Roleplaying
2004 Archive
2005 Archive
Seminars
| When: | 10 November 2004 |
| Who: | Damien, Elizabeth, Hirah (as Devon) |
| What: | On his first day in town, Damien meets Elizabeth, an associate professor at a local university. They spar verbally, Damien hits on Elizabeth, and they size each other up. |
Fado Irish Pub and Restaurant
Fado's has become a hotspot for many of the locals. The place is split between three different sections, the bar and tavern in one room, another room for the restaurant, and an outside patio area as an extension of the restaurant; all of which are no smoking. The owner, Tyrr Ceallaghan, opened Fado's two years ago and has advertised and made enough deals to watch it grow.
The bar and tavern room has a counter top bar where any of the patrons can sit and talk with the bartenders or their fellow patrons. Near the bar there are a few tables where anyone can sit with friends, share a drink, and just have a good time.
The restaurant and patio area is your classic walk in dine-in restaurant, with different celtic elements on the walls and in the way the rooms are built. The waitresses and waiters are dressed in all black, and always very courteous, as the owners insist on top quality customer service.
It's the mid-afternoon in Austin during the week, and not too many people are hanging around in bars except for those looking for a late lunch or an early dinner on suspiciously Irish food. It is fairly quiet and mild right now, with the bartender eyeing his stock of drink for the evening rush. Damien Hirsh, a late-20s and decently good looking kind of guy in a New York kind of way is sitting up at the bar with an ashtray at an elbow and staring at today's local newspaper like he can psychically tranfer its contents into his head just by looking. He's sitting alone and a bit out of place down here.
Elizabeth strides in the door, briefcase in hand. She scans the pub quickly, as if checking for someone, then heads up to the bar. Dropping her briefcase on the floor, she hops up onto a barstool near Damien and leans forward, one elbow propped up on the bar. "Jason still not on shift?" she asks the big, ugly bartender with an air of faint disappointment. "Ah well. Just give me the usual, Kurgan."
Damien looks up from his paper at the sound of the soft thunk of the briefcase and the voice. He peers at his new neighbor, and starts to automatically check out her... outfit? He comes to some rapid decision and then says, "Hullo. Nice afternoon, you think?"
Elizabeth smiles and looks over at the man next to her. "Pretty nice, yeah," she agrees. "I hear it's supposed to rain later tonight, though. Not until pretty late, though - according to the weathermen."
Damien considers this advice the same way he continues to consider Elizabeth's prim suit. He then reaches over toward his pack of cigarettes. "I thought it never rained in Texas."
Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. "Not form around here, are you?" she asks. "We don't get the steady drip-drip-drip of the Pacific Northwest, but the occasional good old-fashioned Texas thunderstorm is noting to scoff at. -Thanks, Kurgan." As the bartender slides her a pink drink in a short glass, she hands him a five to cover it.
Damien lights his smoke and then takes a less than healthy drag. Smoke later he says, "Nah, not from around here. Actually, just got into town and I'm trying to find a quick place to stay other than the motel, and pick up a little bit of the local news."
"In for the long haul, or just a transient?" Elizabeth asks, picking up the tiny plastic sword from her drink and biting off one of the maraschino cherries. "Oh, I'm Elizabeth, by the way." She extends her hand towards Damien for a shake.
Damien looks hesitant for a microsecond, and then takes Elizabeth's hand to shake it. "Damien. Damien Hirsh. I've got a job down here but I don't talk to the, uh, client until week's end. I have a day or two to find some place to stay for a few months."
Elizabeth's grip is steady and dry, albeit not particularly strong. She bites her lip and says thoughtfully, "Only a couple of months? That'll make it a bit trickier; most of the landlords around her prefer a year-lease. You can try some of the apartments out west of the city - the ritzier ones cater to corporate types who get transferred around regularly, so they're more open to either sublets or tenancy at will."
Damien takes his hand back and then a deep, thoughtful drag. "That's probably where I'll have to look, then. The west side of the city? I'm absolutely positive I can swing a sunny rate," he says, breaking into a pleasant smile. "Things like that tend to break my way."
