of the car, attempting to get her bearings as one hand comes to rest on her stomach. She tries to compose herself, forcing back the bile that threatened to rise up.
“You… are a Gnawer by chance are ya?”
He may catch the meaning of her question or not, she just scrutinizes him for several moments and then releases her hand from his. Umbrella hugged to her chest as she starts to walk away. “Second floor…” she echoes. Moira cranes her head back, she stood about 5’8, almost eye level with him in the heeled boots she wore.
[James G. Berchill] “So what brings a girl like you into a slum like this?” Did I just say that? Is my home really a slum. Why yes it is. He walks to the glass doors, one covered in cardboard because of being smashed. He opens the door and walks in. He looks around, the fluorescent lights seem dim. The lobby seems somewhat clean. An old black woman is sitting on a chair near the elevators, her eyes seem wide as he passes. Never give the thumbs up to Iraqis, it is like giving the middle finger to Americans. He smiles at the woman sheepishly and pushes the button up. He doesn’t realize that she is staring at the weapon on his shoulder, not that he wouldn’t be intimidating without it. The elevator dings to life and slowly creaks open. He smiles and walks in. He leans his head out and looks at the elderly woman.
“Have a good day.”
He holds the door open for Moria as he waits for her to enter. When she walks in, he’ll let go of the door and allow it to close.
“To answer you’re question. I’m a Strider, and no, I’m not Arab. I always get that. My father might have had a drop or two, I dunno, but I’m a mut. More white than anything. I’m kin. Never wanted nothing more. Too much work being anything else. At least I’m free of having *it*” He means the rage. Yet, he carries his own rage inside from the wars, the tours, and the deaths. His face strains for a moment, almost a grimace, but he forces it into a smile.
“Care to test your luck on this strange contraption? If its anything like the rest of the building its probably going to kill us. Or we’ll get dengue.” He’s had dengue. Not too bad, minus the vomitting and diarrhea. Symptoms include loss of body weight, and discoloring of skin color. That has 3 years ago. His skin is a light peach, today.
[Moira] “I live and work in the Cabrini. I run errands and do a bit of a social work for a place called Hill House. I was seeing to a client’s health earlier just before I came out and saw you.”
Moira follows James inside the building. She steps in after he pulls the door open for her, walking towards the elevator and waits for it to open. She fidgets with her hair, running leather-clad fingers through the damp strands that cling to the side of her face and sweeps them back behind her ears. She offers the elderly black lady that watches the lobby like a elementary school monitor. Smiling faintly, color rising up to stain her cheeks with embarrassment. She walks into the elevator, stepping up over to the far end and looks at the key pad.
Lips press together, curling up in a faint smirk as he calls out to the elderly woman and waits for the door to close. She pushes the button to the second floor. She keeps space between herself and the wall, not daring to lean against it. He tells her about his tribe, a bit of his history.
As they ride up, Moira listens intently, “Get of Fenrir, myself.” She doesn’t look like a Fenrir by the nice tailoring of her clothes and the sweetness in her disposition. “Scottish as well.” Her head lifts up, watching the numbered buttons light up as the elevator chimes and they reach the second floor. The doors opening up. Moira leans out, glancing one way and then the other, she takes a few cautious steps ahead of James as she moves into the hall.
“I hope to Gaia you don’t get us shot with those weapons of yours hanging out like that.”
[James G. Berchill] He sets out of the elevator. He fondles the gun mindlessly. He walks down the hall to a V in the road. The building must be shaped like a V. He looks at the numbers and takes the right hall. He speaks mindlessly as he watches the numbers increase.
“Jasmine. Her name is Jasmine. They make you name the gun when you in boot camp. My pa named her Jasmine. Last woman he would ever be with….then he met my ma, oso I guess that doesn’t really work. Mine was Lucille, I always liked that name. We used to watch I Love Lucy on the TV when I was in elementary school. I thought it was odd that the tv would be monotone colored when the old shows were on. Like it was broke. Lucille Ball was always so attractive to me. I loved the way she acted, made me laugh. It broke my heart to know she was old when i was 12, but these things pass. So when I was in the Corp…” He pauses. Fuck, he told her where he’s been. She knows where he was once stationed and what branch. Some indigenous tribes won’t allow you to take pictures of them. It’s like possessing their soul.
