fandomtownies | Luke's Diner, July 7 (Saturday)

Entry tags:

Luke's Diner, July 7 (Saturday)

Yitzhak was behind the counter, engrossed in the latest issue of Elle, and studiously ignoring the busboy and cook's bickerfest. (If the busboy didn't understand why everyone still seemed to have it in for him after the Spam incident, well, Yitzhak wasn't going to enlighten him and possibly lose out on some free entertainment.)

He might also have been contemplating a list of ways to use makeup as a possibly-lethal weapon -- you never knew, around here. It could come in handy.

Crowned with a rather fantastic blue and sparkly wig, a prominent Help Wanted sign was in the diner's front window. Might as well see if any of the new kids in town needed work.

Plus, it made the busboy nervous. That was always fun.

Luke's is open and just a tiny bit glam today.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If you can peel him away from his magazine.

Sometime in the middle of his sudden cleaning spree at the house, Aziraphale realized that he'd gotten carried away with the kitchen, and in the process of cleaning out the appliances had actually emptied the refrigerator.

Oops.

That meant a shopping trip would be in order at some point before morning. But first things first -- the angel had nothing for dinner. And he'd gotten so into the habit of cooking that it in fact did not occur to him to just conjure something up. Good excuse to check out the diner that he'd never been to, wasn't it?

So he took a break from his mid-summer cleaning frenzy and walked over to Lukes, only looking a little bit rumpled and dusty. Perhaps unfortunately for Yitzhak, the magazine didn't deter him from heading straight to the counter.

That wasn't a sigh that came drifting out from behind the magazine. It was the coffeemaker making a strange noise. No, really.

Yitzhak looked up at Aziraphale, his Look of Utter Impassivity marred slightly by the hint of disappointment that came when one was interrupted in the middle of a particularly fascinating article about footwear fashions, and quirked an eyebrow in inquiry.

Aziraphale wasn't so good at reading impassive expressions, and he was feeling rather on the chipper side anyway. One of those weird side-effects of mid-summer cleaning frenzies. So he smiled brightly at the young man behind the magazine.

"Good evening, my dear! Do you have any specials today?"

. . . he knew he'd forgotten something in his hurry to read the magazine, dammit.

Yitzhak, feeling slightly irritated by Aziraphale's cheerfulness -- rather in that grain-of-sand-in-the-shoe sort of way, which was at least milder than grain-of-sand-in-the-undergarments -- shrugged and waved up at the menu board with an expansive (for him) gesture to indicate that anything on the board would be good.

An extra, elaborate hand gesture suggested that substitutions would even be available, no problem. Unless you were the cook, who would be on the receiving end of all the dirty looks from Yitzhak should he try to object to the changes.

"Oh! I see, thank you."

Aziraphale gazed up at the menu board, his eyes flicking back to Yitzhak once in a while as he tried to figure whether the man couldn't speak, or just didn't care to. Or maybe he'd taken a vow of silence. That was a possibility.

After a moment he placed his ~~handwavy~~ order, and then smiled at Yitzhak again. "That's a very interesting wig," he said, by way of conversation. Because no, he hadn't figured out that maybe what Yitzhak actually wanted was to get back to his magazine.

Actually, most of the time it was just that Yitzhak ~~was too absorbed in being emo~~ didn't really like people enough to bother speaking. This was certainly the case for the kitchen staff, who had to deal with some rather vulgar hand gestures when the order was taken back to be cooked.

The compliment, however, coaxed a tiny smile out of him -- that is to say, one corner of his mouth twitched upward for a fraction of a second -- and he twirled. Which admittedly looked pretty disturbing, with the stubble and the scowl. But it was almost cheerful . . . which probably made it more disturbing.

The scowl continued to throw Aziraphale off a bit, but he did catch the tiny bit of a mouth-quirk. And thought he was interpreting the twirl as a positive reaction.

Which meant that he smiled some more, pleased that his compliment had been appreciated. "Is it for a, er...a purpose? I mean, are you part of a group? Like a..." He paused, thinking of what sorts of groups might go about in colorful wigs. Hmm...bands? Circuses? "A band?"

A wobbly hand gesture, meaning 'sometimes,' was ever so subtly given so as to call attention to the band photo (http://www.dyqatt.com/images/angryinch-mf.jpg) propped up beside the register.

It was actually a copy -- the original had Hedwig's face mutilated in half a dozen ways -- but Phyllis had pointed out that displaying that one might not exactly be good for business.

