2010-07-21: Tabasco and other Avery Island Exports



Date: July 21, 2010


Tensions rise and fall in a local coffee shop. Introductions are had by all.

"Tabasco and other Avery Island Exports"


Charla takes a sip of her own coffee and thinks of the nice people she's met recently. "I know what you mean," she says. "Things can be tough here, but the people are good." Even to those people like herself who are… a little different, to say the least.

Aiden chuckles, watching Charla for a long moment. "Well, that's good t'hear, then. I hope my luck persists." He slurps at his coffee, turning to peer toward the counter as a manager chews out the Barista who served him over a money shortage, one brow arching.

A tall, thickly-bearded man of uncertain ethnicity stands outside the coffeehouse, having just managed to fill up his own thermos from a large (or venti, or tall, or what-have-you) cup of heinously overpriced coffee. He tosses the paper cup in the garbage and screws the cp back onto his thermos, looking up as a city taxi swipes a spot to half-park. Izzy hops out of the driver's seat, pulling his sweatshirt behind him, and he taps the top of the door twice, passing off the cab to the other driver and then hop-hop-jogging up the pavement toward the shop.

Charla looks over towards the counter and chuckles. "Me too," she says. "…Glad I don't work here," she says, watching the angry manager. "But I guess if I hadn't gotten this job I'd be selling furniture like my parents," she says, looking back to Aiden. "I suppose that wouldn't be too bad of a job…" Her eyes wander to the young man entering.

Aiden watches the poor barista get chewed out, shaking his head. "Now why would he yell at her, anyhow? Usually that stuff ain't nobody's fault." He sighs, leaning back in the chair and slurping down more coffee. "I can't talk much, though. I grew up pickin' Tabasco peppers for McIlhenny Company. It was either that, or work at the Sugar Cane mill. I chose Tabasco. Smells better. You'd be amazed how awful it smells when factories are turning cane into sugar." He glances toward the man entering thoughtfully.

Izzy turns his sweatshirt over and over in his hands as he shoulders into the door, eyes downcast with his long, girlish lashes veiling his pale green eyes, flickering up once at the pair in their conversation, since the topic of what cane sugar factories smell like is a strange one even for lower Manhatten. Then, down again, and he's working his sweatshirt right-way-out, getting into a pocket and finally finding his tube of lip gloss as he bellies up to the… counter…. top. Yes.

Charla looks back to Aiden. "Sounds rough," she says. "Of course, my job's tough too, but… in kind of a different way," she adds, with a smile, looking at her reflection in the window. She used to jump a bit when she saw that face… it wasn't really her own after all. But now, it had matured and she'd started seeing it as hers. If it hadn't been for that eclipse, she might have started to forget the face she used to wear… She turns away from the window. That was definitely not what she wanted to think about.

It is indeed a very strange conversation to be having, how cane sugar factories are not pleasant-smelling. Then again, that kind of conversation is quite commonplace where Aiden comes from. "I bet! I don't know if I could do what you do, Miss Charla. Knowin' that thousands of people are watchin', makin' stories flow, and sittin' under them lights. I would crack under that pressure." He smiles to the woman. "Your pretty face is perfectly suited for your job, anyhow."

Izzy waits patiently enough, tucking his tongue between his teeth and poking at the inside of his cheek such that it bulges out a little ways, keeping his eyes on the menu and not engaging the argument behind there, like good New Yorkers don't. No white knight here. He unscrews his lip gloss and, tossing his sweatshirt to drape over his shoulder, begins to apply it.

Charla smiles and brushes her hair back a bit. "I guess so… They did say when they hired me that they liked how I looked in the Will and Jo's Furniture ads," she says. "Though, my mom's prettier, I think. I saw some old pictures of her when she was my age, and… well, wow," she notes with a laugh.

Aiden offers a small chuckle and a smile, nodding towards Charla. "Well, I think you're plenty pretty enough, Miss Charla." He sips at his coffee, his eyes once again drawing towards the manager and the Barista. That managerial type is REALLY mad at the poor girl, who looks like she's about to cry. Something about her drawer being fifty dollars short drifts across the establishment, and Aiden shakes his head. "My word, fifty dollars."

