2007-05-25: Assless Chaps, Mesh Shirt


Jack_icon.gif McAlister_icon.gif

Summary: You think I'm going to give a log a name like that and not make you read it to find out why?

Date It Happened: May 25, 2007

Log Title Assless Chaps, Mesh Shirt

Location Brooklyn, NY - The Den Of Iniquity

Just after six pm. Still technically the mamosa shift in Jack's mind. Most of his more ragged customers are still sleeping one off this early on a Saturday. From the looks of things, the Irish bartender would rather be in bed as well. There are faint circles under his eyes, and the pinching at his brow bespeaks a headache. He's got on a black t-shirt with a clover above the breastbone with 'Hell's Kitchen Benevolent Society' written underneath in block letters. His jeans are worn, his boots are scuffed, and his there's a hitch in his step as he limps to and fro, cracking the occasional beer or pouring an odd shot for his only two patrons, who are seated at a table to the left of the glass bar.

Six PM in a neighborhood dive? No wonder it's not terribly crowded - but it may come as some surprise that the slim and hoodie-wearing young woman that's just wandered in from the rush-hour streets, yawning and running fingers through her hair, would consider this a decent place to stop. Apparently, she does, though, threading through the stale air and heading for the bar.

Her voice leads her - a warm, inclusive alto - "Hey. Whiskey, neat, a single - something more Irish than American?" And it comes with a sunny smile, to boot.

"Ooh?" It's rare that Jack's caught off guard by a patron. Usually he manages to spot them at the door, especially when it's this slow. Still, he recovers quickly, he's got on a crooked, easy smile by the time he turns around to face his the newly arrived blonde. "Jameson it is," he rumbles by way of reply. With quick, deft movements, he secures a bottle from above the bar and a glass from below. After thumbing out the cork, he pours a generous measure and raises his eyebrows. "That'll be four dollars. Cash, or you want I should open a tab?"

She settles - ungracefully - onto a barstool, "Cash works - any more than one this early. Late? Early. Something - and my boss is likely to notice." She drops that bag onto the counter, fishing through it - battered cellphone. Plastic fuzzy ball. A handful of rubber bands. Screwdriver. Aha! There. Wallet. A battered five, not in among many companions, is tugged out and offered.

Jack nods agreeably and pads over to the register with the bank note in hand. When he comes back, he drops a crisp one on the bar in front of the girl, then lets out a snort of warm, unmocking laughter. "Well do I know what that's like," he says, his smile widening. He grabs a second glass, identical to the first, and sets it in front of himself. After he pours his own dose, he makes eye contact and cocks his head to the side curiously. "Where do you work, if you don't mind my asking?"

Ali leaves the one on the bar - it's not much, but given the state of her wallet.. one way or another, though, she keeps that wide grin. "Not a fan, then. Thank god for /that/." She winks. "WNYU. Midnight McAlister, at your service. Shhh. Don't tell /them/.." A wide-eyed, utterly unserious nod at the side table. "You'll have a riot. Such is the massive draw of my unparalleled celebrity, right?" She picks up her glass. "Call me Ali, though. It's easier, and my mother hates it."

Jack laughs again and grins back. It's hard not to when you're faced with a deadpan like that. "I thought your voice sounded familiar. Ali it is, then. The moniker's Jack, and this is my place." The bartender lifts his glass in a brief salute, then tosses back half its contents with a practiced gulp. "Well if you decide you'd like another, it's on me. Don't see many celebrities, y'know." His voice is at a hushed, exaggerated stage whisper now.

She raises her glass in turn - but sips, grimacing slightly, instead of the more robust gulping. "Appreciated. See? I knew this getting famous thing would be good for something. I always thought it'd be piles of percocet and naked men in the booth, though. Who knew it extended to whiskey?" She grins, pronouncing. "I'm celebrating today. It's good to have company. Good to meet you, Jack."

"Sorry, I don't get naked for first time customers," Jack replies with a smirk. "Maybe if you keep coming around." Though his does his best to suppress it, there's a hint of chuckle in his basso profundo. "It's a pleasure to meet you, as well. What're you celebrating?"

She blinks, and glances over to the two at the nearby table, then back to Jack, arching an eyebrow, asking, innocently.. "They've seen you naked?"