It was obvious from Aziraphale's expression that he was terribly pleased with himself for having guessed correctly. He examined the photo and then nodded approvingly.

"That must be a great deal of fun. I do enjoy music myself, but I don't really...make music, you know?"

Then he realized he'd been remiss in his manners, and held out his hand. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Aziraphale."

Yitzhak nodded in what was supposed to be thanks, and dammit, he'd actually have to speak now, wouldn't he?

"Yitzhak," he said in a gruff, thickly accented voice as he reached over the counter to shake Aziraphale's hand. He even managed a slightly less-surly expression for all of three seconds.

Hey, for him this was downright effusive.

Aziraphale had spent a fair amount of time around demons, who weren't exactly known for being happy shiny people. So he wasn't put off in the least by Yitzhak's manner, and cheerfully shook the hand given him.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Yitzhak. Have you been in town for very long?"

Yitzhak had to think about that for a minute, and counted the months on his fingers, finally holding up seven.

Of course, he didn't actually say that was the number of months. It could have been weeks, or days. Or seconds, but that would have been silly.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as he thought about the possible interpretations, finally deciding that it could be a toss-up between weeks and months. Okay, days was a possibility, but Yitzhak just seemed too settled in to be that new.

Since the young man didn't seem to mind the conversation too much, Aziraphale nodded again, indicating that he understood...well enough, anyway. "Well, I'm awfully sorry I haven't come by to meet you sooner. Really, I ought to be better about things like that. One ought to get out and meet one's neighbors."

Yitzhak did not particularly agree with this sentiment, but luckily the Look of Utter Impassivity could pass for neutrality in a pinch.

He inclined his head briefly, as if to say that no, really, it was fine that Aziraphale hadn't met him sooner . . . although he had to admit, as far as interactions with people went, this was one of the least grating. Except for the cheerfulness thing. But he did get the innate sense that this man would be one of the least likely people to screw him over in some way, and that, at least, was comforting.

If Aziraphale had been privy to Yitzhak's thoughts, he'd have quickly assured the man that he was indeed very unlikely to screw anyone over. But as he wasn't possessed of the ability to read thoughts, he just smiled.

"I should move along, and let you get back to your reading," he said. "And I've got house-cleaning to finish before James gets home. If you ever happen to out and about, I work the Tuesday shift at the Devil's Nest, and if you stop by I can promise you a very good glass of scotch."

. . . oh, he had just offered booze. Yitzhak might just have found his new best friend, and he actually looked hopeful for a moment.

Which meant, of course, that he had to make sure Aziraphale didn't leave without his food, so he put some honest effort into packaging the order in a secure way (you had to get good at these things, when you got sent out by yourself all the time to get food for the band ) and handing it over.

As he did so, he grunted -- which, run through a grunt-to-English translator if such a thing existed, would equate to 'have a nice day.'

You'd be amazed how much nuance could go into a grunt.

So maybe he did it in hopes of a tip. But still.

With a bright grin at the hopeful look, which Aziraphale took to mean that Yitzhak liked the idea, he paid for his order and did indeed include a generous tip.

"Thank you very much, my dear. It's been lovely meeting you, and I'll try to be a better patron in the future. Have a good evening!"

The generous tip earned Aziraphale a genuine wave, because yes, it might just be a good evening now.

And he even felt moved to speak for a second time. "Good evening, sir," he replied.

As A.J. was strolling through the town, checking thing out, he halted immediately when the Help Wanted sign caught his eye. He poked his head in the door, looking around for whoever seemed to be important looking. "You guys hiring?"

He hadn't been without a job in a while, so he was getting stir-crazy without the responsibility. And missing Empire ~~if only he knew!~~ terribly.

Yitzhak perked up . . . or came as close to perking up as he ever did, and nodded. Kind of eagerly, actually.

~~If only he knew, indeed.~~

A.J.'s head tilted at the person who'd given his his response. And then slowly grinned as he drifted in, shrugging his shirt up at the shoulders a little as if to straighten his appearance up at least slightly. "Cool hair," he said, sincerely, as he leaned on the counter a little. "Are you the owner, or manager here?"

An affirmative grunt, and a nod of thanks.

And, shock of shocks, actual words. "When can you work?"

If only A.J. knew the honor that was being bestowed upon him.

"Um, well..." Shrugging, the artist thought a bit, shoved his hands in his pockets, and then changed his mind, as his fingers went to tuck the hair behind his ears instead. "When do you need me? I do have some workshops on...Monday, Tuesday, annnnnd...uh, Thursday, two that day, so I don't know how you guys can work around those, but that's my only prior obligation..."

