2020-05-21 Pacific Dreams and Dreamers
Pacific Dreams and Dreamers
Location: House party near Oakwood
Date and Time: May 21, 2020 6:15PM
Summary: Two different views on the Horizon.
Mood Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqSnZv3JV0M
The street vendors rule the roost in the neighborhood during daylight hours. The food trucks, wheeled carts, and temporary spaces are just foam on the waves that move the city's collective stomachs. Part and parcel to that are the keggers thrown by the dozen or so houses which never seem to quiet completely, and a few of them can boast a bartender hired on for the afternoon and evening.
One of those bartenders, dressed to merge with the cosmic background radiation of Oakwood, is Ollie, which means he's in black loafers in lieu of tennis shoes and a twinned suite of a red silk shirt with the sleeves rolled and black, pleated slacks. Others may consider it dressing above the event, save that he's a bartender - and looks the part. Like a multitude of others from everywhere, he's Hispanic to non-Hispanic eyes, Japanese to non-Japanese considerations, and Pacific Islander to anyone whose every seen the southern seas.
And at the moment, he's looking at a man who is looking at a poster on the wall, torn and forgotten, all involved scrutinizing the inscrutable.
"I do not get these people," he says quietly to himself, sighing as he turns his eyes to the world, absorbing details. Casually, he considers a cigarette, then settles back on the front porch as the occupants engage in what could be a protracted argument about what happened to Becky's .. purse? car keys? college degree? They're yelling, not explaining.
You know how word travels. When you know someone who knows someone else who is dating the cousin of an uncle of the person who actually has a party. It's about six degrees of separation for Makana, but she heard about it, and since she wanted to take her mind off the goings on in the hills, she figured she'd come out to see what was going on.
For her part, she was dressed down this evening. That meant no power-suit. No tight fitting corset to show off her assets. No blazer to make her look professional instead of PROfessional.
Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, giving her a younger look. Designer stone-wash dark denim jeans hugged her petite shapely frame, and a simple probably way too expensive white shirt finishes her ensemble. Or rather, the pair of bright sneakers does. If anything, she looks like she just walked out of a CK One ad with all that styling, but alas, it makes her fit in.
As she doesn't know anyone, she's meandering over to the bar as she overhears the bartender. Leaning against the bar, she peruses the selection of liquors and beers.
"What's there to get? They're drowning their own sense malaise, losing themselves in nihilism and apathy." she says rather matter-of-factly. "I'll have a rum and coke."
"Those are good," Ollie says, his smile faint yet present, and digs around in the three bins at his disposal: generic beers in bottles, name-brand sodas, and the two-dozen liquor bottles remaining. He's got a steady, heavy pour for that rum and Coke, laying it on the countertop which was, until that morning, a surfboard with a Hello Kitty graphic emblazoned on it. Since losing its fin, it's a bar-top, for the time being.
Risking a broadening of the smile, he waggles his hand toward the house and asks, "I'd ask what you're doing here, except everyone here loves lying as much as they love the sun." He doesn't sound judgmental, just not dealing well with the Angelino codes of conduct. "I'm Ollie. Got a longer name, except nobody has the attention span for it." A brief, on-point shrug. He's one of nature's shruggers.
"I was just following my nose." There's certainly the stench of patchouli and weed about. It's one of those parties for sure. In response to the shrug, she does the same, taking the drink it's poured out and finished. There's a smack of her lips after she takes a long swig and then shakes her head a little as the rum hits her hard with that slight burn in the back of her throat.
"Strong." she says, coughing a little as she raises the glass to him. Reaching into her back-pockets, she fishes out a ten, and slips it into a tip jar. That should hopefully be good for another set of drinks. "I like it." she continues before raising the glass in his direction once more. "A pleasure, Ollie. Makana's the name."
Its certainly an interesting name to say the least, as it means Gift in native Hawaiian.