Jack coughs delicately into one fist, and his eyes flicker over toward the two men suckling at boilermakers. "I'm not proud to admit it," he murmurs with his best rueful smile. "So let's just keep that between us."

"Alright. I think that's a story I don't want to know anyway - except… if they stuffed cash in your g-string, I /am/ going to laugh. A lot." Ali winks, laughing anyway, "And. I sold out. Aren't you /proud/? A real station picked up my contract." Another sip, and she leans forward on the bar, "Think I should get an agent?"

Jack just got owned. Rather than be bothered, he takes it in stride and laughs again. Leaning forward with his elbows on the bar, he shrugs his broad, sloping shoulders. "Gotta make money, man. Green stuff makes the world go 'round. As for agents, I know a Jewish guy that everybody hates. Want his number?"

She blinks. "There's money in radio? Who knew?" Ali nods - "But yeah. If everybody hates him, he's got to be worth something, right?" Apparently, she can't help it - she offers, teasing, amused - "this isn't a favor for another regular, is it? I've got a friend who strips in Queens - she /does/ say the Jewish guys give the biggest tips."

Jack snorts again, this time nearly choking on the remainder of his whisky. "Tipping is anonymous, right?" he queries. "The Jews say that's the best way to give." His lips twitch wryly around the quip.

"Hey, if you don't know who's giving you money.." Oh, she teases merrily - "Far be it from me to /judge/." She finishes off that first glass, setting it aside. "You weren't teasing about the next one being on you, were you?"

"Hell no." Jack pours another drink for the both of them, then leans back and stretches languidly, catlike. "Mmmrrrr," he rumbles eloquently. "So. A famous DJ and an aspiring comedian. Aren't we multi-faceted?"

Patently unashamed at all times, Jack looks Ali up and down, like a gambler sizing up a racehorse. Bad Jack. "Aye," he finally agrees, smiling crookedly again. "What else does your mother say? She seems full of opinions."

Ali poses. An impossibly horrible 'Vogue', with … well, if it were a bad romance, those'd be smouldering eyes. But she's not /serious/ enough for that. She's trying hard not to laugh, in fact - "Thanks. That's nice of you." She rolls her eyes, leaning back on the bar. "She also says that girls in Brooklyn shouldn't talk to strangers. Lucky I got your name, huh."

Laughing yet again, Jack shakes his head and scoops up his glass. He downs another gulp of smoky liquor and sighs appreciatively. "Savor the moment," he mock-warns. "I'm rarely nice for long. But since we're on a first name basis, I guess I can't be too terrible."

"She's from Jersey. She thinks all New Yorkers are sexual predators, perverts, and drunks. I'm betting you're only two out of three." It's merry, wry teasing, nothing serious behind it. "You'd only be terrible if you picked up the trifecta." Ali again reaches up to run her hand through her hair - she hasn't yet really gotten into that second glass. "You're lucky pop is the strong, silent type or I'd have twice as many bits of nonsense to throw at you."

"Psh. If I wasn't a pervert and a drunk, I don't know how I'd keep this place afloat." Jack props one foot up on an empty Rolling Rock box, taking some of his weight off of his injured leg. "So Jersey, eh?" He arches an eyebrow inquisitively. "What happen, you get lost on your way to college?"

"Hey, I go to NYU. Hard to claim being lost when you're twenty blocks out." Ali toys with that glass, giving Jack a second once-over. "I'd make a crack about the place floating, but that's just lame. What'd you do?" A nod to that leg - or perhaps more to the discomfort evidenced in his movement. "Don't tell me it's a drinking accident. People in the profession don't have those, right?"

"Err. No accident. Well. I guess it was. Firing range accident, really." Technically that's true. It's hard to explain to someone you just met that your niece accidentally shot you. It suddenly seems like a good idea for Jack to finish that second whisky. Now a little hoarse from alcohol, he continues. "Lucky it was just a flesh wound. A few inches in the wrong direction, and my plumbing wouldn't plumb anymore."

"And that'd be a great loss." Ali looks intrigued, leaning closer - "Firing range accident? Oh, come on - you /have/ to tell me, now."

