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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 8, 2013 7:44:34 GMT -8
Nothing ever went the way it was supposed to when it came to Moose. Even something as simple as going to the store to get milk inevitably became a task. He lacked things that most people would consider 'basic life skills', and plenty of things that people took for granted left him standing there in confusion.
Milk was one of those things. He'd been sent to get milk at a store not far from where they lived. A short, brisk walk was all it took. The store itself was a small one, mostly catering to tourists who wandered out of the tourist trap that was the third street promenade, but also catering to nearby locals. If you wanted to get a cheap razor, or some other necessity of life, third street promenade probably wasn't going to have anything for you. That was what the store did--catered to more general needs, as opposed to the high end brands.
Which also meant it was, hands down, the best place to buy milk without going much farther in the opposite direction. Oskenonton had trusted Moose to get milk--had given him the exact change and everything--and now the whole thing had gone belly up. Moose had spent the better part of ten minutes staring between the wall of milk, unsure of what kind he was supposed to get. A jug? A carton? Regular? Reduced Fat? Skim? He had come looking for 'milk', and rapidly discovered there was supposed to be something in front of the milk.
Needless to say, ten minutes staring at the milk case was enough to draw attention, and the pudgy older man from behind the counter had slunk out from his spot by the register, standing only a few feet from Moose and sizing him up. Moose kept glancing over, but the guy hadn't even offered to help--what the hell was he supposed to do?
As the clock ticked to the ten minute mark, things were boiling over, and the owner eventually demanded an explanation--Moose needed to either buy something or get the hell out. Ten minutes was far too long to be 'deciding', and Moose had already been in a bad mood. He sized himself up, looking even more intimidating in a t-shirt and rough jeans then he had in a badly fitting suit.
"Fuck off." He snapped, glowering at the man and looking terribly close to slugging him.
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 8, 2013 8:47:04 GMT -8
Cake. That's all the text on his phone read, and Donovan had almost missed it with his text notifications permanently on silent. Not that he got them often anyway. As mouthy as his roommate could be, going on endlessly pointless rants, he sure had a way of being succinct in his demands that allowed little room for negotiation. And it had to be a demand, or he had to at least operate under the assumption that it was, clarifying more trouble than it was worth. Altan had been on tour for the last week, and Donovan hadn't realized that that he was due to be back until he confirmed the date on his phone calendar. The 17th. When did that happen? Sometimes it felt like the months were going by too quickly, but then he really had nothing too important approaching to pace them.
After a mental checklist, he already had most of the ingredients for cake back home. His kitchen was usually well-stocked in baking supplies, as he enjoyed making cakes almost as much as his sugar-addicted roommate enjoyed consuming them at an unhealthy rate, but he'd finished off the eggs that morning for a lazy but tasty omelet. Which were easy enough to pick up, and on his path home from the beach where he'd spent most of his morning avoiding getting a tan and being too distracted by nicely muscled men without shirts to read, he stopped at the first store that looked like it might have at least a basic grocery selection. Eggs were basic. Donovan wandered toward the back of the store, where eggs and dairy were generally located, but glancing around in case this store happened to break that pattern.
Another flash across his phone alerted him to a second demand. Chocolate. Donovan suppressed a sigh, about to grumble a quiet "fuck off" when he heard a much louder and vaguely familiar voice snap the same thing. Donovan wasn't generally good with faces nor names of even more frequent acquaintances, but it had been only a few days since he'd met Moose and the man was automatically recognizable even from the back in a way most people weren't. He hadn't expected to see Moose ever again even after offering his phone number as contact, and it probably would have been an occasion for at least some gladness, except it looked as if the man had managed to find himself into a bit of developing trouble.
Interfering wasn't something he usually considered a good idea, didn't like to get involved with even his own problems. He wasn't even sure what the situation was, and it wasn't his business. But then Moose was right there with the milk, which was inconveniently right next to the eggs, and it would be a bit awkward to try maneuvering around what looked like it might become a fight if the tension between Moose and the store owner wasn't broken. In the brief time that he'd spoken to Moose, he liked to think of him as somebody worth helping out.
"Everything okay?" he interrupted calmly, placing himself between the two.
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 8, 2013 9:45:35 GMT -8
The phone number on his hand had long since rubbed off, and Moose looked much the same as he had when he first met Donovan--he was simply a bit more clean. When they'd first met he looked unwashed and shabby, wearing a suit that didn't quite fit, and looking like he hadn't been eating enough. Now he looked a bit less starved, and he was wearing actual clothes, rather then a bad suit. He managed to look both a lot less casual, and a lot more intimidating. Really, the only thing he was missing to complete the image was an oversized hoodie for him to shove his hands into.
