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| Attempted Hot Dog Robbery | |
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| Participants | Brooklyn, Ellen |
| Synopsis | Brooklyn's sneaky attempts to steal an entire hot dog cart for her runaway pals is thwarted by a nosy cop! |
| Location | Port Authority Bus Terminal - Midtown - Manhattan |
| Time | January 19, 2016 |
| Posted By | Brooklyn |
It is winter evening, and just after 6pm. A bone-chilling cold permeates the air outside, and coupled with the wind it is enough to take a person's breath away. There are at least two homeless people already seeking shelter in the hidden space in between a perpetually broken vending machine and an equally useless payphone. At least three vendors are still here trying to hawk their wares. No one is really buying. The people who are here to board transit vehicles are rushing around, scarves bound around their necks, hands stuffed in pockets, or else talking on cell phones or PDAs. Stiletto heels click. Voices carry just beneath the calls of the desperate vendors, one of whom is selling food. Even with the increased police presence it is unlikely anyone wants to linger too long and would rather arrive at their destination as quickly as possible.
At least a handful of police are in the area at present. Blue uniforms replete with hi-shine Oxford shoes blend in with the monotone grays and blacks of winter outerwear. Two cops walk with paper cups full of bland coffee, briefly passing a couple of Port Authority cops who travel in the opposite direction.
Cold is forever in winter. Perpetual. It is the singular guiding factor above all else that dictates what those on the streets must do to survive. It stings. It bites. Every ounce of energy can be bled away. Conversely, warmth is life. Shelter, as valuable as gold, and far easier to find. The need for warmth supercedes all in winter for those who've slipped through the cracks. For those who have managed to escape its icy touch…well, food is another priority. Hot foods, especially. And in bulk. Just as one would feed their family, the rules of the street are simple and finite…what you get, you share, and you always try and get enough for more than yourself when it comes to the essentials.
The bus station, with its various venders is a platinum opportunity for this particular girl who's slipped through the cracks for more than half her life. One brave vendor has kept his tiny hot dog cart open, offering plain, but hot, dogs, and even some oily, thick, hot coffee. On a bench outside the station and across from said vendor, the girl sits curled up on a bench; a jacket quite a few sizes too big for her is wrapped around her body, arms too long, and hem almost at her knees. Disheveled-looking would be putting in very lightly. Stunningly blue eyes focus on the vendor alone, as police walk by, not seeing anything out of the ordinary beyond a punky-looking kid on a bench staring at food she almost certainly is unable to afford…and they'd be right. She has no means or intent of paying.
Since she has not yet moved, her presence goes largely ignored though there are a few glances in passing. The rules of most cops are different: do what you can when you can, but no matter how many handouts you try to give, there will always be people looking for free meals. Manhattan just happens to be one other location where the hungry, homeless and seasoned criminals can congregate. If you take care of one person here, there will be another over in Clinton.
Elsewhere, though, a curl of female cop lips precedes an incredulous shake of her head. Sometimes, on the job, when things aren't quite as hectic, you find ways of passing the time. That includes talk about the usual stuff. Crime rates. Family. What good-looking waitresses your partner has his eye on… "…Listen," Ellen says, mid-conversation, "the place hired on a new waitress and she's hot. I'm happy you're happy. I don't need to know what size bra cup she wears, capiche? That's the thing you tell guys .. not chicks. Jesus. TMI." The coarse black liquid is sipped like it's nectar of the gods, or at least some poor substitute that'll give her the necessary jolt to keep her attention from flagging as they engage in the same old patrol routine. Her gaze slips over to the hotdog vendor, pausing on the young, punkish woman as Ellen happens to notice her, but then moving back over towards the food and drinks up for sale. Yes, nothing out of the ordinary here. ".. you know, I think he overcharged us for the coffee. Mebbe you want to go over and yell?"
Ordinarily, this young woman would be in a mental state right well suited to match her disheveled appearance. The saving grace this chilly evening is that she's intently focusing on the vendor…and not just to look at the hot dogs said vendor peddles. Her focus opens his mind to hers…with the welcome side effect of turning back the thoughts of all the others around her. Though she's subjecting herself to all the deepest thoughts of this man…he worries if he'll have enough gas to get home tonight, and that his kids haven't done their homework, and other boring trivia…those are the only thoughts she hears.