"Uh." Jack has the good grace to blush a little. "Ok. Since we've agreed that you're cute." He leans closer, confiding in a whisper. "I was teaching my niece how to shoot. New York is dangerous, y'know? So she finally hits the target, and she's so happy, she spins around to give me a hug and shoots me right here," he points to a spot high on his thigh.

"Your.. neice shot you?" Ali laughs, but it's friendly - warm and inclusive. "I'm glad it turned out alright. She still looking to learn? I know I'd never touch one again."

Jack snickers, mostly at himself. "I don't think she's going to be jumping back on the range anytime soon," he replies. "But I'd still like it she knew how to defend herself. Strange things have been happening in the city lately."

McAlister shrugs. "Stupid politicians and a little earthquake? I mean, yeah, this isn't LA, but it could be worse, right?" Finally, she takes a slow sip of her own, "I've been here a while and still haven't been mugged. I figure it hasn't all gone to hell."

"Stick around," Jack rumbles, his smile taking on a cynical cast. "I've always said that if you want to die, come to NYC and somebody will try and kill you. Still love this place, though."

The DJ shakes her head, laughing. "You sound like my mother. five years, and yeah, the cabbies are rude, but people are people, you know?" Another careful sip, and then she asks, "Where else would I go? I like this city. It suits me anyway."

"Same," Jack agrees. He shifts he weight, searching for a more comfortable position. "It has some rough edges, but that's part of why I like it. Plenty of fun to be found, y'know?"

"I'd probably think differently if someone /did/ try to kill me." Ali's grin widens. "Sit, huh? You can always stump around looking wounded if someone else comes in. Hell, you can point to the bottles and I can pour if it means you get to not hurt for a little."

Jack pauses, and for a moment he looks a little startled. Then a smile creeps across his face, the first one that hasn't been sarcastic, lecherous, or otherwise having a second purpose. "Thanks. That's the first time a customer's asked me to take a load off since I got tagged, and it feels nice. I think I will." Gripping the bar for support, he makes his way around slowly and takes the stool beside Ali.

McAlister shrugs, slightly - /that/ seems to strike a mildly uncomfortable chord, but more embarrassment than anything. "It's just me - " A nod over to the two. "And them. And something tells me they don't care - and I don't. It doesn't make any sense to hurt when you don't have to." She shifts her bag over, out of the way; a superball rolls out, threatening to run for freedom at the counter's edge.

Jack lashes out with one wiry, long-fingered hand, catching the ball before it has a chance to roll away to parts uncharted. While palming it back into the back, he shrugs with his other shoulder. "Gotta stay professional though, right?"

"Yeah, if you have an audience. You just have me. I don't count - I live behind the curtain, right?" Ali blinks at the motion - "Thanks. I'd have missed that."

The woman nods. "I'm just a voice people listen to - you get to the point you wonder if you're anything else. Look, don't worry about it." She pauses. "Wait. Did you just say Magician? No offense, but that is just /cool/, man. Professional?"

"Yeah. Always had a knack for making things appear, y'know?" He smirks wryly and drums his fingers on the bartop. "Born with the gift, and all that?"

There's no sign of recognition in that, but she does smile - "Yeah? Blood of Houdini or something?" She sips again at that tumbler. "so how come you're pushing a bar - no offense, I like your bar - if you can do something like that? I couldn't imagine walking away from white tigers or making supermodels vanish or something."

Jack shakes his head, sending tousled black hair all kinds of askew. "I was pretty small time by comparison," he says. "And after a while, I got tired of people staring at me. Maybe /I/ should go into radio."

"You've got the voice for it." Ali allows that, killing off that second glass… then toying with it, "I wouldn't trade it. Maybe it's just vanity, but - I can't imagine, you know, doing something /normal/ for a living. Maybe I'll think different in a while, but who cares if I'm small time if I'm doing what I love, right?"

"Psh," Jack scoffs. "What's normal? People forget that if you wake up, it isn't raining, and you get a chance to laugh, you're ahead for the day. If you don't do something you love, you'll go crazy." Finally, he picks up his glass and polishes it off as well. "Lucky for me, I love to drink."

"Makes owning a bar pretty practical, huh?" Ali laughs, then, warm and rich. "There's better whisky then on tour, I bet."