Elizabeth smiles back at Damien, saying, "Well, that must be pleasant for you. But yes, there's housing on the west side of the city. Even nicer places if you get out into the suburban 360 region, but then the commute's a bit of a bear, if your business will have you in town much. Say... just what it is that you do, anyway?"
Damien ponders this question for a moment, and then says, "My job is to advise my clients in the very best way to do their jobs. Currently, I'm in the employ of the Washington DC main Republican National Committee chapter dispatched out of New York to work with some of the locals on finding their, ah, 'best interests.' I basically tell them they dress well and to smile for the cameras. It's an interesting job. You meet interesting people. You?"
Elizabeth wrinkles her nose at Damien. "A Republican? Eew," she says, taking a sip from her drink. "The Republicans lost me when they abandoned their historic ideals of small government and fiscal responsibility in favor of the nanny state. Er... no offense intended, of course, Mr. Hirsch." She looks away, and suddenly seems to find the Celtic decor fascinating.
"I didn't say I was a Republican," Damien says evenly. "I said that is who is currently paying my bills. They have plenty of money and they hired me and sent me down here to Texas. When I'm done with this, for all I know, I'll be hired by Nader as an Image Consultant -- God knows the man needs one. He needs to get rid of those tired old man suits and consider a makeover, if you ask me. I'm sure that I'll get a Democrat contract or two while I'm down here. I'm a consultant. My job is to get the people who pay me where they want to go."
Elizabeth shrugs, setting her glass down on the bar. "I suppose that's a fair enough point, Mr. Hirsch. Sorry about leaping to conclusions about you. Like you said, you're just doing your job. Me, I'm a professional ivory-tower academic. Are your clients exclusively political?" she asks.
Damien stubs out his smoke, rattles his newspaper, and says, "They're all political these days. Everyone wants a little bit of the action in our fine political environment." He smiles pleasantly and changes the subject. "An academic? What do you teach? You do teach, yes?"
"But of course," Elizabeth says archly. "I'm hardly old enough and famous enough to get away with doing pure research, am I? This term, I'm teaching game theory and microeconomics. I don't expect that to change much over the next couple of years, frankly. Low prof on the totem pole usually gets the intro level courses, and my game theory is one of my specialties."
Damien perks up a bit with interest. "Game theory? So you're a mathematician? Or are you an economics expert? Interesting, _useful_ work there, you know."
"A little bit from column A, a little bit from column B," Elizabeth says demurely. She sips at her drink, gazing out at Damien over the rim of the glass. "I took my PhD in economics, but my Bachelor's is in mathematics. Not many folks find that sort of thing interesting or useful, though. What gives you such a high opinion of the field?"
"I have an appreciation for the wide scope of history," Damien says evenly, "and anything that can work as a predictive indicator as something so intensely random as human beings is a useful tool. And, I'm interested in many things. I find it health to keep an active interest in many intellectual pursuits -- to keep up with the Jonses, as it were."
"Fascinating," Elizabeth murmurs. "It's a pleasure to meet a fellow intellectual such as yourself, Mr. Hirsch. It is quite interesting how human behavior can be predicted more accurately in the aggregate than on an individual basis; at least my field has the beginnings of a science growing within it. I pity the poor psychologists, who are still somewhere between art and superstition."
Damien perks up, sits up a little straighter, and then leans toward Elizabeth. "Between art and superstition lies a bit of madness," he says, "and there's fun in that madness. Very interesting things come forth from the depths of paranoia and the high flights of fancy. Not always true, but interesting. And occasionally useful."
A hint of a smile flickers on Elizabeth's lips as she answers, "Interesting, yes. But the question is, useful to whom? Seldom is madness useful to the madman, although he may be of use to others - if his madness can be predicted, manipulated."
Damien's eyes light up a bit. "If his madness can be predicted and manipulated, we can have all sorts of entertainment without getting any of it on our nice Italian leather shoes."