Not long after, Brooklyn stands herself up off the bench and approaches the vendor. As she comes near, she holds a hand up to wave to him, shaking back the very long sleeve of her coat to just hold the palm out. Her other arm and hand is shaped as if she's carrying a clipboard or something similar under the arm. When the vendor spots her, he seems…shocked, to say the least. The conversation is hard to hear over the hustle and bustle, but he seems extraordinarily obliging to this young woman, who seems to set him about displaying permits and other miscellanea about his vendor cart.
"Come on," Ellen persists despite a dismissive hand flap and a muttered "Ah, just forget about it" from her partner. "You always pay too much. You—" Her words trail off mid-sentence, and not just because her partner is now looking elsewhere, but because she has flicked her eyes back in the direction of the vendor, meaning to jab a finger towards him, and noticed something 'odd'. The younger woman is standing by the cart. The vendor is scrambling to set out things like old permit information. Ellen's partner begins to move off (they do have other areas to patrol, and maybe he expects her to follow), but she remains standing where she is, fixated on the sight and moving slowly towards it. Normally you don't see someone dressed like that causing someone to go into a panic like the vendor currently is. Call it a kind of profiling, but… there's no suit on that punk-haired person. There's no cause for concern. And with Brooklyn's arm stuck out the way it is… it's decidedly curious.
Nearing, but not yet within an earshot, Ellen angles her head to get a better view, ditching a now emptied cup in a nearby garbage can. She frowns very slightly, brows knitting together. The uniformed officer makes an appearance in the peripheral of the vendor's vision, but he's rather distracted at the moment.
Standing in front of the vendor's cart, Brooklyn has the man convinced that she's a city health inspector. To anyone except the vendor, she looks just like a punky runaway, but to the vendor she's something else entirely. To the vendor, Brooklyn is Dominique Lewis, a six-foot blonde with a a severe hair bun, a professional-looking pinstriped suit, expensive pump heels, glasses, heavy trench coat, and of course, all the proper credentials. Working for the City Health Department, the vendor is convinced that Ms. Lewis is there to give him a random health inspection, to ensure he's complying with all appropriate and applicable health codes. As he speaks, he sees her making notes on her clipboard, nodding, and rarely saying anything.
Of course, to the rest of the world, they see a chick of about 5'3", using an invisible pencil and writing on an invisible clipboard. She still nods, since she IS having the conversation…just that in his mind, she's someone else entirely. And the way the conversation is going, it doesn't seem like he's going to get to keep his cart.
Ellen has never met a telepath, or "Dominique Lewis", or run into any city health inspectors while touring the bus terminal before, but she certainly knows 'air scribbling' when she sees it. Although she, of course, sees nothing more than that punk-haired young woman still, she is even more suspicious. How is it that the vendor isn't finding the whole thing strange himself? Is he not paying attention? Is it some kind of a joke between the pair? No, it doesn't look like a joke. Not with how worried he is. Thus, the cop continues to make her approach, listening as she does. She tosses a glance over her shoulder to see where her partner has gotten (and notes that his head has disappeared in the crowd), but she instantly looks back. This little scene has her full attention now.
The Oxford shoes step nearer, and soon she is even closer, coming to a halt just off to the side. "'Scuse me," she interrupts, brown eyes peering between faces. "Everything okay here?"
Intent on sustaining the illusion, focusing on the vendor, Brooklyn is sort of 'shocked' by the arrival of the policewoman. When the young woman turns around to face the officer, the illusion fails. Behind the cart, the vendor slumps a little, blinks heavily a few times, and shakes his head, clearing out what was just done to him. The same thing seems to happen to the young woman, in fact. No longer concentrating on the vendor, her mind is opened up to the din of surface thoughts from those around the bus station. "E-everything's fine!" she says, a little too sharply and quickly for things to really be fine here. "I was just talking to this dude, honest."
