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| Log Title | |
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| Participants | Bergstrom, Ellen |
| Synopsis | Nathan Bergstrom visits New York City and discusses his job situation with Ellen. Somehow the conversation turns towards philosophy. Nathan shares some ideas on mutants with the slightly less enthused cop but they do not take. Color Ellen skeptical. |
| Location | Mike's Diner - SoHo - Manhattan |
| Time | February 12, 2016 |
| Posted By | Ellen |
It's the middle of the day in Mike's Diner just a few minutes after the lunch rush. The staff are going about their duties cleaning up and bussing the tables, a waitress is wiping down the counter, and in the back the short-order chef is spraying down some of his cookware with a nozzle from the sink. There's only a few customers within, most of them regulars… locals. They're people easily picked out by their ease in placement and the casual chatter they offer back and forth.
At quick glance it's a typical scene, except for one element. It'd take another regular or a local to pick up on it, but there's that one lone guy sitting at the counter nursing a soda and a plate of fries. He's clearly not aware that he stands out in some ways, a little oblivious. It's probably something in the tension in his spine, the too straight way he's sitting. Or it's the set of pamphlets that are sprawled out beside him, all proclaiming 'Welcome Back!' and 'A New Beginning!' as well as the Columbia University logo. But what might really separate him from the usual crowd, is that he's got a newspaper open to the crossword puzzle. And he's actually doing it. In pen.
An aging relic of the past, few are probably aware of the diner's continued existence other than those locals already mentioned. With its rundown main room and half-assed menu, it is surely not the classiest place still around in Manhattan, but the loyal clientele must keep it afloat. The area outside is rundown, beaten, destroyed, but still standing. The rec centre still holds classes and a youth club even if it is a shadow of what it once was. There is still a punching bag to wail on. There are areas to play sports. While monotone grays, decaying browns and faded asphalt seem the colors of choice, there is still activity to be found. A few people talk on the stairs of a building entrance, wearing mostly second-hand wool garments. A young man, who is maybe a former student of the City College which is no longer open, now working in some minimum wage job in SoHo to help support his family, judging by his earnest determination, stands on the street trying to clean graffiti off the cracked window of the diner.
From the direction of the centre comes a blurry figure that rounds the side of the building, hands dug deep in her pockets in response to the biting cold, it being one of those times when you regret not having a pair of gloves. Her idle gaze observes a few of the warehouses in passing, but does not remain long enough to warrant any looks in return. She makes her way inside, right palm freeing itself of its pocket and gently shoving the door open. "Coffee and whatever daily special you got," she asks as she bellies up to the less than clean Formica counter, not even bothering to look up at the blackboard displaying the menu. Instead, she merely fishes a PDA cell phone out of her jacket and lays it beside her as though expecting it to ring very shortly. The special will probably be soup and/or a sandwich, made from a mystery meat. It's cheap, it's filling, it's on her way back to the subway, and most of all, it's predictable. The woman has been here before. Enough times that she even knows to add, towards the waitress (her curling plastic name tag identifying her as "Sara") manning the counter as she heads for the passthrough to place the order, "Extra mayo or mustard, or whatever, please." Because here, unless you try for all the flavor you can get, your taste buds might not even register the food in your mouth. Though fries are always a safe bet.
A few seats down, the older man in his bomber jacket is still a little hunched over the newspaper. The pen makes small scratching noises as he marks in the answers. Luckily he's not so far gone in thought that he's oblivious to those around him. When Ellen arrives he gives a momentary glance up. His eyes fall back down, then he does a double-take albeit not a comical one. It's in that moment he remembers a touch of manners and gives a thin smile, a nod, and even a faint gesture of greeting with a ketchup smeared french fry. He chomps on the fry and doesn't broach a conversational opener as gambit, since oftentimes some people just want to enjoy their lunch in peace.
A brunette, late twenties and dressed in sweat gear as though she has just come from the gym, the woman seats herself on a stool, and then takes in her immediate surroundings while she waits. She sees the smile and nod, and the polite greeting that follows, and though initially she eyes the older man a little curiously, having noticed his pamphlets by this point (though not the newspaper and pen), raises her right hand. "Hey. They still tryin' to get that project off the ground?" she says as a finger indicates the pamphlets, loosening a wool scarf and shrugging out of her jacket to lay it atop her lap while she eats.