Izzy draws his lips together to even the spread of the shimmery gloss over them, then, tucking the tube into his back pocket, he looks down from the menu to the barista and manager arguing behind the counter, looking them over for just a moment before the situation begins to diffuse, the manager noticing that there's someone on queue and perhaps deciding that getting back to work would be more profitable than standing around yelling. The tension almost palpably leaches from the area as the conflict gets put behind them with a swiftly agreed-upon decision to go over the books later. Peaceful-like. "Hey, you okay there?" Izzy asks the Barista once she comes up to take his order. "Sounded pretty rough." But she seems… over it. Content to wave it off. "It'll be okay. What can I get you?"

The southern man watches Izzy for a long moment, one eyebrow arched, before turning his attention toward the now calm folks. Fascinating. Normally these things end with the employee either being fired or storming out. He looks back to Izzy for a moment, before turning again toward Charla with that bright, charming smile on his face. once more. "Sure does. I'll stick to my Wal-Mart clothes. Cheap and comfortable."

Izzy is wearing a t-shirt and jeans, for however unusual that might be in this town. "I'll have a small green tea latte. Thanks," he tells the barista, now that she's not threatening to break down into tears. His own accent is distinctly Canadian in origin. And he pulls a folded wad of mostly ones and fives from a loose front pocket and peels off the way-too-many dollars he's being compelled to cough up for the beverage.

Charla gets to her feet and walks over toward the counter, giving a quick smile to Izzy. "Let me help you with that," she says, reaching into her purse for some money of her own. "For caring about someone." She hands him enough to pay for his drink. "Don't worry, there's plenty where that came from." Being the TV-anchor daughter of furniture-store-owner parents helps a lot with that.

For some reason, Aiden has a smug smile on his face as Charla walks up to the counter, sipping down the last of his coffee. "My, that was some delicious coffee. Nothin' like Community Coffee, but it could be worse." He chuckles quietly to himself for a moment, peering at the empty cup. Then, he saunters over to the trash can, tossing said cup away as he turns to peer quietly at both Charla and Izzy.

Izzy is so about to pay up when Charla and her purse come over to spare his meagre resources pool. Still, he peels off a buck or two and tosses them in the tip jar, 'cause. Well. He's a cabbie. He knows the importance of a good tip. "Caring is sharing, eh? I think Blue Eyes over there wants in on some of this hot, hot sugar mama action." At least, he interpreted the coffee comments as fishing around for a free drink. "I know you from somewhere? That's not a come-on, I'm just— wondering." 'Cause she looks familiar, somehow.

Charla laughs. "I suppose I have no choice," she says, as she orders another drink to bring to Aiden. To his last comment, she smiles. "You probably do… Charla Keble," she introduces herself. "Channel 8," she adds, trying not to sound like she's bragging about her job and not quite succeeding.

Aiden blinks over at Charla, raising his hands and shaking his head. "N-no ma'am, I couldn't accept that. T'wouldn't feel right. It's hardly gentlemanly of me t'take advantage of a Lady's finances." He offers a small smile. "I'll happily purchase my own drinks, Miss Charla. Don't you worry 'bout me."

Izzy takes up his latte, having no such qualms, evidently, nor any qualms about mocking his newfound benefactor, even if playfully: "So you're that Channel 8 I've heard so much about," he replies, poking good-humoured fun at her manner of introduction, then turning his attention to Aiden. "Holy crap, it's a Gentleman. Someone call AMNH." That's the American Museum of Natural History. But below the glib comment the guy seems duly fascinated by the rural specimen. "I'm Izzy," he tells the both of them, settling down with his back toward the window, turning to peek over his shoulder, once.

Well, these are certainly some interesting people. She laughs at Izzy's two comments, as well as Aiden's manners. "Oh well, I guess I'll have this for myself then," she says, lifting the cup and returning to her seat. She glances at her Sudoku puzzle. "…oh yeah, that can't be a 3," she says, making a few marks on it with a pencil.

Aiden offers a low chuckle, making a motion as if to tip his hat toward the two as he returns to his armchair near Charla. "My momma raised me t'be a decent man and treat women like the lovely Ladies they are. I'm glad she did, too." He then grins. "Nice t'meetcha, Izzy. I'm Aiden Calcasieu. Come from Avery Island. Home of Tabasco sauce!" He is apparently proud of this fact.

"And what sea's that in, like," Izzy asks Aiden, lifting up one leg to cross over the other, knee over knee, heel sliding around the far side of his other calf and foot snaking around behind his calf to hook there handily, latte settled on his topmost knee rather than the table, "Avery Island?"

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