Unfortunately the cop registers the hitch in Brooklyn's tone. You don't spend hours each day and night busting chops without learning when to recognize nervousness. Ellen peers a little more closely. "Yeah, I saw you two were talkin'," she says slowly as she nods, "but he—" Her hand indicates the vendor. "Looked to be a little worried." She doesn't mention the permit information he was struggling to come up with, or anything else in particular. A long, hard look follows. Sometimes that's more than enough to pull out anymore evidence of wrongdoing. "Sir? Are you…?" Her head swivels just slightly. "… Okay?"
"I…I'm fine, but…where's that woman? That health inspector? She came over demanding my permits…said she'd take my cart if I didn't show her!" he manages to stammer out, the worry clearly evident in his voice. His head is on a bit of a swivel, as he looks around for where that tall blonde woman might have gone. She never existed though, but he'll never know that! Meantime, though, those blue eyes are brought to bear on the cop, and Brooklyn shuts the voices of the others out by focusing on her instead. She's not frazzled….yet, which is good. A rather good degree of composure is requried to hear what the cop's thinking…and to start planning her escape, sans food, it seems.
The brunette cop listens, though nothing coming out of the vendor's mouth is really making much sense to her right now. Granted she did see those suspicious things walking over, he saw the punk as a what? "Health inspector?" repeats Ellen in a surprised tone. Brooklyn escapes her notice for the time being. The vendor now has her staring. "Wait, you—" Again she trails off, but the thoughts are leaking out of her skull. Plain as day.
Is this some kind of joke after all? Are they yanking my chain? Maybe they are. No—he's panicky now.
"Hold on," she says, holding up a hand towards the man. "I didn't see a health inspector, but I did see this girl standing in front of you, doin' somethin'. And the next thing I know, you're fishing for your papers." Brook is eyed.
Did she do somethin'? Did she mess with him somehow? Better hold her while I sort this out…
This isn't looking good for Brooklyn…the cop's getting suspicious. Time for a new trick. "Hey! What's that over there!" she yelps out, and then simultaneously plants a little subliminal instruction for them both to look! When they do, she…strains herself a little, but reapplies the same illusion, beaming the sights directly into both of their heads. Sure, she's cut the duration of the illusion in half by applying it to two people, but at least she's making them both see the same thing! By the time the turn around, she's gonna figure out if this works…otherwise, she's gonna have to bolt! The thought that she hasn't actually done anything wrong seems to escape her, BUT! that cop wants to hold her, and that's bad.
Just as easily as she managed to have those surface thoughts read (and maybe even with no sense of actually being read), Ellen finds herself looking at a blonde in a suit, which is no doubt odd, considering she was just looking at someone who was completely different appearance-wise. The vendor may relax. Ellen is even more confused than she was moments earlier, blinking rapidly and then outright gawking. "The hell?" she naturally begins, because unless she's been drinking, there's no way this makes sense. "Did you? Where did you—?" she stammers, those dark eyebrows furrowing once more. Back towards the vendor, she asks, "Where'd she go?" As if he'll know!
"She…who? This is the inspector I was telling you about!" the vendor protests. It's the tall woman that answers the officer's questions, though. "Do you mean a youngish-looking girl, Officer? She ran off…hmm…that way, I believe," the statuesque blonde says, pointing in the direction of the terminal. "I suspect she went in to get warm, since she didn't look as if she had any cash to pay for any of this man's hotdogs…which, it pains me to say, just barely passed inspection!" As if to prove a point, she holds up that clipboard, which is just magically there thanks to that illusion! On the sheet, there's a variety of cursive notes, all neat and organized.
Although absolutely flummoxed now, Ellen knows there's something not right about this. Oh, she'll figure it out later, or at least wrack her brain and complain to her partner that he wasn't there, but for now she's going to try and track down that elusive punk-haired girl as if her sanity depends on it. A look darts between the vendor (ignoring any sudden expressions of relief) and the mysterious blonde as though memorizing her face, though, of course, it doesn't really exist. "You—both of you stay put. I'll be back. Wait here, please," she adds, albeit forcibly, and she hastily strides off to 'pursue' Brooklyn before the younger woman gets to wherever she's going. Her blue uniformed figure recedes into a small crowd of transient musicians, but not before glaring. Crazy night shifts!
