Description: (English: See you soon!) A busy man with a debt is too busy to be worrying about the debt! A man busy enjoying himself with beer, a man busy enjoying himself with work. One of them is the landlord to a rent they don't quite recall, but the sooner a man busy with a debt has to pay it off, the sooner a man busy without a debt can get busy with something else.
There remains no shortage of work to be done... but, as time goes on and people start getting back into a semblance of an ordinary routine, who still wants to do them on their own time?
The only time someone gets an ending is when they're dead. There's always something after the great big story about how someone manages to beat the odds and come out a survivor. Always something after someone and a bunch of people they didn't see eye to eye with before finally get on the same page. The residual good-feel fuzziness in which books are more than happy to close at.
Real life isn't a book.
It's starting to get a bit late in the evening. People drive home from work... among those who even have them. A handful of kids have packed up their stuff and have already decided to collectively call it a day, striding along dirty paths where blades of grass are, at long last, beginning to reclaim these twisted grounds.
A man continues his mission.
Howard Rust, shop teacher of Pacific High, runs his left hand down a plastic tube containing a swingset chain, grunting at nothing in particular as his expert eye appraises his latest handiwork for these recovering park grounds. A nice swingset, welded with grit and love... straight out of Pacific High's own pocket. It's been that way for a couple months now. Have resources, will use 'em. Use 'em, he has.
Moments later he sets himself down in the seat, wiping his brow as he gets a water bottle out with only a good quarter of its original volume left, gloved hand shaky enough from fatigue that he largely succeeds in spilling more of what's left than actually drinking it. His face goes sour as he fixes his gaze on teh distance. Eh. Might as well have to work himself up and get himself something to drink... and dinner. No way he feels like cooking tonight.
It's just him on a swingset he is a good thirty years too old to be partaking in, using it as a substitution for a proper bench seat while watching traffic go by. To think that earlier this year, the only thing you'd see are soldiers and miliary vehicles... feh.
"--and every name’s a father or a husband or a son
or a daughter or a brother or a cousin to someone
or a name might be a classmate or a friend you may recall
there’s nearly sixty thousand fallen names
still waiting at The Wall~."
The song comes belting out from a deceptively slender frame. Just when Francois turned up? Well, that is a question indeed. One moment, the path had been empty. The next, the drunken frenchman, if indeed that is what he is, is coming staggering up the path. But the voice... is just a touch different to how he had sounded when Rust had met him last.
Indeed, he's wearing the same eyepatch, and his hair is still as terrible as it was then. His clothing, however, is not NESTS issue. No, today, the former soldier looks more like a ragged homeless bum than a trained and professional killer.
And the voice which belts out the burst of song is tinted, just a little bit, by a hint of a New York accent. Quite why... well, that's a mystery in itself.
His hands are full, too. Though this time, he's not wielding weapons, there's no gun or grenade in sight. No, instead, he's got half a bottle of beer in one hand, and a backpack full of more beer in the other. One foot placed in front of the other with the impression that this is more a case of inertia than any coherent plan on the part of the brain in control of them. The soldier doesn't really seem too certain of the world around him as he wanders across the way, though he does stop his song, for another deep swig of beer. Before belching loudly. Good times!
It's not the first time some drunken bum's come along these parts. The sort of annoyance that would usually turn to shouting matches, but... it's a park. This isn't that hellish complex I got stuck in no more, this is Southtown's again, the man thought just about every time. Some of them were touchy-feely. Especially around the kids. Those guys had to go.
The choice of song is more than just a little morbid. He himself is one of the ones who came out of that whole mess incredibly lucky. Unless you count the amount of yelling his dad made over the phone about how his one child got stuck in a crazy-ass war zone. That's not a stroke of good luck, other than having a dad who cares to the extent a dad who can't do much of anything at all can.
The change in voice and the weeks that pass - being the two were only acquainted for that one incredibly fateful evening - renders the two as nothing more than strangers in the park. Howard, the busy teacher. This other guy, a bum celebrating life all he can. That's all he can care about... until he sees the top of a bottle poking out of a knapsack. You know what, beer sounds pretty good right about now.