The whole thing looked perilously close to blows before Donovan abruptly inserted himself into the situation, getting right in Moose's way. Moose's anger seemed to deflate like a balloon, and all his instinctual bulking up was let go in an instant. He wasn't smiling my an means, but at a glance it no longer looked liked he was going to take anyones head off.
"Donovan." Moose grunted by way of acknowledgement. He hadn't expected to see Donovan again, but so few people acknowledged him as a person that he didn't have much trouble remembering the names of those that did. Even though his memory was shoddy, each of those that did were distinct in his mind. He certainly couldn't have remembered the exact details of what he'd talked with Donovan about a week ago, but he remembered enough.
"Was just trying to get milk." He mumbled, and the manager took offense to that, still looking surly himself.
"For ten minutes." The manager snipped. DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 8, 2013 10:50:53 GMT -8
Those little details, changes in Moose's appearance weren't quite processed yet, but he got the general impression that he looked better than when they met before. It wasn't enough to go off of to assume anything by it, but Donovan spared some hope that Moose had managed to improve his situation even a little in that short time.
It might not have been immediately appreciated by either man, putting himself right in the middle of their conflict, but at least it had the desired effect of getting both to back down a bit. Maybe the delay wouldn't last long, but at least provided an opportunity to get things talked out since he doubted this was rooted in any actual serious issue like Moose sleeping with the man's wife or running over his dog. It was always a wonder how misunderstandings could escalate from nothing. He'd had plenty of experience as a mediator between his squabbling siblings to remain passive enough not to have any of the anger redirected at himself but firm enough in his stance not to go ignored.
"Ah," Donovan pondered the apparently provoking qualities of milk, giving the impatient manager a bit of a dismissive shrug. "What kind of milk?" he asked in attempt to be helpful, because that same question had plagued him endlessly when he first started buying it from stores. His family had always gotten unpasteurized milk straight from farms nearby, and the difference in taste and all the varieties had been difficult to get used to.
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 8, 2013 12:48:57 GMT -8
It was entirely safe to say that the odds of Moose accidentally sleeping with someone's wife were next to zero, and considering that he didn't own a car, the odds of him running over someone's dog was a flat zero itself.
He let out a little grunt at Donovans question. He'd managed to accurately sum up the whole situation in a quick question, and Moose simply didn't know the answer. "Dunno. He gave me the money and told me to get milk. He didn't tell me there'd be forty different kinds to pick through." Explained Moose, being terribly cryptic without intending to. It didn't occur to him that he'd never mentioned Oskenonton, but then he'd had little reason to when he'd first met Donovan--at that point, Oskenonton had just been a guy who was maybe his friend.
The manager seemed to sense that things were getting done, and while he wasn't happy with Moose, he wasn't going to drive off another customer when Moose hadn't strictly done anything against the rules. He drew back, returning to the front of the store and leaving Moose and Donovan to their goods.
"Dunno how the hell a person's supposed to figure out what sort of milk they have." He grumbled loudly, giving Donovan a brief glance. "How ya been?"
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 8, 2013 20:58:55 GMT -8
Donovan mustered a polite smile as the manager left, obviously still annoyed but probably appreciative that he didn't have to solve the milk problem himself that he wasn't going to protest Donovan taking over. He could guess that it wasn't solely impatience that drove the confrontation, there was a distinct impression that the manager had singled Moose out where he might have been more lenient or even helpful with anyone else. Just like at the restaurant, where everybody else had been too intimidated to sit with the man. These sorts of situations, being treated with obvious distrust and avoidance, probably weren't the most encouraging. Maybe Moose was dangerous, Donovan didn't know, but was there really anything threatening about a man confused by a milk section?
Some people just seemed overly anxious and willing to give into unjustified fear. And that fear-driven defensiveness had a way of creating yourself as a target of backlash, because Donovan could guess that Moose really hadn't wanted to hit the man until provoked. He'd been barely holding himself from doing so, but he had abstained. Was the manager trying to cause a fight to prove his own preconceptions, that he was willing to get hit to condemn Moose?
But annoyance at the manager wasn't going to help Moose get his milk and him the eggs, and Donovan never liked to dwell too much on the negativity of others. "I'm fine," he smiled lightly, because there really wasn't all too much going on to report. He was alive. "Well, the good news is that if he," and Donovan had no guesses as to who this he was, "didn't specify, he's probably not too picky."
