|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 11, 2013 8:09:06 GMT -8
It was not the first time Moose had been snubbed, and it would likely not be the last. The restaurant was packed to the brim and then some, the unfortunate side effect of a one-day-only half price sale. People had turned out en masse, but most were simply unwilling to wait the several hour wait to get into the restaurant. Even if the food was both good and cheap as a product of the sale, the wait was simply too much for most people, and in the past ten minutes alone, Moose had seen thirty people come and go without even putting down their names.
There was exactly one seat in the whole place, and absolutely no one would take it. There were, strictly speaking, no 'single tables', and when Moose had requested a single seat, the hostess had been taken aback. Eventually she'd asked if he'd be willing to eat with someone to double up, and he'd happily agreed. He'd waited his time, and he saw no issue with sharing a table.
The problem was that no one would share with him. He knew why, having no illusions about how he appeared to others. Even sitting down he looked like a mountain of a man, and was still as tall as an average woman. Even if you ignored his height, he was insanely muscular and wide across the shoulders. He was bulky, and while someone with experience would be able to tell his muscles were malnourished and deteriorating, most wouldn't be able to spot it at a glance.
It was true though. His muscles ached something fierce. In prison the food he'd been given was terrible but filling. The guards had liked him enough that he always got a portion that suited his size, and while it tasted like wood chips, it had all the nutrients he'd needed. Once he'd gotten out of prison, things had changed. Soup Kitchen's didn't take into account the fact that you weighed three hundred pounds and needed a bit more than the average person to keep yourself fit.
He'd had several meals from several sources, but one thing he'd never had, not even once, was a steak. He'd heard stories, and it was easily the most 'I'd do anything for a...' meal that people spoke about. Steak wasn't exactly on a prison diet though, and he'd jumped at the chance for a proper steak. It was the whole reason he'd waited the better part of two hours to get his seat, and he was fairly sure he was going to end up eating alone--no one wanted to sit with him after all. |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 11, 2013 20:18:25 GMT -8
Eating out wasn't a luxury that Donovan often indulged in nor had occasion for, especially anything in a restaurant that involved menus and waiting to be seated. Growing up with an unmanageable amount of siblings, it had never been economical. And while he had gladly rejected much of his upbringing, tried to distance himself from his parents' ways of thinking, the preference for home-cooked meals stuck by necessity. It was the one useful skill that he had, after all.
His arrangement with his roommate was comfortable- Altan paid for the majority of the groceries and Donovan did the cooking while listening to the other loudly complain. And his roommate had made it clear that he had no interest in being seen in public with him after the time that Donovan proved his ignorance in not knowing how to properly pronounce anything on the overwhelmingly French menu. The only time they got food from a restaurant was Chinese take-out, which never set well on his stomach. But with the busy concert schedule that had Altan out of town all that week, there was little to keep him to routine. No nagging reminder when it was dinner or that he forgot breakfast, and thus keeping himself fed had mostly slipped his mind until his stomach angrily demanded attention.
Getting recommendation from some place affordable and nearby from the motherly librarian that insisted he could do well to gain a few pounds while helping him pick out some low level science books, Donovan found himself in the overly crowded restaurant and doubted he'd get a seat before the sale was over. While he'd just received his paycheck, he'd yet deposited it, and the amount left in his bank account was almost embarrassingly low. There was stigma against eating alone that Donovan was aware of, but not all that concerned with, as he doubtfully gave his name to the hostess. More than prepared to be told to leave by the prim woman, ready to seek out a coffee shop that sold muffins, he was instead offered a table right away if he was willing to sit with another patron.
Looking between the crowded waiting area and to where the woman motioned to a lone man, Donovan's greatest concern was not with the noticeable size of the man but if he'd be interrupting. But his stomach made the decision for him, and he could almost feel the hungry glares on his back as he was led over to the single seat left.
"Ah, excuse me," he spoke politely, though not timidly as he waited for the man to notice his presence. "Would I be intruding?"
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 14, 2013 17:29:17 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. There had been three people before Donovan, each of whom had been offered the seat by the hostess. One had outright denied, but the second two had both agreed, started towards the table, spotting Moose, and then abruptly reconsidered. Moose had only seen one of them, but one was enough--one was too many really. He knew what people thought of him, but having the reminder wasn't exactly a nice thing. It was the sort of painful, uncomfortable thing that people didn't want to be directly faced with, and unfortunately Moose had to face up to it almost every day. It wasn't pleasant, but he'd had worse.