"H-Hey." The late 30-something man raises his left hand, then lowers it as he starts digging around his pocket. C'mon, I know I had a couple 500 and 100 yen coins in my pocket heading out today. Where are they. Please don't you have jumped out into the dirt. I'm thirsty!!
"Can you, uh, spare a guy one of those? If... that's a spare." He can only presume it's a spare if it's still got the bottlecap.
"I got some, some change." At least I damn well should!
For a moment Francois brings himself to a halt. Turning to peer at Rust, a look of profound confusion passes over his features as he does a few mental jumps. It -had- been a long time, after all. And Francois had been busy himself. If there was one thing he'd come out of the entire experience knowing, it was that he needed to get better, or he was going to sink. On top of the amount of pain he'd suffered, he'd made it a point to suffer a lot more. Training with Elle on a regular basis would do that to a guy.
Now, however, wasn't a time for pain. It was a time for enjoyment, the core of which was his beer.
But... that guy, didn't he-- yeah! He owed that guy a drink!
Stumbling over, propelled by a need to pay back his honor-beer, he plucks the beverage out of the bag, and thrusts it towards the older man.
"Have it on me, buddy!" He declares, grinning from ear to ear as he slides himself into the swing next to Rust. "We veterans have to stick together no?" He adds, with a wink. Rather weird to watch, a man with an eyepatch winking.
If Francois is doing mental jumps before an international audience for the thinking olypmics, Rust is sleeping through it in the audience. He's thirsty, this guy has beer. Any alarm, however brief, the man may show at the friendliness is cast aside with all due haste, as the expedient need for something to drink wins out.
"Gee, uh... thanks!" He takes the beer in his left hand, raises it in cheers, and affixes his (gloved) thumb against the cap to try and pop it open. It was a fun little parlor trick back home at the bar he used to hang out at.
The top of the bottle shatters noisily at the applied pressure, sending glass shards flying out into the sand underneath. Rather than wince at the prospect of placing jagged glass against his lips, Rust rolls with it and has himself a swig. In place of caring for something a completely ordinary human being might consider disconcerting, he does kind of wonder, briefly, where this man gets 'veterans' from.
Maybe he was... he was among that crowd when he was dealing with that crazy ass redneck? Hell if he knows. Beer! Beer! It may not be ice cold but holy shit it is beer! My thirst, it is being quenched!
"Any time, any time, my friend!"
Francois is not a man with complicated priorities. He likes money, and he likes enjoying the money he has. However, if it wasn't for Rust and his knowledge of doors, the events in that assault might have taken a turn for the very disturbing worse. Unlike Rust, Francois actually got to walk away, as well! He'd gone over the various instants throughout that night a thousand times, he remembered it as well as he remembered every other battle he'd been in.
The way Rust opens his beer, though, does get a short bark of laughter. "You should be more careful, buddy!" He declares, leaning over to punch Rust lightly on the shoulder, in a jocular fashion. "The last thing you want is to accidentally eat it... that can be a real pain, you know? I had a friend once who did that accidentally..."
The memory, apparently, amuses Francois endlessly. Laughing and laughing next to the rather more... restrained man.
You take a lighter man than Rust, that punch might've disrupted the drinking process and probably see the bottle get stabbed through one side of their lips. Even on a swing, the man hardly seems to register the playful, light punch. It is as much as a still breeze to him as he downs half the bottle in one go.
"Act like... like I haven't before," Rust mumbles as he wipes off his mouth with his right forearm, lurching forward in his swing seat as to take stock of where those glass shards ended up. This is gonna be a new playground, can't let little kids get their knees stabbed by 'em... eh. Not gonna be for a good long while yet.
His life is, in comparison, rather complex and structurally rigid. He's got a demanding day job with a bunch of rich kids, has to remember a whole bunch of little details every day concerning visiting parents or what have you. His brand new truck's been in a host of anecdotal instances that tends to happen when new vehicles come right out of nowhere that he's still working out. Workout routines. Taking stock of absolutely everything he needs, deadlines for various proejcts... etc, etc. He's a busy man.