“…I named my rifle Lucille, but they don’t let you keep them when you leave, usually. I slept with Lucille every night for about 4 years. Now, I sleep with Jasmine. It’s odd for people not in the military. But we all do it.” He pauses in front of a door. “235 C. Here we are.” He fumbled in his coat pocket for his key and placed it into the lock it kicked and he lightly used his shoulder to open it. Oddly, he used his nose to flick the light on as he fought to remove the key from the lock. He placed it into his pocket.
The Apartment was small, but relatively nice. One bedroom. Full Bath. Large living room and Kitchen. The walls were a drab blue, and the floors were wood. He couldn’t believe how nice the apartment was in such a slum. There was a couch and a recliner in the living room, a small oak table in the kitchen. He set his stuff down in the middle of the floor and walked into the bathroom. Spotless, shiny white and tiled. The bedroom a tv, and a queen sized bed with two small dressers and a closet.
“Aunt Tammy kept it pretty nice. Now to find a job to be able to afford the rent.”
[James G. Berchill] He walked back out into the living room and smiled.
“Grab a seat. Tell me more. I don’t have anything in the fridge to offer you, sorry.”
[Marni] As they enter the hallway from that poor beat up elevator, someone is stepping from the apartment across the hall from 235 C.
Noisily.
“Oh shut up, dude! This thing is a CLASSIC! I can’t believe you think it’s junk, that’s just bullshit. Whatever, paid in full, so hand it…. ah. Pleasure doin business with ya, Rocco. Leave word if ya find anymore…”
And she turns, her precious beyond belief new acquisition in her hands – just in time to see James and Moira open the door to the apartment across the hall. Talking about sleeping with a rifle named Jasmine.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
[Moira] He is talking about his rifle like it were a real person. He tells her that he sleeps with it, he slept with another one just like it for four years. She can guess he is ex-military, recently deployed… by the looks of his clothing, the bad smell of unwashed marijuana-scent that clings to him. He was batshitcrazy. She just knew he was. The pretty Fenrir clears her throat, her left hand cupping over her mouth as she coughs into it a few times.
She grips the wrapped up umbrella in her right hand, tapping it against her thigh as she walks several feet behind James. Her eyes on his back, on his weapons. Quickly they swing away to glance at the closed doors until she can hear the one that is across the hall from room 235 C.
Her eyes go wide and her body stiff – deer caught in headlights – and she bites down on her bottom lip. Her face was bright red, eyes cast down and away from Marni as if to show she saw nothing. But they sweep back up again in time to see the blinking Gnawer. Moira stops at the threshold of the apartment, turning away from Marni’s door.
“I think I just saw one of your new neighbors, Jimmy.” She calls into the Strider kin.
[James G. Berchill] He peaks out the open door to see someone yelling in the hall. Now staring back at him blinking. He smiles and waves a Marni and says politely.
“Hello”
He then walks back into the apartment and walks into the bedroom and set his rifle down on a pillow. Tammy always knew how to keep an apartment clean. He walks back into the living room.
“They don’t usually come fully furnished. This is my aunts…was my aunt’s apartment. It’s mine now. The reason I’m in Chicago. I’m looking for a job. Probably become a trucker, something that travels. I love traveling, something in my blood.”
He looked at the phone hanging on the wall. I wonder if it works. He walks over to it and picks it up. ring tone.
“Since your here, in the mood for pizza.” He walked out to the door to the hallway with the phone. The cord of the phone strained. He yells to Marni.
“I’m ordering pizza, wants some?”
He traveled back into his apartment. No waiting for a response he dials the operator.
“Yes, I want you to connect me to a pizza place….I dunno where, I just got here!…I’m in Cabrini-Green…Hello?…It’s ringing…Yes, Hi! I’d like two large pizzas…plain. Definitely plain. Yes, the address is 6 Cabrini-Green, Apartment 235 C. What? Yeah, Cash.”
He hangs up and plops down on the recliner.
“So tell me about yourself, Miss Moira…”
[James G. Berchill] He stands up quickly, scurries to the phone.
“FUCK! I forgot drinks!”
He picks up the phone and dials the operator.
“Hello, yes. Me again, I need that number to the pizza place again. Where am I? I just told you…gah…Cabrini-Greene. Hello? Ringing again! Yes, hello. It’s me. The guy from apt 235 C. I want four liters of something to drink. Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, and…umm…water….what? You don’t have bottled water…what kind of establishment are you? Fine, fine. I have a tap…wait…I don’t have any cups, can you bring plastic cups with you…fine, fine…”
He hangs up and sits back down.