Which was why he was vaguely surprised when someone actually did approach the table. He raised his head a bit, back straightening as his eyes swept over him. Young. Young enough he could have been Moose's son, and the first thought in Moose's mind was 'frumpy'. The guy wasn't some overly prepared adult, but instead some random kid who was probably hungry and apparently on his own. None of his clothes seemed to fit properly, which was something Moose could certainly understand. He was wearing a casual suit, but it barely looked like one considering how bad he wore it. There was no tie and the collar was slightly off. Most importantly, it didn't fit him at all. It was obvious the suit was supposed to be worn by someone who had an extra hundred pounds on him, and who wasn't quite as massive in size in general. Even sitting down, Moose seemed as large as an ox, but he did his best to not look too intimidating when the boy spoke to him. He smiled, even if it looked half way to a scowl thanks to the rough scar across the bridge of his nose.
"No. I mean, tables free. You can sit if you want." Because that was what the kid meant, right? He wanted to know if he could sit down, not actually if he was intruding or whatever. Moose wasn't even one hundred percent clear on what 'intruding' was. "No one else'll sit anyway."
|
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 15, 2013 1:19:35 GMT -8
"Thanks," Donovan smiled with relief, quickly glancing around the crowded restaurant at their fellow diners before taking a seat. Attire wasn't something that Donovan cared much about on himself nor others, but he wasn't completely unaware of his own disheveled appearance and how he might appear. Nobody offered him the same apathy in return, and he raised his eyebrows at a prim woman staring with obvious disapproval at the pair of them. Sure, he only allotted a minimal amount of his budget to clothing, but he truthfully could do better at finding something more fashionable than an obviously far out of season Christmas sweater with sleeves too long that they were unevenly pushed up to his elbows.
But he was comfortable and so much of his childhood was having any spot on his cheek scrubbed off with spit, his hair clipped the moment is was a millimeter past acceptable length, his tie straightened and restraightened several times over the course of the day. He'd been fussed over enough, and in charge of showing the same amount of attention to his younger siblings, that Donovan had fallen into rebellion at the opposite extreme. But he knew quite well that he wasn't to the standards of the typical guests at the restaurant, and neither was his tablemate. It was somewhat comforting that he didn't get seated with somebody too polished and condescending, completely overlooking that the man across the table was intimidating in his tankish size and rough appearance. So far he seemed perfectly kind.
Shrugging off his backpack and setting it down, Donovan nudged it under the table enough that it wouldn't be tripped over. Accepting the menu from the hostess, Donovan scanned it for something that wouldn't be outrageously expensive even with the discount. "No?" he asked, considering for a moment why anyone would reject sitting with the man before coming to sudden understanding. "Ah. Well, you know how they are."
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 15, 2013 7:39:07 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. Moose was not terribly good at smalltalk, but he knew he wasn't very good, and he was making a subtle but important attempt to improve himself. He knew that eventually he was going to need to know how to do it, because it was considered to be an expected part of anyone's life, but it was damned difficult to do so. People didn't want to make small talk with a guy who could crush them if he tripped. They didn't want to chat about the weather with someone who looked like they were likely to mug them if they ran into each other in a back alley, and he was eager for even the tiniest chance to practice.
Even if it meant doing so at the poor guy's expense. "Not really. I mean, people throw me off." Which was a bit too honest for an average conversation. "Name's Moose." Introductions were a good place to start, right? Introductions and then right into conversation about the only topic they had in common--food.
"I think I'm going to get the steak. Never had a good steak before." Or any steak, but that seemed a bit too much information. |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 15, 2013 8:06:53 GMT -8
Donovan would have been content if the meal had been spent quietly, rather withdrawn by default for somebody whose paycheck came from filling the radio silence. But he also wasn't opposed to some chatting to drown out the inane chatter coming from the tables around them, found it easy enough to get along with most others at least in limited amounts. He'd much rather not listen to debates about the stock market or the couple passive-aggressively arguing about wedding plans.
"They're rude. Best not worry about them," he dismissed, his own resigned expectations of people rather low. Donovan sighed as he mentally crossed off most of the menu as being far too frivolous for him to enjoy. "Donovan," he almost forgot to offer in return, bemused by the man's fitting name, figuring it must have been a nickname he'd acquired at some point. But he'd resist asking the story behind it, not liking to pry lest he open himself up to the same amount of prying in return.