Scanning the options, he quickly selected a gallon of 2%, figuring it was standard enough, even though he was tempted to select whole for Moose given he probably needed the extra calories. But this was for somebody else? Donovan didn't want to pry. "Soy milk is actually just a bean, not from a cow. Usually people that want soy milk will be very insistent upon telling you repeatedly," he explained, indicating the non-dairy substitutes before offering the gallon over. "Chocolate is great, but you probably don't want that."
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 9, 2013 8:06:15 GMT -8
Donovan was there to save him from the confusion of too many milks. And there were too many, especially if it didn't actually matter which kind he wanted. Realistically he should have asked Oskenonton what kind he wanted, only he hadn't realized there were kinds at all. Certainly not so many varieties, nevermind the different brands of what appeared to be the same exact thing.
He had no deep thoughts about the managers actions. If he'd sat down to think about it, he probably would have been able to provide some insight--that people feared those that could do them ill, and Moose could easily do hurt someone without even trying. That made him scary, and the general impression he gave only added to that. He didn't snarl at those he passed or anything, but his face was often twisted in a perpetual scowl. People saw him and thought bad things, and the way they acted around those they feared only lead to bad things actually being done, as much as Moose tried to resist it.
Moose nodded as Donovan picked out a gallon of milk, reaching out to take it and squinting at the side. 2%. Was that the normal kind? The kind that you got if someone asked for 'milk'? He supposed it would simply have to do. While strictly speaking the thought of phoning Oskenonton never occurred to him, he wouldn't have called anyway. Oskenonton was busy with work, and Moose at the very least knew enough to not interrupt during that.
"Oh." He acknowledged, having had no idea that milk came from cows. That was the sort of fundamental basic knowledge that had been explained to him in a period of his life that he no longer remembered--and the sort of thing that never really came up again, because it had never mattered.
"Things doing better with you?" He was hoping Donovan hadn't come in just to help him with milk. He had to be here for something, right?
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 9, 2013 8:55:52 GMT -8
"No better nor worse than usual," Donovan admitted honestly, nothing significant happening the last few days to change his overall outlook on life. Nothing really interesting to report, and doubting Moose would care too much to hear about the more mundane details of his life. "My roommate returned today from his concert tour," he added with a tinge of annoyance, moving away from Moose to inspect the egg selection. He didn't want to get too many, because he had to haul them back in his book bag, risking them all getting smashed. "I'm making a chocolate cake to celebrate the occasion," and it was close enough to the truth. It wasn't as if he could really survive without the other man paying the majority of the bills.
Grabbing a half dozen of whatever the cheapest brand of eggs were, Donovan double-checked the cash in his pocket to make sure he had enough to cover the purchase. And then after counting the random assortment of change and confirming he had enough, he grabbed a half-pint of chocolate milk to indulge his sudden craving. "Had any luck finding a place?" he asked with a casual glance over his shoulder, deciding not to comment upon the fact that Moose definitely looked better than when they met. Definitely looked as if he'd at least bathed since then.
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 9, 2013 11:41:44 GMT -8
Concert--that was something with music, but beyond that Moose had no more knowledge of that particular thing. He eyed Donovan as the boy picked through eggs, vaguely wondering if he was going to make eggs for breakfast. That was a food Moose knew about, even if he'd struggle to so much as make scrambled eggs in a pan. While Oskenonton obviously thought Moose was capable of doing basic groceries, he'd definitely realized that letting Moose anywhere near a stove was a bad, bad plan.
Moose gave a little nod, technically done but unwilling to go up to the counter by himself. Better to go up with Donovan rather then risking a brawl with the owner, and it was only after a few seconds that he realized that while Donovan was glancing over his shoulder briefly, he probably couldn't see the nod.
"Yeah actually. Didn't get to go to the library. Ended up meeting up with a guy I met before--he's letting me crash on the couch for cheap." And was teaching him the basics of how to survive on the outside. Whether he'd intended to or not, Oskenonton was definitely teaching him things like 'there's too many kinds of milk' and 'people don't specify'. "Not a big place, but plenty of room for me."
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 9, 2013 17:09:38 GMT -8
"The he that told you to get milk?" Donovan clarified curiously. He was glad that his suggestion for finding a place online had been unneeded, glad that Moose had somebody willing to help him out personally rather than just a stranger he hadn't met. Donovan had come across rather questionable people in his own search, and for all of Moose's size to ward people off... he also seemed a bit naive. "That must be quite a big couch."