There's a slight widening of his eyes, as if he didn't entirely expect to have to talk. She can probably tell he's initially a little off-kilter as it takes him a beat… perhaps two to realize exactly what she's asking. His hand reaches out and covers the pamphlets, then spreads them out, "Oh. Oh this. Why yes, yes they are. Still in production I believe. Early stages… So I'm told… I think…" He's got a definite New England accent, on the western edge of it perhaps, precise elocution but with that hint of different emphasis.
There's another pause, and he realizes that it would most likely be best to offer a rejoinder of some sort. He responds with, "Why? Considering Columbia next semester?" Perhaps he assumes she's a student, she perhaps seems young enough in some ways, but then at some points ages can blur together to the perception of some. He swirls another french fry.
Any accent is noticeable when you have that of a traditional New Yorker. The brunette probably notices, but then any change from the norm is easily recognized in these parts. She listens as Sara delivers a chipped coffee mug and pours the crude liquid, arms folding on the countertop and offering a vague "Thanks" to the other woman before she busies herself with something else. The question seemingly surprises the now slouching counter buddy; she snorts. "What, me? I have a job. And I tried college. Once. It didn't work out so good," she says, a bemused grin quirking the sides of her mouth as she returns to waiting for her meal. Or at least starts. Her head turns slightly, and she adds, "Anyway, next semester, the place probably still won't be open."
"I had no idea that things were so…" Bergstrom doesn't finish his sentence, but she can probably imagine any myriad number of words to filter in there that'd work. He continues, "But yes, you're probably correct. It seems they have quite a bit of work to do. But I figure it is always best to throw one's hat into the ring early." The fry disappears as he looks back down at the crossword puzzle.
Seven Down, First Roman Dictator. He pens in, 'F-L-A-V-U-S'.
Then, as if it just occurred to him he tells her, "It's never too late to go back though, in case you were thinking of doing so. Many people feel it's best the second time around. Less pressure, more fun." He looks back up, the casual smile reaching his blue eyes.
"It just wasn't for me," replies the woman, drinking the coffee black. Cream and sugar isn't available at the moment, though it might seem to be her preference from the way she doesn't even bother to look for the stuff. "No fun. Period," she adds as she lowers the cup back to the countertop and curls her still frozen hand around it. Ellen flicks those brown eyes right again. "It just didn't click. I got tired of hearing lectures about things I wasn't into. Never did well on tests either. You, though — seem like you been schooled. And…" The gaze drops. "…you're writing that in pen. Nobody writes those damn things in pen." Further evidence, no?
Of course then he sets the pen down, a faint color to his countenance becoming clear as if embarrassed. He gives a small smile sideways and looks over at her, "Ah, well. Yes. I have this philosophy…" He seems inclined to elaborate for a moment, but then there's a small wave of his hand. "It's a foolish thing. Pay it no mind." He straightens up and pulls his soda glass to him, leaving a small wake of condensation upon the counter as it slides. He takes a sip through the straw and says, "Sometimes all it takes is the right instructor, or the right subject." He offers that as a middleground.
Ellen shakes her head slowly in disagreement. "Well, sure, but most of the time, if you just don't get it, you're not gonna." She almost waxes philosophical on that one, but leaves the statement hanging in the air as she returns to her coffee, guzzling the stuff while it's still warm enough to keep the rest of her from turning into a snowman. Wintertime in New York, even now, is a tough place to live. Hell on earth, almost. "No, no," she says after swallowing, "finish what you were gonna say. I got time to kill." She is not being exactly charitable, mind you, but she is still slightly intrigued by the odd duck sitting in the midst of the diner. Odd duck in the sense that he's not who she normally sees during her visits.
"Oh, well." He looks down at the crossword puzzle, the pen tapping lightly upon the newsprint with a light thap-thap sound. "One thing just flowed from another but in the proverbial nutshell…" He takes another sip of soda through the straw, causing it to gurgle at the end. The glass is set down. "It's a sort of microcosm for life I always felt. If you are going to do something, don't half do it, commit to it, have confidence in yourself. If you are incorrect then you are, but if it turns out that you get it right, then all the better. To thine own self be true and all of that."