“they’re bring plastic cups and plates. Please continue.”
[Marni] Hello he says, peeking out the open door.
Blink.
Marni is cute – there’s no getting away from it. Brunette curls with blond streaks, big brown eyes, and that little ‘i know something you don’t know’ smile that lurks around her lips more often than not. She’s on the short side of average at 5’5″, but curvy in all the right places – at least, one can assume so under the dual layer of clothing she’s got going on. Backpack on her back, and…
…the new guy is offering her pizza. “HELL yeah.”
He apparently has never heard the adage about offering a Gnawer food….
…thus, one mostly clean, only slightly disheveled Gnawer is stepping into his apartment, lingering near the door, cradling her new acquisition to her chest.
[Moira] Moira continues to stand in the door, unsure of how long she wants to stay around. Marni is going to know what Moira is the moment she comes over to Jimmy’s apartment. The Fenrir steps inside, the umbrella lax in her grip as she holds it against her side. She blinks, confusing starting to settle into her expression as she just watches him.
“I don’t –” a shake of her head, huffing out a small sigh. “I don’t think they deliver with cups and plates, Jimmy.” Shoulders roll back in a small shrug under her coat, “I’m pretty sure they don’t.”
He asks about her and she isn’t ready to divulge that much information out just yet. She waits for Marni to join them, “Like I said before, I work with Hill House, it’s a kin run organization in the Cabrini, they may be able to help with job placement…”
[Moira] (confusion)
[James G. Berchill] “They don’t bring plates and cups? But…they said they would…” He frowns. Chicago. You put the Chic in the ca but the ca won’t go. That’s how you spell Chicago. He shakes his head. I already hate this place.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to explain. I’m used to that. Sometime you just don’t want to let out who you really are. I get it been there. But, this is probably as a good of a time as any to ask. Do you usually follow random men into their trucks, then apartment for random chats over pizza? I mean, I enjoy the company. Friends are hard to come by…” John lost his body to hidden mine, Tony shot through the forehead, Micheal. “…I’m not complaining, it just seems odd to me. I would like you to know, that I find you an odd person.”
He stands again and walks into the kitchen. The apartment is immaculate, he can finally smell himself. How far was it from Rye, New York to Chicago…long enough…He stinks. When staking out an enemy camp, a soldier may have to lay in his own fecal matter for days. He opens the drawers and and looks in. Smiling. Silverware. The above spaces hold cups and dishes. Fine China. Who was his aunt?” The coffee machine isn’t plugged in, he does so and looks around. For coffee to brew.
[Marni] Marni knows. Oh, the things Marni knows. Her gaze settles on Moira in a way the other girl will surely recognize, before she just grins. “OH! Someone said something to me bout the Hill house. People keep tryin’ to find me places to stay. Do I LOOK homeless?” Dark eyes twinkle with humor, because that’s exactly how Marni looks, and the little Gnawer knows it.
To Jimmy. “….it’s pizza. the fuck we need plates for?” Curious tilt of her head.
She watches Jimmy, then Moria, and blinks again. She has a feeling she’s gonna be doing that a lot…
[Marni] (MOIRA. gawd.)
[Moira] (bites Marni)
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to kill you with this umbrella. It wouldn’t be hard to hide your body. I know a few people that could easily get rid of it and no one would be the wiser.” She says with a wry grin, a smirk creasing across her lips. It is meant in jest for the most part – but somehow there was a ring of hidden truth in that last bit… about knowing people.
There is a twist of pain in her gut, instinct telling her something with that ‘look’ Marni gives her. All knowing and shit. “I told you downstairs I’m a sucker for stray dogs. ‘Sides, you explained yourself that you were kin, I wasn’t about to step out of the elevator with you if you weren’t… I did give you the benefit of the doubt, even though you are proving to have quite the open personality.”
[Moira] “And you aren’t the first person to think I’m odd.” she adds.