Clearing his throat, Rust holds his present slouch as he tiredly looks onward into the distance without making any eye contact with that one eyed man that is a little more familiar than he might think. "So, uh... how's things, things been? 'scuse me if I'm kind of... kind of, mumbly. Grass allergies."
Francois remains pretty much oblivious to the fact that Rust doesn't know who he is. After all, their meeting had been a rather brief one, and had been in somewhat unique circumstances. He didn't know how the guy acted when around people he considered friends. All he knows is, if there was ever a man who looked like he needed a beer, it was the man he was sat next to. And that hearing about what he's -actually- been up to wouldn't raise the spirits of the mumbling hulk.
"Oh, you know, I've been busy." He says, easily. Finishing his beer in a few deep gulps, before he retrieves a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it as he continues. "These times make work for idle hands such as mine, no? Just the other day I was in Italy, good ice cream, terrible pizza, though. You would think they would know how to do it, but it is in America, I find, the pizza truly comes alive."
He gestures vaguely with his cigarette, adding, "But sooner or later all roads lead to Southtown. It is a strange thing to think, but I am actually starting to feel at home here. It is a broken and bloodied place, but it is always standing up again! It's stubborn! I like that."
He takes a deep inhalation of his cigarette, the unmistakable scent of -really bad- tobacco soon lingering around the childrens play equipment like it had been just waiting for the opportunity to pounce. If there was even a scrap of thought given to what this might do to any allergies, there's no evidence of it on Francois's features. Instead, he breathes out a thick stream into the air, and sighs, leaning back on the swing set with glee.
"And you, my friend? You look like crap, you should not let it get you down, eh? It may never happen!"
And boy, does this man need that beer! He swishes it around in his hand a little as the man talks about ice cream, pizza, Italy... Southtown. He nods his head. Does seem like a lot of people end up here. For him, it's a job and something else. But, for that something else...
That something else isn't the cigarette but said cigarette makes the man's nostrils flare. Oh, that smell! He coughs twice before he has himself another swig of that beer to wash away that foul scent under a bitter, lukewarm, bubbly mess.
"I'm not down." He offers as he points at nothing in particular with one finger from the hand grasping at the bottle. "Busy day." Busier than yours, he almost wants to say, but he might need to coax another beer out of him later. "You see... y'see all this?" He looks back out towards some other fixtures. A gazebo. Some benches. A jungle gym. A few slides. Other playground equipment. Two water fountains.
"Most of that... that's by me. Me, some students. Every day after school gets out." he swings the beer-bearing hand around in a circular fashion. "We do this stuff."
"... Really?"
It isn't meant to sound so surprised, but he can't hide it, as he stands up, and turns around to take in the full extent of the rebuilding work that had taken place here. Francois had never exactly been... good with his hands. Not when it didn't involve punching someone anyway. Thankfully, the moment of wonderment as he takes in the park around him buys a few moments where the pungent smoke is somewhat... less so. The gazebo, in particular, gets a critical look. "I suppose I should not be so surprised, you are the man who knows doors, after all."
The frenchman makes a face, though, and waves his cigarette around a bit more for emphasis. "But with children, really?" He asks, straightening himself up. "Do not get me wrong, mon ami, children can do some amazing things... but how can you put up with the attitude all day? You must have the patience of a saint!"
That said, he plucks himself another bottle from the bag, and, one hand busy, the other twirls it around, up, and in a deft motion which speaks of years upon years of practice... the cap comes neatly off. Smokes and booze, what could be better?
If there's one thing this man could always claim to have - even with injury - it's that he is a great craftsman. Even beyond doors (and more on that in a second). It's just as much work ethic as it is actual skill. They might not be using more modern shapes and ideas some may be selling, but this is a man who does his job very well. He might even be a match for a dedicated team of competent workers on a good day.
The door comment, though. That jogs his memory. Or at least sticks a brick in the way of a door being closed. The man turns his head at that, knees creaking as he tries to rise from the swingset... agh, he sits down for all of a /minute/ and his body feels like shutting down for the night, great! It's something a fight to stand back up at that point, a fight he fights pretty much every morning. Especially mondays. Grrrblghrrhrhrble, mondays.