At seeing the tenner, Ollie's mood brightens and he's not even close to casual about fishing it out and pocketing it directly, never breaking eye contact. "Makana," he says, showing a few more teeth than usual, taking a seat on the stack of milk crates everyone else has been using for temporary chairs, nudging a small stack of them adjacent to him. With a flick of his wrist, there's a black baseball cap on the countertop and the bar is closed temporarily. Nothing seems permanent.
"It also means 'healer', if you frequent enough hospitals in Guam." He shrugs, then gestures to the bar long enough to grab himself a bottle of Hires root beer. Bartender who doesn't drink. In Los Angeles, less-so. "My name is 'punch', if you skipped Maori." His accent is decidedly New Zealander, no drift into Americanization. May be new, or a lingual purist.
Blink. Blink. Her brows furrow for a few moments before she tilts her head to the side. "So it's 'Werawera'?" she asks, "Or is it 'Pupuhi'?" Makana nose-wrinkles for a few moments. "My apologies if I totally butchered it. I only picked up on a few words after watching my ex do a bunch of hakas." she admits ruefully, offering a cheery little grin in his direction.
"But I had no idea about it's meaning in Guam. Guam is sort of fly over island between Hawaii and the Philippines for me." she admits. "Cute place though. Lots of military guys."
Caught off-guard for a moment, the bartender smirks a little. "That means 'hot heat', and 'blowing', respectively. Pretty sure it skipped a beat on translation." Then he pauses for a brief moment, his breath catching. "Could be construed as 'bad pickup lines', especially this close to the waterline." He looks away for a moment before speaking again.
"It's a declination," Ollie explains, his tone that of a teacher, not a bartender. Hidden depths to the Maori man, apparently. "My last name, translated from Chammaro into Maori. My pops was born there, still full-blood Maori." Then he gestures to the far western horizon, the sun still not yet dipping below it. "Maori to English - 'punch'." Then he gestures to her, looking around briefly.
As he taps his shoes on the edges of the crates, his voice shifts from teacher to bartender again, lickety-split. "Guam is a place without a heart, thanks to those fly-over cultures and those military guys. Lots of people who forgot their way. More.. kind of gave up on them, really." This sounds like he's drastically bumming himself out, so he takes another two sips of his root beer. "Anyway, what is it you do, as far as what's paying rent?"
Blame Google. Apparently, asking how punch is said in Maori comes up with two wrong answers. Still, without missing a beat, she simply nods as she's corrected. Her tongue clucks on the inside of her cheek at his next question though.
Does she pay rent? Not really, but she does have a job. The answer is simple as it is straight forward. "I'm a teacher." Of magick is what's not said. A regular McGonagall sits in front of him, sipping on that rum and coke. "You know, the rich elite private school boarding types. Fuuuuun." Makana says without any little bit of irony.
"I'm normally in Hollywood Hills, but I heard about the goings on here through a friend of a sister of a cousin of an ex." Or something like that.
"Same," Ollie says, no hint of an indiscreet lie to his tone. "I teach various cultures, history, and languages to .. well, anyone from there, really." Another vague, broad gesture, this one aimed more toward the inland empires of the city than its coast. "Pacific Islands, First Nations for California and Oregon, and a scattering of some stuff I get from the Southern Poverty Law Center." A well-rounded source suite, apparently. "Still learning how mainlanders do their thing, so it's informal. Nothing paid, not yet."
Then he examines his fingernails, looking surprised, hiding his left hand briskly in his pocket. "I get out that neighborhood, eh, couple times a month. Weddings, mostly. I'm.." Then he gestures to himself with a fresh shrug. "Vaguely 'ethnic' in my appearance. Not, like, threatening to the rich folk. Give me a chance, I'd drown half of them in their infinity pools, having seen what they do on.. 'vacation'." He says the word as if it may harbor an illness. For some reason, he pulls a quarter from his pocket and abruptly tosses it into the sewers, looking away, and back to Makana. "What subject do you teach?" Bright-eyed, alert. Smiling. Ignoring the thrown coin.