About to bring his few purchases to the register so they could check out before the manager returned with renewed grumpy vengeance, something else occurred to him. Donovan considered the gallon in Moose's grasp for a moment, before stepping into Moose's space just enough to read the date printed on the side of the plastic jug. While Donovan didn't doubt that between Moose and another man, they could finish off a gallon in a day or two, he generally didn't like to risk buying something too close to the expiration date.
Then he quickly checked the next couple jugs, finding one with a few more days to spare. "Put that one back, this one will be good for longer," he suggested.
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 9, 2013 17:36:11 GMT -8
Moose nodded in response to Donovan's question. "Yeah, there's three of us. Osk and Rhiannon were living together, and I knew both of them because of... this thing." Which was unhelpful and vague, but Moose knew better then to try and explain what had happened at the mansion. Donovan would simply leave him behind, thinking (justifiably) that Moose was completely crazy. Better to leave it as a 'thing'.
"And then I saw them again, and walked Rhiannon home, and then they sad I should stay." He continued his explanation as Donovan stepped forward, and he paused to hold up the jug for Donovan to look at, unsure of why he was looking at all. He was just... investigating it? What? What was he even doing? Moose found himself squinting at him for a moment before Donovan abruptly explained. Apparently it was... what, going to go bad? Did milk even do that? He didn't ask though, simply did as he was told, putting the jug back and grabbing the one Donovan had indicated, picking it up like most people would pick up a pencil or piece of paper.
"Didn't even know milk had to stay good." He knew little to nothing about food expiries--it was yet another thing that wasn't the sort of thing that got brought up in prison, after all. No one talked about expiry dates on food beyond complaining food had gone bad, even when it hadn't.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 9, 2013 19:04:44 GMT -8
This thing was met with a raised eyebrow, because something kept that vague could be any range of things, and the choice to keep it cryptic made the more questionable options seem more likely. Or Moose just didn't want to go into too many details, because he'd been just as guilty about only giving as little as possible. His imagination was probably far stranger than the truth of the situation. Either way, it was another thing that Donovan was a bit curious about, but didn't want to pry for more unless it was offered freely.
"When milk goes bad, you'll know it," Donovan wrinkled his nose a bit, remembering his own experiences with sour milk. Somehow it had a way of lingering in the back of his consciousness, making him second guess his choice of chocolate milk and consider orange juice instead. But the moment passed, and he headed to the checkout, expecting Moose to follow without giving any explicit instructions to do so. Even if he was helping the older man out, he wasn't going to default to treating him like one of his younger siblings. It had taken awhile to break himself of that habit, learned quickly that people didn't really appreciate being mothered.
The surly manager was waiting for them, his continued annoyance at least kept quiet as Donovan smiled cheerfully. "Can I get a bag, please?"
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 9, 2013 19:29:29 GMT -8
Moose followed without being told, trailing behind Donovan. There was no question that Donovan had a much better idea of what to do then Moose did, and he was more then willing to follow the younger mans lead. Even if he was, strictly speaking, old enough to be Donovan's father (although not by much), Donovan was far more together and organized then he was, and he was more then willing to admit it.
The manager was definitely annoyed, but he didn't bring up Moose as he checked Donovan out, providing a bag and moving him through the cash quickly. Moose didn't even speak as he stepped up, vaguely aware of how the transaction was supposed to go. If he was given the correct change, he had no idea, and simply dropped the money back in his pocket, not asking for a bag and simply grabbing the milk. He hurried out, not at all wanting to linger, and he was out on the street before he spoke again, giving Donovan a glance. "Thanks. Thought I was going to punch the idiot before you stepped in."
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 9, 2013 20:13:03 GMT -8
There weren't many people that would consider Donovan all that knowledgeable, all that organized given his habit of avoiding responsibility where possible. He was used to people considering him sheltered and far too flippant to really take what he said seriously, even when his ideas weren't all that unreasonable. And to be fair, Donovan had a way of undermining his own credibility with his often far-too-relaxed attitude and lack of interest in winning anyone over. So it was nice not to be at the receiving end of patronizing thinly-veiled as light teasing for once.