Before he can think to interject about the door comment and start trying to link two and two with the correct mathematical sign, there's comment about children. How he puts up with the attitudes all day, indeed.
"They got enthusiastic." He offers as he leans against a bar, flexing his right arm every so often to work out a kink in his elbow. "They've... they've really put themselves into it. I wasn't sure where to, to start first... y'know, a lot of apartments in the area, they were still using asbestos." It makes the man cough thinking about it. Partially because that crap may be to blame for some of his health today! "Didn't want any of, any of that in their lungs. Didn't think they'd, they'd pull themselves together to make some home people'd live in for... for fifty, a hundred years or so either. Building a house... an /apartment/, that shit, 's a full time job."
Full time job indeed. He finishes off the beer. "So I had 'em work on the park. So far... so far... so good. Wouldn't even know what the sons of bitches had here."
Francois listens carefully, watching as Rust struggles and strains against his age. The bottle of beer helps to hide the smile that tugs up at his lips. If it wasn't for the fact he'd seen first hand what the man had walked away from, it'd be easy to underestimate Rust as just another past-it has-been. But in truth... Francois had too much respect for anyone who could walk away from what he'd taken. The fact that he spent his time building, working with his hands, and with children? Well, it was disturbing how -good- a person that made him.
"Nasty stuff, asbestos." He says, idly. Nodding along slowly. "But this is ... very good work, you should be proud. And so should the children." He scratches behind the back of his head, sipping at the beer. "I was thinking it had been done by one of the professional teams." He admits, "I'd never have guessed they did it... but, then, I have heard of what other kids have done. It's amazing the things they are teaching them these days, eh?"
The man's not even forty yet! He just did too much when his body said to stop during his youth, and he didn't, so here we are today. A body that feels a lot older than it really is. But that said, coming just a month and some change before turning 39, you probably start need to think about what you can and can't do on a lark any more.
"I'm... I'm not going to lie to you, sometimes, sometimes they really... they really piss me off, y'know? Most of 'em aren't that," he clears his throat, "'scuse me. Most of 'em aren't... that good with their hands. But these last few months. Last few months, they made me proud." This is from a man who, until very recently, was frustrated with his lot in life between having to balance the best livelihood he'd ever get, to a dream he always wanted to fulfill - and was well on his way, were it not for the invasion.
But now...
"Used to seem like, all they were interested in was just, just beating the shit out of one another. But hey, now," the man gets a little more animated in comparison to some moments ago as he pushes off the side of the swingset and just spreads his arms out, busted, empty beer bottle still in hand.
"'s like my life's going somewhere, even if, if, uh, I'm kinda on dire straits with, with my cash."
Francois listened. He was a good listener, even if sometimes it seemed like he was much more of a talker than a listener. For a few moments, he is silent. The only real response a soft smile at the pride the teacher felt... and then a visible wince at the concern for money. Money. That was a subject very close to Francois's heart. Unfortunately, he was absolutely certain that -his- solution to that particular problem... was not one which would work for Rust.
"I hope you can pull through." He replies, after some time to think. Casually, he moves to settle over on the swing next to Rust again, drinking down some more of his beer. It's not the best beer in the world, but it does the trick. The cigarette, though, is stubbed out casually on his jacket (oh yeah, because one more burn on that thing is going to make a world of difference) and tucked away about his person again.
"Having a direction is important." He says, heavily. As though these were words of (slightly drunken) wisdom which all men should take note of. "Sometimes, it does not even matter if it is the right one. You must keep momentum in life... because if you don't, then life will soon overtake you." He gives a mirthless laugh, shaking his head slowly. "I am happy for you, though. You look like you are half-dead, but in truth, you are full of life! Appearances can be deceiving, no?"
Having money problems is not a new concept to the shop teacher. He grew up poor. Even on a salary that is pretty good in comparison to the average teacher, he's still got some educational debts to repay. He's one of those Americans reeling from that credit crunch, as it is. (Who isn't?)
He starts rotating his left shoulder around to relieve the stiffness starting to form /there/, another few pops here and there. This man should think about dubbing fireworks shows, maybe. (Or not.)