Listening to the story, there's a hrmm for a few moments. A soft chuckle can be heard escaping from her lips. "Sounds kinda like my ex." she tells him rather matter-of-factly. "Except instead of people like us..." and she motions to him and herself, since they're both Pacific Island in origin, "He did it for indigenous and LatinX groups in Skid Row."
As she listens to him though, she can't help but swallow perhaps a bit nervously. She's one of those elites in that area, which is why she lives over there after all. So naturally, she lets out a sigh of relief, watching where he threw the coin for a few moments before she responds.
"History and culture." of magick.
He's a good listener. Never breaks eye contact, not unless he's drinking a second sip of root beer. Someone coughs at the counter, and this draws his eyes, and then Ollie gives a placid, empty gaze to the newcomer. "Yeah, Pabst and a shot of vodka, right?" he asks the client, who mumbles briefly before gesturing to the still-yelling occupants of the house hosting the soiree. Within a breath's span, Ollie is finished, tipped with coins, and returning to his roost on the milk crates. The eyeful gathered by the newcomer is lost the moment he's holding a cool, crisp PBR, and swallowing crude, rude vodka as if it provided air to the drowning.
"My Spanish is terrible, and that's intentional," he says plainly, not shrugging. "Learning the language of the colonizers felt like the wrong direction to take, although.. I am rethinking that hard-case stance, as I'm getting lost about twice a day, so far." That's when he shrugs. "All it took was crossing the planet to grasp that Spanish isn't an opinion, it's a fact. Weird yet true." Then he gestures to her drink. "Need that topped?"
"It's a useful enough skill to have in Los Angeles..." she says, in reference to speaking Spanish. "I tend to not think of it that way, since most of those who speak it were technically descendants of the colonized instead of the colonizer." There's a sage nod afterwards. At the mention of a topping off, she places the glass back on the table-slash-surfboard. "Just the coke part, please."
Cracking open a can of Coke, his steady pouring hand is deployed and that eye contact is back again in full force. Without the look to it, he breaks off the pour and sets the can to the side closest to Makana, abandoning it into her custody-by-proximity. "If I had the time to learn it, as compared to sometimes literally digging up my own language, yeah, I'd give it a shot, when I was younger." He gestures to the west-southwest, where the sun is slowly kissing the topmost edges of the horizon, the tinting of the light soon to happen. "It was a big island, shrank by men with sails and cannons. The rest, call it self-inflicted wounds. Still a bloody mess, in a literal sense." Another shrug follows, though his eyes drift away, wiped clean before he's looking back to her, smiling a little.
"Get a little choked up, thinking about it." For a moment, his accent drifts into a guttaral tone, a sign of internal conflict, though subtle. "Anyway, that's me waxing painfully nostalgic. Know anyone who needs a bartender or handyman? Been thinkin' 'bout gettin' a private eye license, do somethin' wit' that." Then he pauses, shaking his head, a hand run through his hair. Quietly, he murmurs something in Maori, eyes looking almost at, not quite making it, to Makana.
Well, she already unknowingly hired one Disparate to work for her at the bookstore, what's wrong in hiring another. Thinking about the massive amount of repairs at the lodge itself, she hrmms. "How good are your handyman skills?" Makana asks with a quirk of a brow, pursing her lips. Should she or shouldn't she? Fuck it, might as well toss it out there and let the winds of fate decide what's going to happen.
"An aunt of mine just signed over the place I stay at in Hollywood Hills." she explains. It wasn't so much signed over to her, as it was deemed that she would be best to run it after the massive disaster a couple of decades ago. "It's a decent enough place. Ten acres. The manor itself could use some touch-ups with plumbing and things like that. We could also use a general landscaper. Niles is a bit cranky." Yes, she has a butler. Named Niles.