[James G. Berchill] He searches a small opening above the stove and finds a few things. Cereal — into the same unlined garbage can it goes. Powdered Milk, he smiles. Just add water. In intense situations when food is scarce a soldier can drink their own urine to survive. Toilets can be used to house black market items in prison. Coffee. He grabs in and opens it. Half full, it smells fresh. His aunt has been dead for at least two weeks, maybe a month. He’s eaten bugs and stray animals to survive, old coffee is nothing. He looks in the coffee machine, there is a filter in it. Unused. He scoops out the coffee and fills the machine. He starts a pot of coffee. He walks back into the living room and looks at Moria.
“Open? Me? Really?” He ponders this for a second. When tortured, usually the first thing to be removed in digital nails. Next is genitals. He touches his crotch absent mindedly. Thank god I have all 11 digits. He then lifts an arm and smells himself. He jerks his head back is disgust.
“I stink, why the hell didn’t you tell me? And to answer your question. I’m from New York state. My family is originally from California, though. If someone knocks on the door, you can open it. It’ll be the food. There’s plates in the kitchen cabinets and cups too.”
He grabs his duffel bag and begins to remove his shirt and pants as he walks toward the bathroom. When in prison stacking books between two stationary items allows lift for exercising dips. Stationary bunks are great places to hang for pull ups. Lower bunks are great to complete leg lifts. He leaves the dirty clothing in a pile outside the bathroom door and drags in the duffel. The whole time whistling the Marine Corps song.
[Marni] She… tips her head. And looks at Moira again. Then back to the bathroom door. And then to Moira again.
“….oooooooooooooookay, then. Kinfolk, you said?”
[James G. Berchill] He steps into the shower and touches the knob to the hot and cold. If you drop your soap, always kick it into the corner of the stall. He fidgets with the hot and cold until it is warm and turn on the shower and sits under it. No one watching him shower, no marine bunks, no metal bars, and no fatigues or orange jump suits. He lets the water run off of him and sighs happily. After a few moments he looks at the shampoo and soap in the bath. He picks up the shampoo bottle and smells it. Lavender and vanilla. If the boys could see me now. He washes his hair and watches black water come out. He was disgusting. He allows the shampoo and water to turn clear. He looks at the soap. It also smelled fruity — maybe oranges? He lathered up and warmed his body and face. The average marine can shower in under 10 minutes. He allowed the water coming off his body to run clear again and smiled. He had turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. An old towel was still hanging near the sink. He smelled it. God enough. He dried himself with it. He opened the duffel and removed a pair of jeans, a Penn State Football t-shirt, dark blue with white letters and a pair of underwear. Papa, Echo, November, November. He got dressed and walked out of the bathroom back into the living room.
“I feel much better.” He looked at Marni.
“Hey, so anything you’d like me to know about yourself?”
[Moira] Moira nearly gags remembering the stench from inside the truck’s cab that he drove. She regards Marni with a raised eyebrow the moment James leaves them alone, which isn’t for long. She leans her back against the wall, still standing next to the door.
“He’s kin. Strider.”
It is all that gets out before James is joining the two women again.
[Marni] “Huh.”
The stench didn’t bother her, which is unsurprising, really, considering her own state of being on a regular basis. “I’m Marni, by the way.” A pause, and then as James joins them again, she gives a full intro, for his benefit. “Marni Geller, called Sticky Fingers – but you prooooooooobably don’t want to know why. Cliath Raggie, just a Gnawin that Bone.”
[James G. Berchill] A odd man in a Domino’s hat walks in considering the door is open. “Two large pizzas, dr. pepper, coke, and spirte?” He stand at the door holding these things.
“Yes, that’s us. How much” James walks over to the clothing shewn on the floor and roots around for some cash. He walks over to the man and give him a twenty and ten. And nudges him out the door. As he closes the door he says. “Keep it.”
James sets the pizza and food out on the table. Looking at the Gnawer, he is thankful that the floors are polished wood and the furniture dark colors. He walks back into the kitchen. He grabs a few cups and brings them out. Returns to the kitchen and pulls out a few plates. All set on the table.
“Enjoy!”
He opens the dr. pepper and pours it into an cup and places a slice of pizza on a plate and sits back down on the recliner. As he eats, he realizes he has nothing else to say to either one of them. Stupid. Between bites he asks.
“So why are you in my apartment anyway?” Stupid. “…err…why are you in Chicago rather…what is this Hill thingy?” He looks at Marni. “How did someone let you get an apartment…” Pause. Stupid. How to rephrase the question. “ummm…how did you come to acquire such…umm…lovely property…?” Brilliant, James. “I’m Jimmy, by the way. I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself. Staf…” He pauses and frowns. “James G. Berchill. People call me Jimmy.”