He takes up another fry and isn't quite looking at her at the moment, probably lost in his own maze of thought. "As I always felt that if one is constantly going back and erasing, rethinking, worrying, then the experience of the moment is missed. In some ways that's a tragedy and so…" Another instant and he slooowly realizes that he's rambling. He looks up at her, and even if she's not looking at him strangely he's still a bit embarrassed to be so effusive and so he stops, clears his throat. "Ahem, or perhaps I uhm, should have just said… I didn't have a pencil?"
The look Ellen is giving him is, in fact, one of confusion. He lost her somewhere. Maybe at 'thine', but she did say he could talk, didn't she? To her credit, she has managed to at least nod slowly, at some point during the rambling. "Yeah," she starts to say after a moment of distracting herself with more coffee, "I mean, I get all that. Kind of. You use pen to make yourself more confident in your ability. Or something. Right?" She studies his expression carefully, drumming one side of her cup with a finger, lightly. "In other words, don't half-ass. Do it right the first time. Yeah. Anyway…" One more gulp of coffee, and she thumbs the direction of the pamphlets. "So you're with the Department of Education, or just in town for the weekend, or what?" she asks, perhaps a little too eager to change the subject before he gets started again.
Another look is given back to the pamphlets. He seems to become just a little more comfortable. "Well, yes. I felt that with matters being as they are, that perhaps Columbia would have several staff openings. It'd be an opportunity." If she knew more she'd probably understand why he doesn't go into too much more detail. Though there might be a faint glimmer of reluctance to speak about it she could pick up on. "Normally I wouldn't come into the city what with… everything. But, well. One must answer the knock when it comes, as it may be." He tries to offer a sheepish smile.
Ellen's food finally arrives with little fanfare. Sara delivers it, briefly preventing the brunette from speaking. Once a nod of gratitude has been given, she shifts her attention back to Bergstrom. "Yeah, they're trying to get people willing to work once they get the place up and running again, I imagine," she responds, surveying what she has on the plate in front of her. Sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup with a skin. Who called it? "Not that I'm not wantin' things to take a turn for the better," she states, snuffing and wiping her nose on her napkin before she peels back the skin with her tarnished spoon, "but I can't imagine anyone really wanting… these kinds of workin' conditions. They're not ideal. Take it from someone who knows." There is a little uncertainty as she regards him. "Job market getting you down?"
Whenever someone asks a question like that, there's always The Pause. It's the moment right before someone answers a question that is a difficult one, not because the answer is complicated or hard to give, but because several factors must be gauged. If there's actual concern, if the person is just being polite, if there's even a need to elaborate. All of these things must be weighed and then a response given. Most everyone can do this rather quickly, but there's always The Pause. So he gives it to her, that hesitation, and she might be able to see him about to say, 'Nah, everything is just fine and dandy.' But instead he decides to err on the side of honesty instead of politesse.
"It can be difficult." That was honest. He dabs at one of the last remaining fries on his plate, chasing around a few smears of ketchup. "To be completely fair, I have never really pursued employment before." He says that as if he was saying 'stalked a tiger in India', something so very foreign. Then he withdraws by allowing it all to be dismissed casually with him saying, "But I'm sure things will be better."
For all Ellen knows, he could have been stalking a tiger in India. That New England accent that says, 'I haven't been to a rave in New York's underbelly.' The obvious education. He certainly doesn't fit with what she's used to. Who's to say he isn't returned from safari where the large and dangerous local scenery doesn't include deadly robots and mutants? "Better maybe," she answers, and for a moment, a potentially disastrous moment, she looks like she might pry for more information. She peers sidelong, but then rolls her shoulders in a simple shrug. "Well, good luck with things, hey? Though you might wanna try somewhere else. There are, you know, better places." Spoken by someone who knows little of his situation apart from what she has been told. Then, she adds after a scoop of soup, "In any case, you know what they say: Rome wasn't built in a day."
"Listen to me, rattle on about things." Bergstrom seems to perk up momentarily. He then knits his brow, "And very rude of me upon reflection." With a self-conscious motion he wipes the little bit of grease from his fingers upon a napkin, then extends a more formal greeting towards Ellen in the manner of a handshake as he introduces himself. "Nathan Bergstrom, it's a pleasure to meet someone not averse to conversation." There's, of course, that natural hesitation there as if expecting her to return the favor.