"I'll also add that I've got two years working at a record store, too, so I assure you, I have experience, and I was an excellent and reliable employee." A.J. nodded, firmly.

Yitzhak gave him a very deadpan, very grubby-fingernailed thumbs-up. Music-related experience was a plus as far as he was concerned. Hell, A.J. could have been an unexemplary and unreliable employee at a record store, and the "record store" part would have been enough of a qualification.

Yitzhak was bizarrely easy sometimes.

"How many shifts you want?" he asked -- he hadn't talked this much in forever. It was scary.

"Uhh...two maybe? Just to start out with? And I can pick up more, if you need me, I just...not as many expenses here, and I wanna work on my art a bit," A.J. submitted, nervously, being used to having to come in and help nearly every day, but always eager to do it.

Yitzhak nodded and pulled a manila envelope full of paperwork out from beneath the register, along with what looked like a schedule sheet.

He totally understood the art thing.

Pencil poised over the sheet, he asked, "We have Wednesday, Sunday. Is good for you?"

Wow, a glass of water was so going to be in order soon.

"Wednesday, Sunday sounds great," A.J. said, lips pressed together to hold back a bright smile and there may have been slight bouncing as well.

First the frighteningly cheerful man, and now bouncing. Oy. Hell with the glass of water, there was going to be vodka or something later.

He scrawled 'New Kid' on the schedule under the aforementioned days, then handed the envelope, with ~~handwavey la la~~ employment agreement forms and various food-safety brochures inside it, to A.J. Not that he paid any attention to the food-safety stuff, but it kept the health and safety types off his case.

As soon as he received the envelope, A.J. started shifting through it. "Cool!" he enthused, grinning. "So when should I start? Do you want me coming in this Sunday? I can, if you need me to." He had located all the stuff he needed to sign and a pen (true, it was green, but it was a pen all the same), and got to work scanning those and plopping on his John Leaf Handcock on them.

Yitzhak, who rather liked green ink if the truth be known, shrugged. Sure, why the hell not?

He nodded and gave A.J. another thumbs-up.

"Cool, cool," A.J. signed through everything, handed them over, and then tucked a chunk of hair behind his ear as his head bobbed. He tucked the rest of the contents of the manila envelope under his arm. "I'll look these over then tonight,"--he wouldn't; he'd end up getting lost in a bout of inspiration that involved fish and old AOL disks--"and, yeah, come in tomorrow and get started! Thanks, man." He thrust out his hand once it was done attempting to push back that hair. "A.J., by the way." If, you know, you couldn't tell from the signatures.

It was only fair to introduce himself in exchange, and although Yitzhak wasn't generally a proponent of fairness it wouldn't really do to run off a new employee before he even started, would it?

"Yitzhak," he responded, resigning himself to the second handshake of the day. Luckily, his tendency toward taciturnity ~~teehee~~ kept him from actually making a snarky comment about how he'd guessed A.J.'s name from the signatures.

"Awesome," A.J.'s head bobbed and his grin wouldn't quit and it was way to clear that this guy was a bit too excited about employment. "Great. I'm, uh, mind if I hang out for a bit? Sort of just get a feel for the place, the vibe, the...life of the place? I won't be in the way, I promise. I'll even order something, if that'd be loitering." He started fishing through his pockets, because he knew he had some cash in there somewhere. Right now, just tissues, broken paintbrushes, and all-important superglue. "A milkshake, maybe? Chocolate? Ah. Here it is." A.J. smacked a very rumpled, creatively-taped-together five dollar bill on the counter and beamed at his new boss.

Briefly, Yitzhak wondered if it was the same taped-up five dollar bill he'd once tried to use somewhere, but Abraham Lincoln was missing the glitter eyeshadow, for one.

Eh, it'd do, so he tilted his head in concession and busied himself with making the chocolate milkshake, humming "Princes of the Universe" (only in his mind the title was always "Princess") as he did. A couple of minutes later, a tall, old-fashioned milkshake glass was on the counter in front of A.J. with the leftover shake in its metal tumbler beside it.

It might be noted that the whipped cream on top was a little . . . lacking in artistic merit.

. . . because you probably can't.

Yitzhak might not care if the world ends because of a forgotten OOC thread, but I do.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Luke's Diner, July 7 (Saturday)

Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Re: Talk to Yitzhak

Mod Your Server

OOC