"I know my way around boats, diesels, and plumbing," Ollie says with no small amount of pride to his tone. "Enough that I rarely had a lazy weekend on the island." A distant thing, mentions of the home he's hailing from, briefly glimpsed before he continues. "Hammer and nail, eh.. not so great." Another classic shrug. "Landscaping, well.. I can charge premium for that." This seems to be a point of pride. And that's when he pulls out his smartphone, quickly unlocking it with his fingerprint and then presenting a film roll of photos for Makana to review.
The phone, though store-bought, looks secondhand in his hands. "Take a look. All of it, grown from scratch or shaven within the last two months." He sounds downright proud, really.
And the photos, nearly a hundred of them, indicate not simply a green thumb - it's a verdant hand. Photos taken before of dying, twisted, suffering plants.. followed by image after image of recovered, flourishing arboreal life. Nothing seems to elude his capabilities.
"I know my way around boats, diesels, and plumbing," Ollie says with no small amount of pride to his tone. "Enough that I rarely had a lazy weekend on the island." A distant thing, mentions of the home he's hailing from, briefly glimpsed before he continues. "Hammer and nail, eh.. not so great." Another classic shrug. "Landscaping, well.. I can charge premium for that." This seems to be a point of pride. And that's when he pulls out his smartphone, quickly unlocking it with his fingerprint and then presenting a film roll of photos for Makana to review.
The phone, though store-bought, looks secondhand in his hands. "Take a look. All of it, grown from scratch or shaven within the last two months." He sounds downright proud, really.
And the photos, nearly a hundred of them, indicate not simply a green thumb - it's a verdant hand. Photos taken before of dying, twisted, suffering plants.. followed by image after image of recovered, flourishing arboreal life. Nothing seems to elude his capabilities.
As he shows off the pictures, Makana can't hep but chuckle with bright mirth on her features. "Reminds me of my mom." a beat to explain. "She rehabilitated a cabbage after we forgot about it and ate half of it. She took care of it, spoke to it, and then we had a flourishing cabbage in the fridge." Of course, her mother is also a Hermetic magus, so that might have something to do with it as well.
"We do have a lot of greenery. There's the cloister gardens inside the manor, then the rest of the estate and all it's lush grassy knolls. And the hedge maze!" Because right now, she's tending to those things... with magick of course.
This seems to brighten Ollie's mood. "See, topiary, I'm great at it. My ex's place, well, my second ex's place, it's kind of huge, had a bunch of it." Another glimpse behind the curtain, though not much of one. "She took off, left me the place for a month, nearly cried when she saw I gave her her own zoo." And he's smiling, broad and true, looking at her. "And, of course, I messed things up again, because that's what I do, really." A helpless, yet happy, shrug, and he takes back the phone.
"Anyway, yeah, if it's paying work and I have my weekends for earning tips at the bars, sounds good to me." He seems easy-going, really. Uncomplicated on the surface. "Sounds like your Mom knows more about gardening than me, though. Landscaping, no worries. Gardens? I'll walk back anything above 'average' and feel comfortable." Humble, in his own way. "So, there a Mister Makana, or is this a foray on your own, looking for whatever?" And he takes a drink of his root beer.
Letting out a hearty laugh, she shakes her head. "Alas, no, there's no Mister Makana. I was just out and about because I was bored." she admits ruefully, shrugging her shoulders, mirroring his mannerisms in a way. "But it looks like I might have found a potential groundskeeper." There's a bright smile on her features afterwards. "I'm just glad you're not a Willy."
"Nah, had a cousin named Willy," Ollie says, clearly missing the cultural reference. "Ended up falling off of his roof in Oakland, wheelchair ever since." No shrug follows this, and he sips on his root beer. A moment later, realization dawns on his features and he smirks at Makana. "Oh, I get it. Yeah, okay." The Simpsons, righteous or no, have a global footprint, and he just fell into it. "So, is there a Missus Makana?" Clearly, he has not finished chasing down that particular lead, and he seems to be a thorough sort of person.