"I've haven't eaten here before to know if it's any good," Donovan laughed, and doubted Moose had either to suggest anything worth ordering. "But I was recommended that I eat a sandwich or two."
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 15, 2013 12:08:30 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. Donovan? It was a weird name for sure, and not one Moose had heard before. He'd known a Donald once upon a time, but that was the closest his knowledge got to Donovan, and he let out a little grunt of acknowledgement to confirm he'd heard the kids name.
"Never eaten here either." He acknowledged, considering the sandwiches before deciding that no, a steak was better. He wanted a damn steak, and it wasn't as if he was some master of the culinary arts who was going to be able to tell the subtle differences between cuts of steak. "Hope they're good." He commented, because he really did. Sandwiches could be bad, and he was horribly familiar with what a bland or bad sandwich tasted like.
And of course, Moose had already run to the very limits of his ability to manage smalltalk. He was definitely not very good at it, and he let out a tiny grunt, mentally scraping through every possible line of conversation. Most of them went to bad places, and he steered clear of those as he tried to pick a topic that wasn't laden with mines.
"You a student?" Work was something he could deal with. He had a job--a respectable one no less--and it didn't have the same risks as other questions he might have asked. |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 16, 2013 4:40:27 GMT -8
"I wouldn't think they'd be able to charge those prices, if it was bad," Donovan reassured, although he knew that the dynamics between perceived value and quality were more complex than that. There were plenty of entrees that wouldn't have cost too much more, things with little symbols that the guide at the bottom indicated were best sellers or low in carbs. Donovan was swayed by neither, not too fussed between the difference of a fair meal and a great one. He almost always preferred to settle for less. The sandwiches at least came as a set with a choice of soup or salad, and while Donovan wasn't necessarily a picky eater, he often got bored halfway through his meal and liked a bit of variety to keep him from abandoning it entirely. Chewing all the way through a steak, no matter how prime, seemed like a daunting task. But he imagined that Moose needed the energy to sustain himself, looking like he hadn't been getting quite enough for some time.
"Ah, no," Donovan shook his head, supposing he was still at that age to be mistaken as a student. "I've never been to school," he admitted, not ashamed but usually a bit wary of revealing such a fact when it led to too much prying and judging.
Having a vague idea of what he wanted to order, Donovan glanced around to see if there was a waitress hovering somewhere nearby, but they all seemed busy and not paying them too much attention. Not too familiar with dining out, especially somewhere more upscale, he wasn't sure what was polite for flagging somebody down to their table. But he remained patient, flipping the menu closed.
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 17, 2013 19:26:10 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. While Donovan might have known how complex the dynamics between quality and cost were, Moose did not. Moose didn't even spare it a single thought. It wasn't that he didn't know about it--it had simply never crossed his mind, not even once. He knew so little about prices that he couldn't have told you how much a gallon of milk was supposed to cost. Prices in prison were almost entirely unrelated to the actual price of an object, and the extent of his economic knowledge could be summed up in 'the harder an item is to get, the more it's worth'. Even that wasn't halfway accurate, but that was simply how Moose thought--in horribly simple terms.
Moose was only half paying attention to the conversation, not thinking deeply--right until Donovan declared he'd never been to school. Moose faltered, pausing and squinting at him for a moment. While it was horribly rude, Moose was genuinely confused. His understanding of schooling was relatively thin, but he knew that school was mandatory. Everyone had to go to school. Even he'd gone to school (supposedly), although his records and grades had been atrocious. How was it possible you could not go to school?
Not entirely aware of just how rude he was being, Moose opted to probe into that. "Really? I thought everyone had to go to school. Supposed to be mandatory, isn't it?" Was he from some other country or something? Maybe it wasn't mandatory wherever he'd come from. The fact that Donovan's accent was more american south then actually foreign didn't even occur to him. |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 18, 2013 5:16:46 GMT -8
"Supposed to be," Donovan agreed with a light exhale, unbothered by the look of confusion. He'd been on the receiving end of much ruder stares that Moose's expression hardly registered as anything more than genuine curiosity that he was more than willing to indulge. He supposed his situation wasn't common enough for most people to be familiar with. And too be fair he was often surprised by things that others viewed as a given, as inconsequential, and knew how frustrating it could be when others dismissed you as stupid for not something they did even though you never had any reason to know.
"I was homeschooled, my parents taught me and I taught my brothers and sisters." More often teaching than advancing his own learning after a certain level, because it was difficult to get deeper into a subject when the information started contradicting his parents' views. He hadn't even read most classic literature, anything that might have been on any banned book list forbidden to him. Math and music had been the only safe subjects for him to pursue to a higher degree.