"And we haven't even dipped into the private stock I keep in my office," Jack agreed readily. "I figure if one is going to drink, it should be pleasure rather than punishment."

Ali raises a finger. "Oh, no you don't. I'm a lightweight, and you already admitted to being a perv.." still teasing and warm - "You're not getting me in your office and drunk on top of it. And - I've got work tonight, you know? It'd take some seriously good alcohol - better than I've seen."

Jack lets out a rich chuckle of his own. He looks Ali over again, and this time when his gaze lingers it certain areas it verges on inappropriate. "If my girlfriend didn't throw such a mean right, I'd show you that liquor /can/ get good enough to skip work and knock boots with a stranger for." Grinning impishly, he reaches out to pour himself another drink, the holds the mouth of the bottle over Ali's glass. "Sadly, she could knock out a moose. You want another?"

"No, thanks. I'm serious about the work thing." She eyes him - "Typical." Merrily, she points out, "And for all you know I'm the maniac, right? Besides, you'd rather have her anyway, and i'm the jealous type." Ali sets her glass down, pushing it back. "Has she? Knocked out a moose, I mean."

"No." Jack frowns, considering. "Actually, I don't know. Do they have mooses in Georgia?" He shrugs and shakes his head. "Nevermind. What do you mean, typical? I thought I did I pretty good job of not being sleazy. Uh. Up until the knocking boots part, anyway."

She reaches up to poke at his shoulder with a finger - "You did! You should be proud. Men can't help but be a little sleazy - and you've been a gentleman. And.. uh. I don't think so. From what I remember, Mooses are more North-Dakotaish, right?"

Jack smiles and props an elbow on the bar, then leans his chin into the palm of his hand. Looking at Ali from an angle now, he shrugs. "Gentleman. That's rich. I dunno about Dakota. If they don't have 'em in the city, I've probably never seen 'em."

"Well, they're not in Jersey." Ali's grin widens, if that's even possible. "What, you afraid you're losing a reputation or something? We /were/ talking about your g-string earlier - you haven't fallen /too/ far."

"I never actually /admitted/ to the g-string," Jack rumbles. "I believe that was just wishful thinking on your part." He rubs the backs of his knuckles against his stubbly jaw thoughtfully. "As for reputations, I guess you can't lose what you don't have."

"Then you can happily be a gentleman. Not like I know any better, right?" Ali turns to face the fellow, shifting on her stool to regard him, curiously. "That's such a bad thing?"

"Ahh?" Startled from his musing, Jack blinks and puts back on his crooked smile. "What's bad, your wishful thinking, or my lack of reputation?"

"Being a gentleman." She shakes her head. "A lack of reputation just means you get a clean slate with strangers, right?" Ali waves a hand at herself. "I stranger. You clean slate."

Max bobs an agreeable nod, dropping his hand from his face to toy with his empty glass. "My mother raised me right, I s'pose. I even mostly listened to her." As fast as it faded, his good cheer is back in place. "I like clean slates, though. This should be fun."

"See there? Fun. That's the right way to look at things." Ali turns farther, putting her back to the bar, jauntily leaning back against her elbows, kicking one boot for a moment. "I listened to my mother, you know - it doesn't mean I believed her in everything."

"Yeah. At some point you realize that your parents aren't as all powerful as they seemed when you were tiny, right?" Jack queries mildly, still scootching his glass to and fro. "Shit. That reminds me, I need to call my mother."

"Yeah, well.. the older I get, the smarter /they/ get, you know?" Ali laughs, softly - "Yeah, you should. If you feel guilty, it's been too long, right?"

Jack looks over at Ali, still wearing a smile, but his face lined with polite curiosity. "You're awfully nice for a first time customer. Are you sure you're not going to try and sell me something? You're not a cop, are you?" The inquiry is teasing, playful, but there's a hint of suspicion. Most people in NY are dicks, after all.

She stares at him for a long moment, and then just dissolves into helpless laughter. Honestly, it's a moment even before she can look down at herself, then up to him, "Ass. Do I /look/ like a cop? And if you say I look like one of those hooker-sting cop-chicks, I'm going to do something horrible to you. Like… steal the bottle of Jamison or something."