"Oh, I don't swing for that team." Letting out another soft chuckle, she pffts, as he's nosing in on her personal business. "No Mister or Missus for me. But I am seeing someone." AS cliche as it sounds, she didn't want to have to go there, but alas, she is a spoken for woman in many regards. "Women like me don't stay single on the open market that long." she quips with a wink.
There's a house party which is either in the doldrums all gatherings endure or on its last legs; the next hour will tell the tale. For now, it's spilled to the streets, and part of that includes the dried, still-healthful lawn upon which a homemade is assembled, using milk crates as seats and a surfboard with a Hello Kitty graphic as the bar itself.
Adjacent to the bar, and making good use of the milk crates, Ollie, dressed in a red silk shirt and pleated black slacks, is seated next to Makana, both of them in conversation. Across from the pair is a man who has been, and seemingly for a while, engrossed in a visual inspection of a torn poster adhered to the wall by means best left unknown.
Speaking to Makana, Ollie gestures around the region, a vague sense of direction implied. "I'm sort of seeing the city," he says, "It's complicated." He doesn't elaborate, though he does lay out a pair of beers on the counter, watching as they vanish into the waiting hands of a pair of girls just above the age where they move from questionable videos in the bungalows of the Hills to the more dubious premium Snapchat of the beach region's bungalows. "Mostly, I put myself to work and stay busy. So far, no complaints." And he seems honest about that.
"So I'm guessing that you and the city aren't Facebook official." Makana offers with furrowed brows, chuckling softly afterwards. "But nothing's wrong with that. Bachelors gotta go do their bachelor thing." she says in full agreement with the sentiment.
For her part, she's sipping on a rum and coke (mostly coke). As usual, when going out to events like this, she looks like she just walked out of a CK One ad, with a pair of snug fitting designer jeans, a simple and overly far too expensive white t-shirt and her hair tied back in a ponytail.
Pretentiousness: The new scent from Calvin Klein.
"I'm not big on labels," Ollie says with a smirk, once more shrugging. "Maybe I'll start seeing other zip codes. Still working on the details." And then he is drinking deep from his bottle of root beer, emptying it before he collects up a few other leftovers remaindered by less-scrupulous party-goers, adding them into a canvas recycling bag with a strange glyph on the exterior. Seems to be hand-painted, which places its origin at probably Los Angeles.
Retrieving a backup beverage, he opens it with a flick of a strong thumb, then drops the top into his pocket, smiling a little more to Makana. "And, nah, not a bachelor. Still married, sort of. You know the phrase 'it is complicated'?" Then he gestures to the horizon, again to the south-southwest. "That situation is a great example of it." And he looks back to her again. "So, what do you do for fun, other than visit fourth-hand news of a house party? This neighborhood is great, except I'm pretty sure your Uber got carjacked already." It isn't a verifiable safe space, yet he seems relaxed. May just be his mindset and personal culture; relaxed, ready, smiling.
What does she do for fun? When not doing magical research, training apprentices, and running a magick school, does she even have time for fun? Hrmming for a few moments, she mulls over the question. "I just got a puppy, that's pretty fun. But I'm a fan of going out on the beach. It's one of the main reasons why I'm out this way." Makana explains with a wry grin as she hrmms.
"And I'm sure my Uber driver is fine." Right?
And this has him on his feet, looking not to the horizon but to the waters themselves. "As soon as I landed, this is where I ran out of money for the cab," he says, and looks toward the north a bit, vaguely waving. "Six blocks that way. Saw a place for rent, and got my checks cashed around the corner." Checks? From what? Topiary doesn't pay for much, really. "Couldn't steal a better place than what I got. View of the beach, all for under a grand a month." Which means he has a landlord tied up in the sub-flooring or pictures of an indiscretion tied to a local politician. Nothing within six blocks of the water goes for less than twice that rate.