Elizabeth laughs, and brandishes the little plastic sword (with one cherry left on it) at Damien. "You, sir, promise to be wonderful fun, and quite likely a bad influence on my sterling character. It would, of course, be desirable to keep my shoes clean. But all this talk of manipulating madness is purely hypothetical at the moment; with no madman in sight, there is no such opportunity for entertainment. At least my shoes are safe."
"Oh, I wouldn't bet on a lack of madmen," Damien says, looking pleasantly pleased and mostly harmless. "You never know where one will turn up. They always show up where you least suspect. They're tricky that way. But..." He adds, waggling a finger, "... do not underestimate the sheer importance of a pair of good shoes. Protect your shoes at all times, I say, and always check your hair. Important to remember."
Elizabeth drops the garnish back in her glass and obediently pulls out a compact mirror, checking her hair. She reaches up to pat one vagrant lock back into place and says gravely, "Thank you. I doubt it would have occurred to me to check my hair without your reminder. But if you would meddle in the affairs of madmen, I do warn you to exercise caution with one of the local notables. There is a... bum, who is given to ranting about punishing people and the like. He occasionally comes into Fado's. He's a rather dangerous man." She shivers, briefly.
Damien raises a quizzical eyebrow after giving Elizabeth's hair an approving gaze. "A vagrant is dangerous? Does he carry a knife? If he's dangerous and on the streets, why doesn't the local police deal with him? I do take it under advisement, but I'm curious."
Elizabeth looks away. "I... I'm not entirely sure," she says quietly. "I've heard that he's attacked at least one other woman, and I've seen a grown man run away from him, but I've not heard of him using a knife to attack anyone yet. Perhaps the local police have other priorities." She takes a sip from her drink. "I'm just saying to be careful around him; you should be safer if you try not to antagonize him."
"I make it part of my general life plan not to antagonize people who could prove to be stunningly dangerous," Damien says. "Except my clients, of course, but they are all dangerous and mad in an utterly different way and their steely knives are not literal. I am frankly surprised the problem has not been dealt with, but then again, I am not yet hip-deep in the local politics and perhaps there is something going on that it not entirely cleary. Perhaps the vagrant is a relative of someone important or a city staple or the cops are simply waiting for him to move on."
"I am not altogether up on the details of local politics myself," Elizabeth confesses. "After all, I just moved to this city a bit over two months ago, when I accepted the position at the university. But tell me more about the amusing madnesses of your clients; they sound quite interesting."
Damien still looks a bit dark for a moment, and then settles into a comfortable subject, "Usually they're small-time politicians, people who want to get into power but don't want too much power or else they might hurt themselves. It's a bit like giving a small child scissors. Mayors, city councilmen, state congressmen, the like. They want control but they don't want responsibility. Sometimes I get a nice big money contract. The last big thing I was down here for was on a contract two years ago to work on that bit of 'redistricting' here in the State of Texas. Lovingly lawless. I hired a bunch of people to sit on phones and get the Democrats to come back and get voted out. Funny what's happening to Mr. Delay these days, with his problems with fraud and ethics committees and how his aides are all going to prison. Power often comes with a touch of irony." He smiles a bit to himself, like that's a nice memory. "I worked a bit on that Jack Ryan race in Chicago, you know the guy who was caught with the prostitutes and who apparently beat his wife and had to drop out. Now there was a man who had it all -- obnoxious righteousness, facing a minority candidate, the glory of the conservative right -- and entertained us all with his exploits." He considers for a moment. "These are all madmen. You have to be mad to get into this business."
Elizabeth sips at her drink and observes mildly, "Beat his wife? That's not the story I heard about the Ryan campaign tanking. Way I heard it, the problem was that the kept dragging her to sex clubs and pressuring her to have sex with him in public. Still scandalous enough to sink his campaign, of course, but a little less grim and more laughable than physical abuse. I mean, really. The guy was married to a professional actress with a build like that, and it still wasn't enough for him?"