Jack snaps his mouth shut with an audible clack, glad to have been warned before he actually /made/ the cop-hooker jibe. "Ok, fair enough. Chick cops are always squat, with that weird crotch-basket thing that the pantsuit clings to oh-so-flatteringly. You know, the groin pouch?" He gestures with both hands to indicate the bulge created by a heavyset woman wearing tight pants. "It's a dead giveaway. And you? No groin pouch."

Ali nods. "Damnit, no. And I don't have the shelf-ass or the cool-hand-luke shades, either. And I like boys, as a rule. It kind of makes me a non-cop by default." She rolls her eyes, theatrically. "Besides, I have weed in my purse. All us artsy types smoke, remember?"

Jack lets out a quiet, rich chuckle. "You win. Cool-Hand-Luke shades. Well played, miss. Well played." The chuckle stretches out into a full laugh, then he coughs into his fist. "There's nothing wrong with smoking weed. Just don't tell my girlfriend that, she hasn't found mine yet."

"My mother always said, 'don't get caught'. Your secret's safe, right?" Ali mutters. "Cop. Puh-leeze. If it helps, my mother wanted to name me 'Moonbeam'."

"Moonbeam?" Jack smirks and drags his fingers through his short, dark hair. "I can't see that fitting on you. I almost ended up as Wolfgang. Can you believe it? When I heard that, I figured one of my parents must've hated me."

She assumes a (horrible) faux-eastern-european accent. "Fulvgang, brink out da trash -" and, yes, she snickers. "You have the build for it, but you'd have to have, like, been a bouncer or an assassin or something. Otherwise nobody'd take you seriously. MAybe one of the suits over on Madison, right?"
The image of himself as an East German hitman is too much for Jack. He busts into the snickers. "Jesus, I'm glad they didn't take that route. I don't know if I'd be up to killing somebody before breakfast and coffee."

"Now imagine being a /lawyer/. Well, if you weren't planning on eating dinner, anyway." Ali leans in to nudge him with a shoulder. "you seriously thought I might be a cop? You /owe/ me for /that/. That's just /mean/."

"Uh," Jack verbally backpedals, sheepishly allowing the small shove to sway him on his stool. "Not seriously, no. But can you blame me for thinking of it? Nobody's nice to someone they just met in this city."

"Seriously?" Ali raises a brow. "Are we living in the same city? Don't tell me you buy into that 'I have to be an ass in New York' crap."

Jack shrugs. "You don't /have/ to be an ass. I know I try not to be. But you see a lot of people who don't care about anybody else, and that makes me sad." Idly, he reaches out to pour himself another drink. Though he's several down, he appears none the worse for wear. "Back home, people are a little more neighborly."

The woman hazards.. "Georgia? You said your girl was from there - I think people just get to where they can't care about everything, you know? After about the tenth homeless guy begging for change, it goes from being something you feel sorry for to something that's just aggrivating. But… i guess I just figure people aren't that bad if you give them a chance to talk."

"Georgia? Nah." Clearing his throat, Jack allows the thick brogue that he normally conceals to bleed out. "Irish, m'dear. Land o' bad weather an' worse food, where beer flows like rivers and t'women are half as smart, thus twice as likely to…" Pausing, he clears his throat once more, and again all but the faintest traces of his accent fade. "Anyway. Yeah. I think we're proving right now that people can be ok if you give them a chance."

"First generation? No kidding?" Ali grins. "You're lucky you're not single. I have a thing for accents. I was catholic, too, 'till I gave it up for Lent one year." She leans back a bit farther, looking for a more laid back position that doesn't have her slithering off the barstool. "I'd say most people are. I haven't ever talked to anyone, really, that wasn't interesting to talk to, in the end. It's the ones that won't take any time - those are the ones that suck."

Jack laughs, even blushes a bit at Ali's implied compliment. "Well, likewise. You've proved to be a most entertaining distraction thus far, and everyone likes to have their ego stroked by a famous, pretty young thing." He raises his glass for a quick sip, snorting over the rim.

"And don't you forget that whole 'famous' bit. I've signed /three/ autographs." Ali laughs, wryly. "You know what sucks, though, is being famous at /midnight/. I'm sure I'm like a goddess to the transit worker and non-immigrant bodega set. All ten of them."

