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| Speaking Freak | |
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| Participants | Jono, Layla |
| Synopsis | Of accents, gloves, and guitar playing. |
| Location | Central Park - Manhattan |
| Time | January 25, 2016 |
| Posted By | Layla |
It's getting closer and closer to the end of the day. The sun has long set and while it's not snowing, there's a chill in the air. Easily, the weather could be gearing up for another snowfall at some point through the night, perhaps. But heedless of the chill in the air or threat of further winter weather, Jono sits on a bench along one of the many walkways in Central Park, plucking away at the strings of his guitar. Fingerless gloves at least offer some protection against the cold, though his fingertips are looking a little dry and chafed — yet he doesn't stop playing. It's a slow, almost haunting tune. Something without words. Or at least, he's not singing. His head is bowed over the instrument, face covered up to just beneath the nose with a warm scarf, unruly dark brown mop atop his head hanging low over his eyes. His leather biker jacket doesn't exactly look too warm; maybe he wears a thick sweater beneath. His guitar case sits at his feet with already a few bills and coins within it as passersby have paid him for sharing a bit of his Muse with them.
Along one of the paved paths comes the unmistakable crunch of skateboard wheels on pavement. It isn't great skateboarding weather, but easier here than in some other places. The constant foot traffic rids the path of snow, leaving behind just damn black asphalt in its wake. Of course, the girl really shouldn't be out so late - nor should she be riding without a helmet. But somehow, even in this heavily patrolled park, she always manages to pick a path that keeps her out of the police's eye. The man playing wordless music catches her attention as she drifts on by, not going the breakneck speed that most kids like to zip along, but just a leisurely stroll - or roll, more accurately. When she gets within a few feet of him, she stops abruptly, one foot falling to the pavement for balance as she watches him.
Even as she skates closer to him, the man does not look up. His eyes remain downcast, though it's not clear if he's even looking down at the guitar or if he's simply staring down at the ground as he plays. His fingers move with a practiced ease, plucking and strumming all the right notes and chords, pausing in just the right moments for dramatic or emotional effect. He has some talent and has likely been playing for years. Decades, perhaps. Sure, he's no virtuoso, but what he plays, he plays well and with a familiarity evident both in the sound and the fact that there is no hesitation. No, he's not watching his fingers; his thoughts are a million miles away. It's only when the girl stops mere feet near him that he seems to become aware of the fact that he's not actually alone in the park — not that one can ever truly think they're alone here, but the sudden presence is a good reminder that he is sharing the universe with others. His gaze shifts slightly until her shoes and skateboard come into his line of sight. ~Evening,~ is all he says initially. The voice is very decidedly British in origin, but it also has this strange, almost otherworldly quality to it — surely it's the effects of the scarf. He keeps on playing, not missing a beat as he says, ~Nice night for a… skateboard? Can't really call it a walk or stroll, can we?~ Now he slowly glances up to take in the rest of the girl. No, he doesn't say it's too late for her or anything. Instead, he says, ~Might get snow tonight. That'd bollocks thin's up fer you, though.~
With patience not exhibited by many girls her age, Layla simply watches, either waiting for the man to notice her or to finish up his song. There's no getting antsy about it, as she just poses there, one foot on the skateboard, one on the ground. Symbolic, almost, of how she's neither completely staying nor completely going. When he finally does speak, she nods. "Evening," is returned casually, though there is a slightly curious expression at the strange effect of his voice. Interesting. She glances down at the board beneath her feet, considering the terminology. Stepping down onto the tail, she expertly catches the nose as it flips up, holding the board upright in front of her, leaning her gangly arms upon it somewhat. "A ride?" she suggests, a little bit after the fact, having given it due consideration. "As for snow… I'll be all right." She speaks with simple confidence on that front. "You play good." Nothing effusive, just a simple compliment. "I'd give you some money, but some stuff is going to happen later, and I'll need it."
As she apparently decides to stay at least for a little while, Jono glances at the tilted-up skateboard and nods once, still playing. ~Right. A ride. But yeah, yer right that yer okay fer now at least. I'm hopin' the snow holds off a little while at least. Wreaks havok with my bike.~ There's something in the quality of the last word spoken which suggests he's not talking about a bicycle. Does he look like the bicycle-riding type? As she draws attention to his skill, he glances down at his fingers as they move along the strings, then back up at her. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly as he replies modestly, ~Why thank you. But that's alright. Payment is never mandatory. And if you'll need it later fer somethin', far be it fer me to make you part with it. Keep yer money, gel. I'm just happy someone enjoys wot I do.~ There's always disappointment when someone doesn't donate to the cause, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. He'll take what he can get, even if it's just a well-intentioned compliment.