Donovan wasn't particularly controlling, considered himself more than open to criticism where necessary, but he definitely appreciated Moose's compliance. Moose's lack of questioning. He was too used to being challenged over such simple things. Maybe he wasn't going about things in the typical or acceptable ways, but Donovan liked to think he was getting by just fine anyway. And Moose was going to be just fine too, Donovan decided, just because everyone's expectations were nonsense. Because people like the diners in the restaurant and the shop manager were rooting for them to fail out of their own sense of superiority. Normally it wasn't enough to annoy him on his own behalf, but seeing it happen to Moose was more difficult to ignore, made him want to help Moose in any way he could.
"I don't blame you for wanting to," Donovan sighed, knotting the plastic shopping bag closed in case the eggs broke. He set his backpack down on the sidewalk and unzipped it, shuffled around the books he had failed reading earlier to make room to place the eggs inside. "He deserved it. But I think sometimes people are just wanting to create reasons for you to mess up." Throwing the bag back over his shoulders, Donovan shrugged. "Don't give that kind of idiot the satisfaction of making you snap."
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 10, 2013 9:18:20 GMT -8
It was more important then ever not to take a swing at someone for Moose. He couldn't. He just couldn't. If he took a swing at the manager--if he'd been involved in a fight, let alone started one--he'd have been dropped right back in jail, no questions asked. His parole officer would be disappointed, but he wouldn't be surprised. Neither would any of the people who had handled his paperwork--he was a violent felon, and in cases like his, it was only a matter of time before he went back.
But Oskenonton and Rhiannon--they would be disappointed. They wouldn't have expected it. They'd be crushed to know he was going back. He'd disappoint them, and he couldn't bring himself to do that. Not when they trusted him and had given a chance.
"Yeah. Trying not to." He nodded, having no bag to put his milk in. He'd simply carry it like it was, unbothered by the relatively slight weight.
The pair had talked about a lot of things, but there were a few issues that had never been broached. Work was one of them, and Moose was relatively sure it was because Donovan assumed he didn't have a job. He did though, and he liked to talk about it--it was a point of pride that he had one at all. "You working anywhere?" Probably a cafe or something. Maybe a store. Maybe he'd even come visit sometimes. Donovan had helped him out, after all.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 11, 2013 4:35:24 GMT -8
With Moose's strength, the way he carried the jug of milk around like it weighed nothing, there really no worry of Moose not being able to defend himself in any fight he managed to get himself into. In fact, Moose probably could do a lot more damage than he intended, especially if he lost his temper. And even without knowing about Moose's past or parole, he knew that anything involving the police would probably end poorly and not all that sympathetic in his favour. But it was good to know that Moose had other people in his life now to help bail him out if needed, or at least he hoped that whoever Osk and Rhiannon were that they were looking out for him and not just letting him crash on their couch. He doubted that his phone number had survived on Moose's hand long enough to be any good.
"Ah, me? Yeah, I used to work at a flower shop," he perked up a bit while unlocking his bicycle from the rack in front of the shop. He had enjoyed that job a lot because of the relaxing environment and easily-pleased customers. "But it got closed because of slow business," and maybe it was the slow business that made it likable in the first place. What a shame. "Now I work at a radio station as a host. Bluegrass music." He would have added you've probably never heard of it but he'd been at the receiving end of that from pretentious hipsters enough to avoid using it toward anyone else. Even if it was most likely true. For one, people didn't seem to listen to the radio much anymore, and bluegrass seemed especially unpopular.
"What about you?" Donovan asked, not wanting to assume to much of anything. Moose had been able to afford a steak when they met, even if it was half-priced, so perhaps he had some sort of income.
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 11, 2013 10:12:16 GMT -8
A flower shop? It hadn't occurred to Moose that there would be a whole shop for flowers. Maybe he'd have to get some for the house. Oskenonton seemed to love nature, and if nothing else, Moose wanted to see him happy. If he could buy him a flower and make him happy, then why not? He had some money of his own, and a plant couldn't be that expensive.
It was just idly wondering though. He hadn't put much thought into it, but it was the sort of gift idea that he was quick to file away for later. Donovan's second job was less clear to Moose. He knew what a radio was, but while he not only hadn't heard of the station (which Donovan hadn't named), he didn't even know what bluegrass was, and he could only stand there before reluctantly admitting it.
"Dunno what bluegrass is even." The type of music? That was his best guess, but anything ore specific was lost on him. Wasn't grass supposed to be green?