Truthfully, he would have preferred a more traditional education, would have preferred a more traditional upbringing completely. He enjoyed learning, probably would have been an insufferable nerd in another life, but his opportunities had been severely limited. Which is why he was stuck with a lower level science book borrowed from the library shoved in his bag, full of simple things most 5th graders would probably know. The idea that the world was actually more than 6000 years old was still a bit new, a bit baffling to put into perspective. Millions, billions of years of history written only in the rocks. A lot of things could have happened in that time, and it was interesting to ponder.
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 18, 2013 16:11:50 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. Moose wasn't exactly a curious person, but his ignorance routinely had the same net effect. He wasn't really looking for things to investigate, he simply didn't know things that people considered 'standard', and was forced to routinely plug gaps in his knowledge.
Moose had never heard of homeschooling, which put him a step down from most people. He'd also never had any siblings, didn't recall his parents, and he had no memory of attending anything but adult education classes to get his GED. What Donovan was talking about was completely foreign to him, and he probably looked a tad too interested in the whole thing for polite conversation.
"Oh." Moose said, practically dripping with insight. "Didn't know you could do that really. Don't have any siblings, either." Or parents, as far as he was concerned. Parents were supposed to be your blood, your family. The people who would never let you down or leave you alone. Moose had never known that. He'd never spoken to them, didn't even know their names. For all he knew, his father might not even know he existed. They might not have even been alive. If they were... well, then they were dead to him.
"Sorry. Probably sound rude or something." Which seemed to be a habit of polite conversation. No matter what he seemed to do, someone was probably going to think he was being rude about it. |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 18, 2013 19:19:41 GMT -8
At Moose's confession of having no siblings, Donovan was inclined to feel a bit envious by default. Not that he ever resented his siblings directly, not like his older brother had since the very beginning. But it was sometimes hard to keep himself from wishing most of them never existed. A selfish thought, because at least his overly sheltered life had offered him some sense of purpose and understanding in its simplicity, and he was usually far too busy to realize just how unhappy he'd been. Now he lacked that sense of belonging, lacked the structure and responsibility that made up everything he knew. And what did he even have to show for his rebellion? He couldn't really claim he was better off now, wondering if the freedom of choice was really even worth it. But he'd resolved never to go back, suspected he wouldn't be welcomed back on any friendly terms.
He briefly thought of Moose as clearly lucky to have gone to school, to be without any siblings, but then it was squashed in the realization of it being presumptuous. He couldn't really isolate that small piece of information to come to any conclusion whether Moose's upbringing was any better off, wasn't interested in making a contest out of it anyway. In the end, weren't they both in bit of a similar situation? Hungrily waiting for somebody to acknowledge them so they could put in orders of food they usually couldn't afford.
"Not at all rude," Donovan insisted with a small shake of his head. "I'm not sure it's common here, anyway. Probably better that it's not. It allows parents not to teach anything they disagree with. And my parents disagreed with a lot."
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 20, 2013 17:10:24 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. Moose didn't have parents. Or at least he didn't remember them, which was effectively the same thing, even if he'd been reminded several times that he did have them, because everyone had parents. Or in theory everyone did, but some people didn't or something Moose couldn't keep track of. The idea of being an orphan was technically one that had never occurred to Moose, even though he'd be considered one in most senses of the word. He was functionally without family, whether they were alive or dead.
He was rescued from his awkward small talk by the arrival of a waitress at last, who looked horribly busy and horribly tired. Moose knew none of the intricacies for how to order, and he waited for her to ask what he wanted before he looked down at the menu.
"Steak."
A single thin eyebrow was raised by the waitress, who quickly fired back with a string of questions Moose had no idea about--what kind of steak, what kind of cut, how would he liked it cook? Moose looked like a literal deer in the headlights, blurting out the first thing that came to mind before looking like he was going to try and bury himself in the menu, letting Donovan order.
"Whatever you think is good." Let the waitress pick, because she had to have a better idea then he did.
|
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 21, 2013 5:52:11 GMT -8
Donovan didn't think Moose's ordering was particularly unsophisticated despite the fumbling, because who needed to be an expert of ordering overpriced food anyway. As far as he cared himself, despite knowing the various cuts and cooking times, a steak was a steak. No point making it overly complicated.