Layla glances up at the sky, and then looks at him consideringly. "You should be all right. I wouldn't wait too long though," she advises with a nod. "Then things'll get dodgy." Could just be an educated guess about the weather, really, though it's stated in that knowing way of hers. Even if she turns out to be wrong, it doesn't pay to go around doubting, now does it. She drums fingers on the edge of the skateboard, furling and unfurling them around the lip, one at a time in a quick wave back and forth. "Maybe it's not necessary, but… If you'll be here, I'll be back this way again in a few days. I'll have money I won't need so bad then." Rising up on tiptoes, she peers into his guitar case to see how the offerings are doing so far, not really bothering to be subtle about it. "Don't your fingers get cold?" she goes on in the next breath, gaze moving on to those fingerless gloves as they move over the strings. Then again, she's not even wearing gloves tonight, so perhaps she shouldn't comment. But really, it just seems to be curiosity.
Following her gaze up into the sky, Jono considers her would-be prediction and offers a bit of a nod. ~You could very well be right,~ he agrees, looking back to her instead of the sky, watching as she looks in his case, but not seeming overly perturbed about the gesture. ~I'm here and everwhere they don't boot my sorry arse out of as often as I can be.~ He doesn't seem the type to truly have any kind of schedule, certainly. ~I might be here. I might not. But if I am and if our paths cross, then that sounds right lovely.~ So, there. Semi-plans. If one could even call them that. As she draws attention to his fingers and the cold, he draws the song to a close, giving those fingers a rest. One hand keeps a firm hold on the neck of the instrument while the elbow of his other arm moves to lean on the top edge of the body of it, allowing his hand to dangle a bit. ~Cold? I suppose sometimes. Most times, I'm fine.~ Oh yes, he looks at her own hands and asks, ~And wot about you, gel?~ Her hands are smaller, daintier things than his, surely — are they cold? He peers a bit as though trying to see if they look cold.
Layla gives a 'yeah well' sort of shrug when he stats how she could very well be right. These things have been known to happen. Dropping back to her flat feet again, booted heels splashing down into a shallow puddle of melted slush, she considers the odds on his loose schedule and then gives a nod, seeming to like their chances. "They'll cross eventually. I'll keep some money for the next time." That's decided then, and she makes a mental note. She watches as he finishes up the song, her gaze flickering back up to him as he comes to a stop. She glances down at her own hands as he asks about them, lifting one hand from the nose of a skateboard to curl it into a little fist. "Yeah, they do sometimes. Someone stole my gloves though." And as mentioned, she needs her money for unspecified stuff right now. It doesn't seem to bother her too much though, as she just gives a shrug. "But I don't have to play guitar with them. Seems like it must be hard with cold fingers."
As she speaks, Jono leans down and sets his guitar in the case, not closing it just yet. ~Well, that'd be awfully nice of you to donate at some point, but again, it's not mandatory.~ Something tells him she might just need the funds more than him, but one just never knows. He strips off his gloves and sets them on the bench for a moment, looking at his hands. Clasping them together, he rubs them a bit, then pulls them apart to stretch his fingers out. Then he makes a fist, then stretches them again. ~They're fine, actually. Part of the trick is to keep them movin', I think. And these gloves are actually bloody good.~ He considers something momentarily, then looks about. No one's around. Picking up the gloves, he tosses them toward her, perhaps hoping she's quick enough to catch them. ~Think fast.~ Then, with a nod, he says, ~Check them out. Try them on. They're quite warm, even with the fingers missin'.~
"I know," Layla assures him, about it not being mandatory, though from the offhanded tone, it doesn't seem to change her plans any. She pulls a bit of messy hair back from her face, tucking it behind an ear before her hand goes back to balancing the board. She watches him stretch out his fingers before nodding. "Yeah, keeping them moving. That makes sense, I guess. If it works for your whole body, it'd work for your fingers." Though it's harder to keep them moving without a specific task at hand, so she goes back to drumming them on the skateboard. It's short-lived however, as she has to pull her hands away to catch the gloves, her foot coming down onto the heel of the board to keep it from falling back to the ground. With a grin, she gives them a look before slipping them on, which brings out a laugh. "They're a bit big," she points out, lifting a hand and waggling her fingers, the very tips of which barely peek out. Though that's probably just as well, since it's even less finger to get cold.
Kicking the top of the guitar case closed with a boot, Jono leans over to flip down the latches to secure his instrument, apparently done playing for the time being. The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit as though he's smiling beneath that black scarf as she pulls the gloves on. Something is amusing him about the whole vision of her in his overly large gloves. Leaning back on the bench, he shoves his now naked hands into his jacket pockets as he relaxes a moment. ~But warm, aren't they? And they kind of suit you.~ he muses, actually chuckling at the sight of her, joining her laughter. It's a bit 'off'. Strange-sounding. But it's a laugh and seems genuine. ~They're yers, gel. Keep them. I can get another pair tomorrow.~ Not that he's made of money, but really, it seems he's not at too much of a loss by giving them away.