Exhaling loudly somewhere around 'a direction is,' he stretches out his left leg a little. The very /moment/ he stops moving... the very /moment/, this garbage. He might need to rethink what he's taking for them. He doesn't have line of sight with Francois' face, his smiles, or much of anything. Mr. Rust here isn't a man of that many faces. His eyes are droopy, his jaw tired, throat only recently saved from dryness by boon of beer. He still had to do his fair share of yelling today.
"Full of life 'till I crash for the night," he adds jokingly as he, at long last, turns around to actually see this man face to face again. "Don't think I got much... got much left in me today."
Francois doesn't hesitate for a moment, instead, he hops up, and holds out his free hand, for Rust to haul himself back up to his feet, if he wanted to accept the help, of course. Francois isn't the strongest man in the world, but he's pretty confident that he can be strong enough to help Rust get up again. "Come on then, mon ami." He says, brightly. "You can take the rest of the beer home with you, if you like. But the last thing you want to do is wind up sleeping out here. Trust me, on this. A gazebo looks comfortable, but before you know it..."
He trails off, not finishing the thought. He's in high spirits for once, the whole world seemed to be going in his favor, and he'd even managed to pay back his one outstanding debt! He hadn't felt so at ease in years. Ironic, that it should be one of the worst conflicts that cleared his mind so completely.
The man's plenty on his feet. But Mr. Rust is more than willing to help the other guy up, if perhaps by reflex more than by any genuine sense of empathy for people in need. He's tired and he's kind of thirsty again, running somewhat more on muddled late-day 'need to get home and rest and work out how I'm going to do dinner' sort of instinct.
But at worst in the face of a continuity error, there's at least, at minimum, something of a handshake. Even if the man with that combover that would strike the average person as a greater deformity than whatever lies under the eypatch of Francois is trying to put a mental finger on something he said. Something about... doors. (Dude got zapped hard by electricity, a few things became fuzzy after the fact.)
"I should hea--" He stops mid-way in his interruption as the 'come on' is not a 'come to me to have something to eat and drink' but more 'take the rest of the beer home with you!' Uh, what? Really? This man here looks like he's worse off than he is! And...
Just as the man is deliberating why he should even be taking the bag, it's unconsciously already being held in his left. This guy is something else, free spirited enough to just give this stuff away. Sure, it doesn't taste /that/ great, he's not sure how much better it'll be cold... least it isn't flat. Howard nods his head a little dumbstruck about the whole 'sleeping out here' bit, you know, he's been here in Southtown a while to know at least some of the ins and outs.
"...Y-yeah," he stammers as the bag lowers against the sheathed Ol' Rusty with a bit of a 'clank' between pipe and a bottle not nearly as protected as being behind a bag would seem to make it.
Francois makes sure that Rust gets a nice, firm handshake. And that the beer is safe. That's one concern down, at least. After all, giving away the beer wasn't something he really cared about (it's beer- there's always more beer, and despite appearances, Francois's bank balance isn't going to be a particular worry for... oh, at least three or four weeks), he'd feel pretty bad if it was just going to be dumped. Or accidentally broken on pipes. That would suck.
"It was good to meet you, buddy!" He declares, clapping the teacher on the shoulder again, and smiling that bright smile again. "But, as I am sure you need to get home and rest, I need to get back to work myself. I can't drink away all night. I have to be in Paris come the morning!"
There's no time to explain this, however, as the strange mercenary spins on his heel, tossing a loose wave behind him as he starts to walk off. "I'll catch up with you again in the future, I'm sure! I can't wait to see what you and your children manage to accomplish!"
And as he sets off out of the park, he strikes up, bellowing out the last of the song he'd been singing on the way in, as he lights up that horrible cigarette again.
"As I watched the lines of people that walked by in slow parade,
I read a different story in each face;
And I couldn't help but wonder at this pilgrimage we'd made,
And what common bond, if any, might have brought us to this place.
There were tourists, and the curious, and some veterans who came,
Still others who sought an answer to it all;
But the only thing I'm sure of is: we left not quite the same,
With our memories alive and well, and waiting at The Wall."
Log created on 13:14:16 08/25/2009 by Rust, and last modified on 13:57:50 08/30/2009.