"No pets, except my plants. About two hundred or so, give or take a cactus." Then he looks back to Makana. "Went through Reno a little bit ago, found it for trade by the airport. Dying, looked awful. How could I resist being able to smuggle a weapon onto a white guy airline, huh?" And then he smiles, looking downright smug. "So, really. The puppy is the lie you wanna lean on, is it?" Then he shakes his head. "Best way to keep track of lies is keeping them inside, forever. If you drop 'em, you lose them. Who could tell where they go?" And then he shrugs.
"Lies?" she asks curiously. She did just get a puppy not too long ago. That much is very much the truth. It's just that she doesn't exactly have much time for fun these days, so perhaps she forgot what fun is all about.
"I mean, if you want to think so, I guess. Socrates is a handful, but he's certainly not a lie." Makana says with a shrug of her shoulders.
"Not a full-on, 'I swear this isn't what it looks like' kind of lie," Ollie says politely, "More of a, 'not filling in the blanks accurately' kind of lie." Then he looks to the nearest park car, and adds, "The guy who drive it, he's cheating on his girlfriend inside of the house, probably.. now-ish." Then he looks to the yard next door, nodding to one woman who is chatting up with a mixed group of similarly-aged people, conversational and content. "She's over there, right now, and spent an hour gushing about her boyfriend's newest gift: a necklace she likes." Then he gives a wan, empty smile. "I sold her two Cosmos and a sixer of Budweiser, and him, four shots of Jaeger and the condom from my wallet. Tomorrow, they're going to go dancing at some friend's place on Catalina island." Then he swivels to look at Makana.
As he sips from his bottle of root beer, he speaks with a smirk. "The lie I have is this: he's cheating, she doesn't know. She's speaking praise he can't keep, and I know better. I'm a liar, though I own that. Self-awareness is key to self-improvement, or so I'm told." And then he gestures to Makana. "So, skipping the lie of 'not quite the whole story', what gives with what your free time is spent doing? You a secret agent for someone?" This seems to draw a smile further from him. He's having fun.
"If I told you that, then I'd have to kill you." That's her simple if not rather curt reply. A wry grin curling onto her lips means she's clearly joking (or is she) as she listens in on the stories that he has to share about his clientele.
"If you're that nosy about people you work for..." she says presumably about the one hosting the party, "You're making me reconsider strongly whether or not I should hire you to be my landscaper. Who knows what sorts of secrets you'll find that I don't want to find out, and it'd be a shame to have to kill you." a beat. "You're kinda cute, that's why."
With a pair of raised and bushy eyebrows, Ollie chuckles, continuing to be visibly amused. "See, my street-dad, he was a prison guard," he says, "He taught me about spotting the lies before the lies grow teeth and bite. That, what you just did, was a lie.. and you'd pulled its teeth for some reason." And he settles down considerably. "Anyone else, I'd stay quiet, never say a word. You, though, getting a very different vibe." Then he opens up his wallet, showing off a picture of a very old, very scarred man with moka etched into his face and neck, as Maori as it gets. "He was the first kahuna I ever met. Taught me as much as he could, until some very bad, very white people came to visit him." And his face grows somber, and he looks away for a moment, then into Makana's eyes. "They hurt him bad, and he was going to die that way. So, he did what he said he would, if ever the bad, white men wanted him to die their way." Then he smirks. "He blew himself up, good and proper. Killed all but three of them."
And with that, he looks to his pockets, pulling out a cigarette, checking the wind before he does anything further. It's blowing away from him, and by default, from Makana. "I found their passports and visited the survivors, kind of had to ask friends to help. Went to go see them in their little hidey-hole place. And I drowned them. It's a rotten way to die, drowning, especially where they were. And on my way to the edge of the map, I got a cactus, which told me: hey, go see famous people. Make drinks for them. Sleep with influencers and under the stars." And then he looks happier. "I told you a secret that says I hurt people who hurt people. Do you know why I'm not worried?"