"Yeah, they are warm," Layla agrees, flexing her fingers within the gloves, her hands small enough to ball up into fists inside of them. She looks back up, contemplative again at the strange laughter, but still grinning. "Thank you." She doesn't seem horribly surprised, but then she never does. And the gratitude is genuine. "I'll make sure no one steals these ones," she vows, pulling them on a little straighter before kicking the board back up and gripping it with her now much warmer phalanges. "So you're from … England?" she guesses, moving along. Not that she knows the accents particularly well, but England seems the most likely choice of the bunch.
Even if she had tried to give them back, he wouldn't have accepted them. ~Yer welcome.~ No further explanation or rambling about the gloves is given. It was just something that happened that was meant to be, perhaps. Or maybe he's just the type to not gush about things if he can help it. ~Yeah, try not to. My mum used to attach a long string to my mitts and strin' them through my sleeves to prevent me from losin' them. Might want to consider somethin' like that,~ he suggests, then it's dropped. He focuses, instead, on the question of his origin. There's a nod and his eyes lose that expression of amusement. ~Right. I'm from England. London, in fact. Been here a couple of years.~ Even if he wasn't quite sure, at first, why he stayed.
"I think that might get me beat up even more," Layla muses, glancing down at the mitts and pondering how the other kids would react to her wearing them on a string. "Though it would be handy. Still, I'll just keep them hidden when I'm not wearing them." Easy as that, really. She also seems content to let the matter drop, raising her gaze back to him once more. "London. Right. Big Ben, the Queen, tea." Well, at least she's familiar with the place, somewhat? "You still talk like you're from there, is all. I haven't heard it much before." Maybe that's why his voice has that weird quality to it too. Could be they all talk like that?
Jono takes the time while she speaks about the gloves on strings to zip his jacket up a little tighter after tightening his scarf about his face. ~Hiding them would be the answer, it seems,~ he agrees with a bit of a nod, shoving his hands back into his pockets. ~And yeah. Big Ben. The Queen. Tea. Pubs, bad food and even worse teeth.~ Once more his eyes crinkle at the corners, but it's brief, at most, as though he recalls something that sours the amusement of those images ever so slightly. But moving right along, he adds, ~Yeah. Never lost the accent, I guess. Probably because I spent so long in the UK. I've been here just a couple of years. Mind you, I think you lot all talk with funny accents, so I guess it means I just never picked up the New Yorkese.~ He gives a bit of a wink in her direction.
"I think so, yeah," Layla agrees with a nod, glancing briefly down at the gloves one last time before fully returning her attention to him and his origins. She offers a bit of a grin herself, her own teeth far from the perfection of orthodontia, but at least not a qualifier for The Big Book of British Smiles. "I don't talk funny. I talk … normal," she insists, though without any real ire. It's simply a fact. "I guess at least you speak English. Some of the people who come over here, they don't speak any. That's got to be confusing. Though I guess at least then you wouldn't have to put up with listening to people you don't want to listen to. Not until they get a translator in."
Holding up both hands briefly, he shows her his palms and replies, ~Okay, okay. You speak normal, I speak freak, apparently.~ There's another funny little chuckle before he drops his hands to his lap. ~But there is that, I suppose. At least I understand the national language? I've got that going fer me.~ He has to at least agree to that much. Slowly, he pushes himself up from the bench and stretches ever so slightly. He doesn't appear to be in a hurry but it's very likely that he's heading out sometime shortly. To confirm that, he says, ~You got far to go, gel? I could walk you to the street at least. I promise I'm not some pervy old man or anythin'. I'm just headin' that way myself to get my bike…~ He points in a direction, then leans down to snatch up the straps on his guitar case so he can hoist it up over onto his back.
Layla offers up another grin as the man cops to speaking funny, whereas she speaks completely normally. It might have been she was actually joking. Or just derives some amusement herself from the idea of 'speaking freak'. "Yeah, you've got that going for you," she echoes with a confirming nod. It's no small thing either. Heck, if she were a few years older, she'd probably appreciate that accent even more than speaking normal. As it is, she considers his offer, glancing off in the direction of the street before looking back to him with a nod. "Yeah, to the street is fine. I can make my way from there." The joy of having nowhere in particular to be is how remarkably easy it is to get there. Reaching over the board to grab the axle, she opts to carry it for now, rather than try to board along beside him.
The pack on his back is adjusted slightly with a bit of a bounce of his shoulders and a shift with his hands. Then, his hands are shoved deep in his coat pockets as he says, ~Well, that's that, then. Let's get out of here. My macho-ness aside, even this skinny arse gets cold eventually.~ He moves away from the bench toward the pavement Layla stands on, then adds, ~You should probably get yerself a hot cocoa at some point. Those gloves are warm but they won't do it all.~ With that helpful tip, he turns on a booted heel and starts to lead the way, presumably toward the street. And true to his word, he doesn't prove to be some pervy maniac.