"Jeri Ryan claimed that Jack kept hitting her. She claims he kept hitting her." Damien says with a bit of a shrug. "I liked the sex club angle more than the abuse angle. More fun and played better in the papers. Doesn't much matter. Either way, he went with about as much dignity as he could muster, which was not much. He dropped out and then they brought in Alan Keyes and then things got entertaining. It was a hell of race."
"I wonder what a sex club is like," Elizabeth muses idly. "But yeah, it was pretty funny. Especially that bit in the middle when they were talking about drafting Mike Ditka to run, and then he backed out when he found out what a crimp it would put in his lifestyle. It's weird, how celebrity in other fields has started translating over to politics. I guess Reagan paved the way." She smirks, and lifts her glass in a mock toast. "And now we have Jesse Ventura, and the Governator."
Damien is amazingly glassless, but not without a fine smirk. "To the Govenator, may he be in power for many years and shine everlasting gaptoothed glory on the State of California."
Elizabeth chuckles, and takes a drink. "He's not bad on the eyes, though. Every now and then I wonder that he married into the Kennedys but runs as a Republican, but it's not like the two major parties are all that different anyway. Eh, whatever. Natural consequence of the political spectrum model."
"For their money. Perhaps they hold unbelievable orgies. Look, I..." Damien halts for a moment. "Usually at this point I'd ask if you'd have the pleasure of dining with me, but I do need to look for somewhere to stay and get my affairs in order. So, how about, could I ask you for perhaps a rain check on a possible meal sometime in the near future? I can give you my cellphone number."
Elizabeth smiles and says, "A rain check it is, and I'd be happy to do dinner with you some other time, Mr. Hirsch. Do you have a card, or should I get out pen and paper?" She and Damien are sitting at the bar, chatting.
Damien reaches into his coat and fishes around until he finds his wallet. He pulls out the wallet, opens it, and pulls out a card. He passes it over to Elizabeth and flips it over. He puts away his wallet and pulls forth a pen. He writes a number on the back of the card, and then taps it with his finger. "That is my cellphone. I should be around town, although I may occasionally become busy with my madmen."
Elizabeth chuckles. "I wish you much joy and amusement with your madmen, Mr. Hirsch, and I look forward to speaking with you again sometime." She takes the card and tucks it away in her purse, pulling out a card of her own. "If you wish to get in touch with me, here's my work number. Just leave a message on the voice mail."
Damien leans over and picks up the card. It disappears into a coat pocket, and he pushes his ashtray away. "I am positive we will see each other again. Call it karma. Call it destiny. Call it hunger pangs. It was quite interesting talking with you." He slides off his stool.
Elizabeth laughs, and raises her glass in salute to Damien as he leaves. "Au revoir, Mr. Hirsch. I found it quite interesting as well." She spins around on her barstool to survey the room, idly sipping at her pink cocktail.
Sometime near the end of the conversation at the bar, Devon walks in with another young man. Dressed smartly as always, Devon is only a couple of inches taller than the other guy, who is dressed more casually in jeans and an untucked plaid shirt. As they walk in, a light laugh wafts from Devon, "Oh come on, Jase. It's just a painting... wouldn't you like to be immortalized forever?" The other young man, Jason, frowns a little and pretends to consider deeply. "When you put it that way, I guess being immortal might be fun. Alright, but I get to approve it before you present it to the gallery."
Smiling and squeezing the plaid-wearing man, Devon reassures him, "I promise. Now let's go get a table." They walk over to an empty table and sit down.
Damien slips off his chair to the door, pulling up the lapels of his coat into some semblance of absolute lapel correctness. He passes the two who walk in through the door discussing the painting, and gives them the slightest flash of an upraised eyebrow. On the way out, as Damien passes, an older woman waiting in line to take a table out near the patio mysteriously suddenly takes a bit of a pratfall, taking down a basket of after dinner mints by the door with her in an almost comical fashion. He stops, looks deadpan, and then swishes out the door.
Previous: Logs or 2004 Archive