Using the time that the waitress drowned the clueless man in an overabundance of questions about steak, he struggled to finalize his decision. Green eyes darted around the menu page for anything that might suddenly sound better than the thing he picked the moment before. He didn't like having this many options to choose from, but doubted he'd be too unhappy with anything that he ended up getting either. Was there much of a difference between tomato soup or french onion to make one a more desirable choice than the other? How did one know if they were more in the mood for grilled chicken or roast beef?
By the time the waitress turned her attention and notepad onto him, pen poised at the ready and expression strained but polite, Donovan's mind went blank. "Tomato soup and french onion soup," he blurted out, with a bit of a confused smile, forgetting about the sandwiches.
The waitress stared at him in disbelief. A pause, before Donovan remembered, "and an ice tea."
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 23, 2013 8:37:31 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. It was a relief for Moose to realize that he wasn't the only one fumbling with the whole 'ordering from a menu' thing. Donovan had blurted out his order with the same lack of tact that Moose had, and Moose actually found himself smiling a tiny bit at it. He had tasted tomato soup before, but not french onion, and he thought it odd to come to a restaurant just for soup. Soup was supposed to be easy to make. You got a can, you put the stuff into a pot... and then some stuff he wasn't entirely clear on, but was pretty sure he could figure out. Or if he couldn't figure it out, he could ask someone.
Of course, that assumed that he had some sort of access to a stove, which he didn't. Maybe Donovan didn't either? It was a thought that Moose dwelled on for a moment before realizing what he'd forgotten, hastily blurting it out before the waitress could leave.
"And a water for me." He added, giving her a little nod when she finally left, and then settled back in his chair. At least he'd be getting food. At least there was that, right?
But it was still on his mind, and showing all the tact gained from a life in prison, Moose simply asked the question that was on his mind. He didn't beat around the bush or ask unnecessary questions--he just went right to the point and asked what he had in mind.
"Hey kid, you got a place to go after this?" Moose was largely unaware of the secondary--and perhaps more obvious--connotation of what he was asking.
|
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 26, 2013 22:04:07 GMT -8
Busy as the restaurant was, Donovan suspected they wouldn't be getting their meals anytime soon, though he'd guess the kitchen kept a constant stock of soups ready to serve as side dishes. But this seemed the type of place that would prefer to bring both guest's plates at once to maintain propriety, and the steak could take awhile at the back of a long queue.
Luckily he'd never been all that impatient, used to the time taken to make his own meals. He enjoyed cooking, but being here made him realize that he'd never want to work in a restaurant. Donovan slumped forward in the chair, relaxed and no further thought to how he messed up his order nor anxious wishes to change it. Even if he was displeased with his mistake, which he wasn't particularly, Donovan didn't like the idea of bothering the busy waitress again. As he watched her bustle from one table to the next, he could tell she had enough to deal with.
Getting used to the quiet and accepting Moose as being less-talkative, or at least not all that interested in talking to him, he was a bit delayed in realizing that a question had been asked. If Donovan was more intune with the personal context of Moose's question, perhaps it would have been easier to interpret the meaning differently. "No, not really," he shrugged, Donovan really didn't like over-scheduling his days. There was a time in his life that he really didn't have a consistent place to go, because being a runaway hadn't really afforded the luxury, but that was years ago. It wasn't a worry that ever crossed his mind anymore.
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 27, 2013 7:11:48 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. The question had been so simple and basic that it had been easy to misinterpret. There were several ways he could have taken it, and Donovan had managed to pick what was quite possibly the worst one. Moose immediately felt bad, well aware of exactly how shitty it was to live on the streets. It had to be even worse for the scruffy looking Donovan. People looking to make trouble gave Moose a wide berth based on size alone, but Donovan definitely didn't have that. He looked like a strong gust of wind would knock him right over.
He scowled, more because that was his default facial expression then anything, and then tapped his fingers on the table. "It's a shitty situation. There's lots of shelters though for younger guys. Not a ton though. If you have a place to go back to, go back to it. I mean, pride isn't worth that sort of shit." He was doing his best to convey an important life lesson, even if he was doing so with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
|
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 27, 2013 8:11:49 GMT -8
If Donovan was a bit confused what Moose was implying about his situation, it didn't last long as realization spread across his face, eyes widening for a brief second. "No, no," he shook his head, feeling a bit bad for making the other man worry needlessly. He didn't really like others extending too much concern for him, because then he had to feel uncomfortable and make excuses for his blatant disregard to care for himself.