She has a soup spoon still in her hand, having already polished off about half of the bowl (not that they gave her much to begin with, the economy around here being what it is). Ellen shifts it between hands, leaning forward on her stool and extending her right towards him to accept the handshake. There's nothing gentle or ladylike about it, but it's polite enough. "Ellen," she offers congenially, though she leaves off her last name. "And… same to you. Passes the time," she adds before switching the soup spoon back and returning to her slouch. "So you been in New York before, or what?" she thinks to ask in an afterthought.
"Me, no. I'm afraid not. Well, actually, yes. A field trip once ages and ages ago. Before everything." His eyes distance faintly, but then he looks back towards her and seems friendly enough as he asks, "But enough talking about me. What about yourself? A native perhaps?" Of course he doesn't tell her why he assumes as much, or can even dare to make that presumption, it could be taken positively or negatively depending on how someone wants to look at it.
The brunette's chin bobs while more soup and a few bites of her sandwich disappear down her hatch. "Born and raised," she confirms, though her own accent is hard to miss. Same as a good portion of everyone else. "I'm from Astoria originally. It's like — not too close to here, the old neighborhood. But used to have a culture and climate all its own. Never set foot outside the state, actually," she notes, "not that my family ever had much cash to vacation. We kinda didn't. Ever. We're Greek and Italian. Loud and good eaters." As a matter of fact, she's almost halfway through the sandwich now too.
"Ah, Greek and Italian. A good heritage to have. Cradle of democracy." He says this with a measure of almost theatrical flair, clearly pleased at least on some level. He smiles pleasantly, leaning to the side as he waves off the waitress who gives him something of an annoyed look. Yes he's one of 'those' customers, who lingers and lingers and probably will leave exactly 12.5% tip. "And what is it you do, Ellen? If I may be so bold as to ask?" He's trying at least.
"Why bold? I asked why you were doing, didn't I?" Ellen points out. "But well…" she tells him after eyeing the retreating Sara and the rest of the room. "I'm with the NYPD." It's not the kind of thing you want to spread around in certain areas. Not everyone takes kindly to a police presence. And there's some things going on in this area, of which people no doubt have suspicions, that might cause some backs to go up upon hearing about a cop. Off duty or not. When you're not on your home turf, you prefer to avoid things unless you're in the company of your own, and you're there with good reason. "One of the low men on the totem pole." As for that cradle of democracy stuff, well, she makes no comment on it; it could potentially lead to more philosophizing. Plus, he might get nervous or something, though he did mention looking for a staff job at the university…
Looking curious though with a marked restraint, Bergstrom lifts his nose a bit to look down at Ellen, his mouth opening in a small 'ah'. There's a little smile as he then asks, pressing her for more detail, "A police officer." There's that faint recognition she might see in his gaze, a hint of trepidation, a dash of respect, and a dab of envy. "Tell me, do you wear a uniform or plain clothes? My several years of watching Law and Order have helped me get a large amount of insight into your job." He says that calmly, but she might get the small hint he's trying to be a smidge funny.
Only the off duty officer is a little over-opinionated on that particular matter. "Ha, I doubt that," says Ellen candidly. She holds up two fingers, counting off, "One, I've never been able to shop at the same places as the cops on those kinda shows. Two, they leave out the more pleasant aspects of my job. Like having some drunk puke on your good shoes." It's that pretty. "Three, I don't recall them ever showing giant-ass metal men on Law and Order." At least not as far as she knows. "Then again," she decides to add, "I stopped watching the things years ago. Doubt I'd even know which characters are which — if they're even still on." Finishing off that last bit of soup, she answers at length, "But I'm a uniform cop."
"That is admirable in some ways." He seems to be reflecting now, having forgotten the last few french fries on his plate, though he does steal a sip of his soda. He looks at her and seems very contemplative, a little distant before he speaks. "I'd given thought about police work, ages ago. A lot of people would call people in academia as thinkers, while law enforcement is _doing_, or performed by doers." He regains focus, "Not that there's no thinking, just it's an actual force acting upon the world and not just contemplating it. I could only imagine the difficulty being an officer in many places, but in this city…" He lets the last bit float there, not mentioning the hard times of Manhattan.