[Moira] “Staff Sergent, ex-military, don’t know what branch. Stationed out at Fort Brag, Carolina before coming here. He likes to smoke pot, can’t drive and has the most charming personality I have ever seen. Besides being so humble as to buy two strangers dinner.”
Moira grins at the pair, she accepts the offer of the pizza, taking a slice or two but nothing more. She leaves the rest for the Strider and the Gnawer to finish. By the time she is done, she sets the plate in the sink. The Fenrir kin picks up her umbrella, heading towards the door.
“Thank you for the pizza, but I honestly should get going.” She pauses, reaches into the laptop case that she’s carried with her this entire time and pulls out a pen and paper, scribbling a few phone numbers down and leaves them on the counter for James and Marni.
“My contact number and the one to Hill House. Thank you again!” She hastily makes an exit, leaving Marni with James.
[James G. Berchill] Then it hits him, these are the first two women he’s been near in two years. He becomes flush. He considers this for a second. Two women are in his new acquired apartment. Not only this but they probably saw him naked. He pauses at this though. I have been around all men for too long. I just gave two random women a few of almost the whole show. He reflects on this for a few moments. Then peevishly asks.
“So, you just saw me naked, huh?” Fearing the answer. He isn’t ashamed of his 6’3″, hulking frame. Just not used to sharing it in the view of women. Hearing these words come out of his mouth, he blinks slowly.
[Marni] She’s a Gnawer, sure. But has showered within the past couple days so it’s not THAT bad – though her fingers aren’t exactly clean when she snags a couple pieces of pizza and settles down to munch.
She listens to Moira, and tips her head, slightly – and then the Fenrir kinfolk bails.
“Huh.”
She goes back to munching on Pizza, and grins around a bite at James. “I don’t live here. Was just picking up something from your neighbor over there.” She holds the book in her lap like it’s precious, and to her – it is. Tattered and battered, it’s an old, not quite first edition of Alice in Wonderland. Precious beyond believe to the sticky-fingered bookworm.
Anyway – naked? Did someone say Naked? Marni chuckles. “Not sayin if I did or if I didn’t. But I’m sure you’ve nothin’ to be ashamed of…” oh there’s that knowing little grin, again.
[James G. Berchill] He frowns and continues to eat. “I’m not quite sure how to take you Marni.” He looks at her book. “Through the looking glass and all that.” Pause. “So you don’t live here…Well that’s too bad.” He watches Moira walk out. “Strange girl. I don’t get her one bit.” He looks back at Marni. “So where is your haunts if it isn’t this *lovely* apartment building? I’d ask you to stay but I sleep with Jamin, and she gets jealous.” He smiles innocently. “More than that. I know that your type is good at information. I’m looking for someone. I’m hear trying to catch up with a friend more than anything. Well, minus the free digs. I’m looking for a Wagner. Heard of him?”
[Marni] She blinks. This dude talks faster and more rambling than Jory back home. And Jory could TALK – usually with his hands. But that’s neither here nor there. She tips her head slightly. “Well, bein’ as you’ve known me for less than an hour, I’m sure ya don’t. Course, few folks that’ve known me forever aren’t too sure either.”
She shrugs a shoulder, and shoves another bite into her mouth, and snorts. “People keep tryin’ to get me to stay with them in places – I swear do I LOOK homeless?” Answer: yes. “The city provides, if ya ain’t too scared t’skulk bout in the gutter.”
Info, he says, and she nods. “Can’t say I heard a’him? Just got into town a couple weeks ago, from NYC – but I’ll put th’word on out the Chain and see what I can dig up for ya.”
[James G. Berchill] He smiles and nods. “Thank you. Now if you excuse me, it’s been a long day and I must sleep. ” He stands and walks over to the pizza and closes the box. He picks it up and places it in Marni’s hand. A whole pizza and what’s left of the one they’ve been eat. He smiles and walks into his bedroom and closes the door.
[Marni] She blinks. And then watches him as he just wanders off, and shakes her head, slightly, chuckling. But she don’t turn away the pizza. That’d be STUPID. No, she just stands, and lets herself out – and disappears back own to the street.