"I didn't realize that's what you meant," he admitted somewhat apologetically, although the question had been vague to begin with and Donovan wasn't going to take all the fault for the misunderstanding. "Maybe before," he hesitantly revealed, but the subject had already been breached that lying about it would have been pointless. "But I have a home, now. I pay rent and have a roommate, it's fine."
But it wasn't quite fine, the rest of the lecture striking a bit of a chord. "There really are some places that aren't worth going back to," he quietly insisted, his normally soft expression hardening. The struggle he'd gone through before he managed to get himself at least some security had been justified, it wasn't even a matter of pride, and he refused to view his running away as a mistake. There really wasn't anything that could convince him that returning back to his family would be the best choice for anyone.
Though now he had to wonder where this was coming from, if Moose had any personal experience that made him so passionate. He regarded the large man closely, but kept the questions to himself.
|
|
|
|
Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Oct 27, 2013 14:03:21 GMT -8
tagged: character. date: date and time.notes: notes. Moose wasn't sure if he was supposed to be relieved or not. On one hand, the kid did have a place to go. He had a roommate and rent to pay and a place to sleep. Technically speaking, he was even ahead of Moose.
On the other hand, he had been homeless once, and apparently he wasn't willing to go back to them. Moose scowled lightly, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head simply from the way he held himself. Unfortunately, Moose was a simple man, and once the gears caught on one thing, they weren't going to catch on anything else.
Moose had never experienced abuse. He had never heard anyone talk about it either. At least not their experiences, anyway. No one wanted to admit to it. But even so, he knew about it. When you spent most of your life in prison, you learned to see things from certain perspectives, and one perspective that was damn near universal was that people who abused kids were scum. Murderers were treated better then those that hurt children, and while few people actually volunteered what they were in for, inmates had ways of finding out. Sometimes guards would leak the names of child molesters, and then, if prison justice didn't catch up to them, the poor bastards would spend the rest of their sentence in solitary for their own confinement.
Was that what had happened? Were Donovan's parents in jail? Or more accurately, should they be in jail? Moose paused, staring at him with the sort of intensity that could kill a small woodland creature, and there was a long pause before he finally spoke. "Dunno what to tell you for that. Know what it's like being on the street, but don't know the rest of it." He had no family, no one to relate to. He didn't even really have the option of going back. "I just know most people would want to go back, a bit down the line. But if you've already got a place, I guess it doesn't matter." |
|
|
|
Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Oct 29, 2013 4:14:12 GMT -8
Donovan didn't like to compare himself to others in that situation, but he did wonder if Moose's knowing was in the past tense or current. Even if he was eating a steak, Donovan was well aware of the inflated rental prices. Without a roommate that was willing to cover most of the rent, he wouldn't have been capable of affording anything passably decent. Better to eat, when it came down to it.
Taking in the evidence, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. But he didn't want to pry, didn't want to ask for details when he was unwilling to offer any more of his own in return. He was awkwardly bad with sympathy and advice, anyway, and Moose didn't seem like he was looking for it. He couldn't even offer a place to stay, not without his roommate likely kicking him out.
It felt too difficult to attempt smiling, so he didn't bother, staring down at the neatly folded napkin in his lap for a long while.
Good thing he never felt too inclined to defend his decisions to others, because he was certain it'd be bit callous to do so at this point. When such a lifestyle had been by choice, perhaps it seemed a bit foolish to have willingly given up his family and his home. Throwing away what others could never have. Not everyone's circumstances were optional, not everyone was running away from something but were forced to the streets for things far more difficult to escape.
The way Moose spoke, he doubted their cases were similar at all.
Not that it had been easy, and things went from unpleasant to worse before they finally evened out to where he was now, but he never had any need to feel sorry for himself because it was always better than the alternative. He could have went home, he could have forced himself to continue being what his parents expected and slowly drowned in self-loathing. And even if he cooperated, kept all his toes in line and married a pre-approved girl and pursued a pre-approved job, he'd never escape the judgment. Being beaten by his father once was enough for Donovan, he didn't need first-hand proof whether it'd become a pattern or not. If Owen hadn't offered the choice to run away, he probably never would have managed the courage, but Donovan liked to think of it as the first time he did something for himself.
But he didn't think anyone else would really understand. Not all of it, at least. Which is why he usually told anyone that asked that his parents were dead and he had no other family to speak of, but he figured Moose deserved better than such a blatant lie. "Thanks for your concern," he finally got out, a bit lost what else would be appropriate to say at that point. "And I hope things are... or will be okay, for you."
|
|