Hard times indeed. "It's no picnic," Ellen finishes, and then lofts one eyebrow while turning her head enough to eye him sidelong. "Right? That what you intended to say?" She lays down the soup spoon, pushing aside the bowl, and takes a large bite of the temporarily neglected sandwich. Gesturing to the window, the decay outside, she says, "It does involve a lot of doing. Not that it's —" She pauses. "… doing tons of good of late, the policing. We're kinda outmatched, if you haven't noticed." There is, for a moment, a look of irritation in her eyes — dulled, but present. While chasing the food with a drink of the remainder of her coffee and waving Sara over for a refill, she mouths to herself, 'Freaks'.
There's a nod that he gives, trying to at least commiserate in some way. "That's what I was intending to say." He rests his hand around the base of his glass, turning it a little bit almost nervously before he goes on. "I am sure there are those that appreciate your efforts. But, if you don't mind my asking, why do you stay? Is it primarily because it's your home? Your family being here? Or is there another reason? I mean to say that if I was exposed to just…" He gestures a little absently with his free hand towards the door, trying to quantify the entire mutant/city/giant robot problem with that gesture. "I'd find myself sorely tested."
Sandwich disappears completely. Ellen shrugs and asks rhetorically, "Why do you want to work at the university? Because it's what you can find. But besides that, despite having to clean my shoes, I like my job, or at least I started out pretty happy in it, and I do have friends and family in the area. I suppose I could convince the latter to move, but he's working on the Upper East Side, in construction, and just as 'stuck on the place' as I am." Sara pours more coffee. "I guess the short answer would be: 'cause I still wanna be here. Even if it is going to hell in a handbasket. Maybe, you know, things'll suddenly get better. Or maybe one of you science types will figure out a better solution. Preferably something that isn't like Theseus' freakin' minotaur."
"Oh, well, I'm not really a science 'guy'." Bergstrom says with a small adjustment to his tone, "More a history 'guy'. But," He tilts his head to the side, considering her with a thoughtful expression. "I think it depends on who you'd consider the minotaur, though the true tragedy was Theseus succeeding and forgetting to let his father know of his success. Which might have some impact on your desired metaphor."
He pauses, perhaps catching a look that Ellen might or might not be giving him, then he adds. "But I digress."
Bergstrom clears his throat, takes another sip, then says, "Though, really, that's… an astounding attitude you have. I had imagined… well just, differently."
The brunette wipes her hands with her small, cheap napkin, after blinking rapidly. "Sorry, I had you pegged for a chemistry professor. Might have been the glasses…" Nice. She profiles people while off duty. And not always correctly. Ellen does, however, nod. "I guess that explains why you know so much about Greek classical literature. Geez. Unless you had an aging grandmother who used to tell you the stories no matter how much you wanted to stay up and watch sports." Somehow, that doesn't seem the case with Bergstrom. "Anyhow, whatever. I was thinking those big things mashing houses were like the minotaur. Big, stompy?"
The premise clearly intrigues him, his eyes distance as he looks towards the window as if considering the problems of the world. If she knew of his background she might realize that his tendency to put his foot in his mouth is no rare thing. Yet she doesn't, and so his own metaphor that he advances might not entirely sit at ease with her, or with the people nearby. "Oh actually, they probably fit the template of the Titans."
He looks at her for a time, though he's in his thoughts. "An argument could be made that they represent the old order, the strength, the power, the indomitable stance of the ancients to hold back the coming of the new gods. Zeus and his pantheon, their children, overcoming them to establish their place in the world and come forwards. One could almost imagine Rykers as a sort of Olympus in a way."
And it perhaps just goes to show how clueless Bergstrom is when he looks back at Ellen and smiles, clearly pleased with himself for coming up with a suitable example.
But all he gets is a disbelieving stare. It would be difficult to describe Ellen's expression after this. It looks somewhat appalled. She did say her grandmother used to tell her Greek stories. She has probably heard of the Titans and Mount Olympus, the home of the gods, and for Bergstrom to use it in reference to a place inhabited, by and large, by mutants… well. Incidentally, the highest peak on Mount Olympus is known as "Mitikas", which in Greek means "nose", which is exactly where she might aim a punch if that look of sudden upset were to cause that off duty cop's fist to swing up. Yeah, she looks that displeased. But maybe she heard wrong… "Wait, wait," she says, and a hand lifts, palm flattened towards him. "Did you just seriously call the home of the Twelve Olympians Rykers? New gods?" His example may have been suitable. Maybe not. For the moment, it seems to have driven a wedge between these two conversational partners. Ellen is eyeing him over the rim of her coffee, and rather skeptically.