"Don't sell yourself short," Jack replies. "I know plenty of people who're up that late. Shit, I am all the time. I'm just listening to Pantera at about ninety-thousand decibels."

Oh, she winces. "At least listen to /good/ rock. Christ. I'm throwing out some Stones and a protest hour tonight, and I'm doing a punk request set at one. You should listen - it'd let you get into something decent."

The man holds both of his hands palm-out defensively. "S'not my idea," he protests. "They're the one's putting money in the jukebox." He points to his customers, indicating them and those like them. "Give me Sex Pistols or give me death, baby."

"See? now /that/ is decent music." Ali stretches, slightly. "I'm more partial to the Ramones or the Strokes, but I can't gripe about the Sex Pistols. You should just update your juke - or put me on and help my ratings." She apparently can't stop grinning. "See? I have ulterior motives, too."

It's contagious. Laughing, Jack gives Ali a gentle elbow to the ribs. "Shameless. I'll do it, though. Just hit me with the Clash during your set, yes?"

She nods. "Fair enough. I'll give you a shameless plug before the 1:30 break - my boss can bite me. I've only got a week left with him anyway." Ali laughs at the elbow. "Ow. I bruise. I'm a whimp. Whine. See?"

Jack tsks. "A peach. My fault. Uh. So, plug the bar? Tell 'em we've got really fine motors. And a bunch of titties." He nods solemnly, but a smile is tugging defiantly at one corner of his mouth.

"And I'm /definitely/ mentioning the G-string. Imagine the hip and flaming crowd you'd get with that endorsement." Ali tries for innocence, and fails. "I promise you, though, my audience isn't really huge for bitch-tits."

"Ahh! You bitch!" Despite his words, there's no malice in Jack's tone as he snaps his teeth playfully at his new friend. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, so he closes it. A second time he starts, and the same thing happens. Finally, he polishes off his drink. "There. That settled me out. You're still a wench, though. Bitch tits."

Ali gives him a truly smug grin, around a laugh. "Moobs." She adds, thoughtfully, "Man Mammaries."
Jack fixes her with a mock-glare. "If you accuse me of having a hepussy, I'll eighty-six your ass so fast it'll make your head spin 'round like the Exorcist."

"Hepussy? that's /great/." Ali laughs still - helplessly. "I was going for 'boy bosoms', but that just trumps." Her eyes track up to his. "You /wouldn't/ throw my ass out. You need estrogen in here."
Jack is happy to make eye contact, and the faux glare melts away. "You're right," he admits. "It's nice to serve someone who doesn't stink of motor oil and feet."

"You could always go gay bar. You in a mesh shirt, hang up some paper lanterns, get some umbrellas for the drinks - they smell better, buy more, and fight less, right?" Perfect, complete, over-the-top innocence, Ali being /helpful/.

That's it. Jack is broken by the images in his head. "I." He clears his throat. "That is to say. Um." Cough. "I DON'T DO CHAPS."

"They wouldn't have to be assless!" The protest is barely coherent, as the laughter breaks through.

"Ohmigod! I'm laughing, even though I want to choke you!" And he is. Jack is having a gigglefit at the thought of himself in a mesh shirt and assless chaps.

Ali leans in to the large fellow, snorting on a breath, laughing helplessly anyway. "I.. <snort> have that effect on people." With a wide grin, and a quick breath, she adds - "You know, it's nice meeting you, Jack."

Briefly, Jack pantomimes strangling Ali, but there's no pressure in his grip. "Christ. It's really been fun talking to you too, abject humiliation and all."

She makes theatric 'strangled' noises - and when he lets go, she pats his shoulder. "I have that work thing." And with that? She slithers off the barstool. "I'll be back by - you're not really between me and work.. I live in alphabet soup, and work's NYU - but next week I'll have to come out this way to get to WYRK. So - if it's alright, I'll stop in."

"Absolutely." Jack lifts two fingers to touch his brow in a mock salute. "God knows I don't get my sexuality questioned enough. Seriously, I'll look forward to it. Good luck on the mic." And now, with his excuse to talk a break walking out the door, he hauls himself out of his seat and limps back around behind the bar.

McAlister calls back, grinning - "1:30 - don't forget!" And with that, she's out in the street, whistling as she goes.

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