"Well, yeah, that second one," Ollie says, his expression unchanged. "You were kind of easy to spot, you know. I mean.. everyone here, they're all.. you know, super-average." And then he points to himself. "I'm selling liquor, not cocaine. Why else would a gorgeous woman talk to me longer than it takes for her boyfriend to get upset at me?" Then he drinks from his root beer, stifling what is obviously a burp before continuing. "You're here because this house party is close to something special, which is why I'm here, as well." He gestures to the man staring at the poster on the wall. "That guy, no clue why he's been keeping it on lock-down, though. It's been the poster, you know. Nobody can get close to it, except him."
And a watchful bartender, apparently. Who set up shop close enough to monitor the monitor himself. "As for the how, well.. like I said, I had friends. They can do whatever they want, and I just suggest ideas. It'll always look righteous to the unseeing world. The ghosts of water can be carried in an airplane bottle of gin, if you ask nicely. I'm good at asking nicely." Drowning via spirits. Doubly rotten exits.
Of course, she's going to be making assumptions. Given that what he's describing fits also with the Kh'vadi, that's where her line of thinking is going. With a sage nod, she ahhs and squints for a few moments. "Innnnnteresting."
As he mentions something special in the area, there was a slow and nod. Her cheeks flush as if caught red handed. "I do let kismet take me where it may." she offers with a flash of her pearly whites.
As to the mention of the lock-down, she hrmms for a few moments. "Maybe he's trying to hide it from the Eye of Mordor on Wilshire." Cause everyone who's everyone knows that's the main Technocratic base in the city.
With a wary eye cast toward Wilshire, Ollie nods gravely. "Maybe, or maybe he's just closer to the real than the rest of the party is," he says, "May have wasps in his head." That induces him to tap the side of his skull, his tone serious. "In any case, I'll keep an eye on Wilshire, so they can know I made the trip to finish what they started." He's starting to smirk. "I'm sensing you're more traditional. Myself, less-so. They picked the fight, I'm just swinging harder than they do."
And he's somehow landed close enough to their heartland to make it count, apparently. That can not be an accident. "Nothing major, just.. little losses. A bloodied nose, not an amputation." And he winks, because he's clearly having fun again. "So, now that we both know the other is secretly a superhero, which flag do you fly?" Allegiances matter, apparently. He sounds optimistic.
The party is pretty loud and raucous. There's lots of people there. You know how at house parties, it's often hard to hear the person next to you because of all the ambient noise and people talking and the loud music and all the distractions?
Well, that's no longer a problem. Her movements are precise. Her finger gestures intricate, almost as if she's doing some tutting. It's relatively quick. Just six movements in total, before all that noise disappears in a little bubble around them, and only them.
Waiting for him to catch up and realize that they can now hear each other and only each other perfectly, she offers a wry grin and a teasing wink. "People who taught me how to do that at school." There's only one tradition with actual magical universities..., right?
Seemingly impressed, Ollie gestures to the parked Nissan Sentra adjacent to the packed driveway and opens his palm, as if blowing a kiss, and then does so, aiming it at the hood of the neon-blue vehicle. A moment later, the turn signal activates and the window rolls down, cause enough for someone at the porch to point a keyfob at it and induce what seems to be a pantomime of the car's alarm being reactivated and the window rolled up anew. Disengaging from the minor distraction, the Sentra owner continues to silently discuss whatever with someone who is silently nodding.
"I learned that one," Ollie says, "Making money for people too broke to fight. Steal a car, make five grand. Steal three, maybe make twelve. I tried to make twelve as often as I could." And then he shrugs, a world-class shrugger. "Right now, good vibes hang out in bars I work, so tips flow faster. Sometimes, I send them home with good people." And he smirks, eyes bright. "Or I send something real bad home with the bad ones. There's a whole slew of spirits here I never considered. A minor goddess of brake lines, maybe, or just her minions. Enough friends of hers to see that Coldheart Canyon gets its share of pile-ups." And with his hands clean, no less.