To Bergstrom's credit he's not entirely incapable of reading a room. So at Ellen's sudden shift in manner he slows down, he pauses, then he thinks his words over carefully before responding. "Well," he licks his lips carefully, "I wasn't meaning there was anything divine…" He stops, no that's not the right track. He tries again, "I mean, the Greek Gods did some pretty deplorable things…" He stops, no that's probably not right either. He settles on a simple and direct apology, "I'm sorry."
He tries to at least explain a little, though his body language is clearly drawn back. "I wasn't meaning to make any… value judgements. I was just thinking… you know."
He didn't really say much to provoke a reaction, but for whatever reason, it's a strong one. Ellen wrinkles her nose. "I know. Just — seriously?" she says in her ever-so-direct way. "Why not compare Rykers residents to the minotaur? For all they can do themsel —" Here, she pauses again, gulping coffee. "No, there's nothing divine. And yeah. Deplorable. Unless you mean… Rykers people are guilty of doing deplorable things themselves?" In addition to not liking where his initial point was going, Ellen is now the student no professor ever wants to have: the one who needs most philosophy to be broken down into the nitty-gritty.
"Well." Carefully, oh so carefully, he opens the topic for consideration again. This time he conjectures gingerly. "The personification of the divine, anthropomorphizing forces and phenomenon into beings, our oldest tendency really so we can understand the unfathomable. At least at the time." He taps a fingertip on the countertop, then continues. "But we could look at it like this. The Greeks, and in turn the Romans borrowing of the Greek gods, those presentations gave the most 'human' views of the divine. These were creatures that were horribly flawed, though powerful. That had abilities but tremendous vices, and weaknesses. Really it was the perfect presentation of power corrupting. If you want to consider mutants simply as humans given powers beyond the norm… then it fits. I am not saying they should be worshipped." He stops for a moment to give some thought.
"But that the Greek Gods fit as an example. I mean, would you want to have Zeus as a father? What about Ares? They're jerks. I like to think that ultimately, down the line, we get past that phase. Get past human weakness and get to true 'humanity' and yes I use that word even for mutants I suppose."
Here is a final pause. The brunette is uncertain how to respond, and possibly because of his use of words like 'personification' and 'anthropomorphizing'. High school English was certainly not her forte, though it may very well have been Bergstrom's. There is, however, one thing Ellen is good at that applies here, and that is taking what she actually likes from Bergstrom's philosophy while pretty much ignoring the rest except to nitpick certain things. "Corrupt would be exactly the word I would use," she murmurs, "but…" Another drink of coffee. "I'm not so sure you and I are seeing eye to eye still." She doesn't clarify, exactly, instead rewrapping her scarf and motioning to Sara to ring up her order. "So… you do a lot of thinking about mutants?" she asks, harmlessly enough.
"Oh, I, um, yes." Bergstrom seems inclined to go on, then doesn't. He looks sheepishly at Ellen and then adds, "Sometimes. As a person who… studies history. I try to look at things and put them into context. You can't really… look at our time and think of anything else save this change in the world." He gives a small open gesture, as if asking for her to take his word for it. "It's a hard thing to talk to people about, since it's so sensitive. I don't mean any offense."
His answer is listened to intently, as someone trying to figure out another person's stance on a certain issue. "I guess, but no, nah. I just…" Ellen points. Towards the entrance door. "I gotta go. Someone was supposed to call. We're going out. Ought to head home and at least change." Not that she looks like someone who even bothers to comb her hair in the morning. Those are crummy sweats she's wearing. "Been swell talkin', but you know how it is." She is not as receptive to conversation as before, though she no longer looks appalled. "Good luck on the job search, hey? Maybe I'll see you around again."
The older man's answer is to just give a small wave, "Alright, was good talking to you…" He turns back to his soda, sips… then finally starts to dig into his pocket to pay his bill… to the waitress' delight.