At least his own job let him recover a bit more of his mood, and he grinned at Donovan, obviously proud of it. "Bodyguard. Started workin' a few weeks ago. Mostly it's just standin' around lookin' scary, but I like it. Good work, and it pays well." And he liked to think he was helping make sure no one got hurt. It made things just a bit better, even if the job probably shouldn't have been nice as Moose thought of it. It was genuinely a kind of crappy job, but he was simply happy to have one at all, and that made things much easier on him.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 12, 2013 1:40:09 GMT -8
"It's mostly played on string instruments," Donovan explained briefly, not wanting to go too deeply into defining the genre to somebody probably not that interested. This seemed like the wrong part of the country for it to have too big of a following. Outside of the station, he couldn't say he met anybody who claimed to be a fan or even a casual listener.
Getting the chain free, Donovan wheeled his bike forward a bit, but made no movement to get on quite yet. The conversation was still going fine, and he genuinely liked Moose's presence to make any rushed excuse to leave prematurely. "But if you're ever curious and unable to sleep at two in the morning, the station is 101.9." And he suspected that would go just as unused as any other information he provided Moose (not that he minded) but he wanted to at least give Moose a chance to decide for himself and liked encouraging others to listen to something new. "Any kind of music you like?" he asked, absolutely no idea what kind of answer to expect in return.
It wasn't difficult to imagine Moose as a bodyguard, could see how his size and appearance would discourage most potential threats. And Moose seemed particularly happy about it, whether through pride of making his own living or finding the work itself exciting. Maybe it was a bit dangerous, Donovan really had no idea about what sorts of clients he had or what sorts of real or potential threats they might be under, but he was probably more than capable of handling it. "That's great," he smiled easily in response to Moose's own grin, sure this was the first time he'd such an expression on the man's face. "Do you actually get to save people, or are your fearsome looks enough to scare everyone off?"
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Post by DARRIN "MOOSE" MOORE on Nov 12, 2013 8:04:23 GMT -8
Moose didn't know what a string instrument was either, but after a moment's thought, he decided that it was probably a guitar--or a thing like a guitar. He knew little of music, and while he'd actually heard plenty of instruments, he'd never actually seen any of them, making the connection a bit of a stretch for him. It was hard, if not impossible, to go from listening to a bit of music to making a guess at what instruments were making the sounds, especially when you'd never so much as seen a musical instrument in person. The thought of something like a theremin or banjo would have blown Moose's mind.
He also had no idea how radios worked. He'd heard them before, because the guards would often have their own, but he had no idea how to connect the numbers to what was playing. He could only shrug when asked what kinds he liked, because Moose really didn't know. It was a bit like asking a man who had only eaten gruel what varieties of food he enjoyed. "Dunno. Not sure on the types, really. Listened to some and liked it, but I dunno the titles or anything." It was a small miracle that he knew the fact that they had titles.
"Mostly fearsome looks. Boss says he'll probably put me in some courses next month so I can start taking the bigger jobs, but mostly it's just lookin' scary. I mean, that's what I'm good at. No one is going to look at me'n say 'hey, I think it'd be a good idea to mess with that guy'." The whole thing was horribly true, and Moose was well aware of that fact. He was happy that he was going to get some extra training, but he knew he wasn't ever going to be one of those elites--the ones that didn't look scary, but instead were scary. It simply wasn't possible. He wasn't ever going to be able to legally own a gun, and that was going to put a harsh damper on his upward momentum.
DONOVAN SHEPHERD | MAY 17TH, 2 PM |
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Post by DONOVAN SHEPHERD on Nov 12, 2013 22:18:30 GMT -8
Music was one of the only things that Donovan could confidently claim to be knowledgable about, but only in a rather limited range of genres. He'd grown up with only exposure to classical and wholesome family Christian radio, that most popular groups went unknown and metal and electronica baffled him. But he'd embraced the different styles readily, almost permanently attached to the radio when Altan wasn't home to complain about his listening selections. Altan was definitely a better musician, but rather narrow and critical in his view of what was "good." So it was easy to get a bit carried away with wanting to discuss music, especially with somebody not his roommate, but he knew what it was like when people went on about things he didn't know much or care much about. Usually people had at least a basic sort of knowledge about music, enough to state a preference. But he prefered Moose's honesty over the cliched and vague "everything... but country" that most claimed. "Ah. No matter. Just haven't heard a lot, or don't care?" he asked curiously, wanting to gauge how receptive Moose would be to recommendations, or if it was a conversation best dropped completely. The other man said he liked what he knew, but that didn't necessarily imply any interest in more. "For somebody that looks scary enough to get paid for it," Donovan teased a bit, "You're nice." And that wasn't a compliment that Donovan extended often at all. Nice simply wasn't something most people were.
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