(no subject)
Who: John Tracey (Kaa) and Elena Morales (Aesop's Ant)
What: Paying dues.
When: Weekday, March 2008, after this.
Where: Elena's office, the Pentamerone.
Rating: PG at max (tiny bits of swearing!)
John: He was still thinking about Patricia's last words on his slow-footed way to the next stop on the day's to-do list: the treasurer's office, whose location he vaguely knew from having passed it (he thought) on the way in. Yes, he knew that his Compendium worked, and yes, he knew that he could use it to find out . . . whatever he wanted to find out. But it was easy for her to talk blithely about using it. Until recently, and that only briefly, he hadn't touched the damn thing in, what, ten, twelve years? Kept it in a box with odds and ends from his days at Berkeley, shoved into the back of a closet, out of sight and definitely out of mind.
Well, he wasn't going to think about it right now, either, because here was the office, exactly as he remembered it in passing. With his free hand, the other still holding his leather satchel at his side, he patted his sport coat's inner pocket, making sure his reading glasses were there in case he needed them for the check-writing or paperwork or-- Hell, he didn't know. He'd always handled this dues business long-distance or through Patricia, not directly. He didn't even really know who the treasurer was: name, age, real job if any, Tale. Certainly not that last, he reflected with a grimace. If he didn't have to deal with another of his fellows today, he'd be a happy man. It was trying enough, this experimental skirmish with his self-imposed boundaries against the community. Definitely easy for his Librarian to talk about Compendiums, to push him where he hadn't gone for over half his life.
Best get this meeting over with and get back to the real world; he had class further uptown in a couple hours, and office work to do before then. John took a breath and let it out with a firm, short knock on the door.
Elena: Barely a second passed before John had a response; it was not a fellow Modern tale which would address him now, but an inconvenienced authority figure of a more ancient variety. "In in in," Elena urged, but she was not beckoning with anything like warmth or welcome. She was gesturing him into her office with a cupping and waving motion of her left hand, as her right hand tightened around a ballpoint pen that scratched numerals into tidy columns on a form of her own design. "I have exactly fifteen minutes until a meeting I won't reschedule, so we should make this quick. I--"
What, precisely, Aesop's Ant was about to do was lost in hesitation. It was clear from the parting, then pursing of her lips that she was not used to wasting time with puzzlement, and also that, despite herself, she was puzzled now. This was not one of the usual subjects. If her eyes did not deceive her, it wasn't one of their usual anythings. She ran the man before her through a mental catalog of tales, and when his image (which, she thought, she would have remembered) did not toss up any red flags, she assumed it was an addition as opposed to an omission. Thinking, a second, she worked her lips together, then drew the furious stroke of her signature across the bottom of a page. Business first, business was always first. It was hard enough to find the treasurer's office that his presence there meant he'd passed a Librarian sweep. "New?"
John: "No, not new," he replied automatically, surprised into a defensiveness ("new"? Oh, hell, no) that surprised him even more. He'd have to think about that reaction later, though. For now, he hooked the door mostly closed behind him with a deft foot and stepped toward the desk. His hand wanted to stretch out for a shake -- no, manners, might as well keep up appearances. She looked like a stickler that way, at first impression, or at least someone who had fifteen better things to do with her time than tick through points of etiquette. Either way, uptight and busy, he decided and got on with it accordingly.
"I just haven't come here very often, and never to pay dues. But since I was in the neighborhood today . . ." That, from that perversely pricked pride: he had every right to be here, didn't he, whether or not he actually wanted to be? He glanced at what he could see of her work, then dragged his eyes back to her face. She was younger than he'd expected, but obviously sharp. Respecting that on top of her briskness, he nodded short greeting and dealt out a smile composed for politeness rather than for warmth. Hoped the rum he'd had with Patricia wasn't in olfactory evidence. "John Tracey. Is a personal check all right?"
Elena: She liked nothing more after an introduction than an offer for a personal check. Raising her eyebrows, she set her pen crosswise on the paperwork. She laced her hands together in front of her. In her shoulders and hair and hands, she was in every way symmetrical, balanced, and a little bored. "Elena Morales," she introduced, her eyes narrowed in careful reservation of judgment, and she gave a quiet sideways nod. In truth, she was a little impressed whenever a Tale came in of his own volition, an offer to pay their dues without having to be shaken down. There were days it felt like half of her job was spent explaining to people why their excuses were insufficient. "And a personal check will do fine. I'm sorry, when I hear a knock on this door, it's more often than not some delinquent... delinquent."
She rolled back her chair so that she could address a series of filing cabinets behind her. "Tracey, Tracey. What Tale group do you belong to?" There was no precise filing reason for her to ask this--though there easily could have been--but Elena liked asking more questions than she needed to. It was soothing to needlessly exercise her will over newcomers.
John: He took her return nod for invitation and folded himself down into the nearest chair. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Morales, and I understand." He snorted while digging around in his satchel, plumped on his lap for now, for the checkbook. "I just want to pay and go, so you won't miss your meeting. My delinquent days are long behind me, obviously." As if she wouldn't know by looking at him: mild-mannered college professor from head to toe, paid his taxes (and Tale dues) on time, never troubled another living soul in his whole quiet, retiring life.
His mouth quirked at one corner for the very thought. But then, ah, here was the checkbook, and there was her question, which put him even more tightly on guard. "Modern," he clipped out warily. How much did she have to know? And there were files? What was in them? How far back did they go? He focused on the cabinets, torn between itchy hunger to see for himself and appalled dismay that he had never really considered the bureaucracy behind the magic.
Elena: "Nice to meet you too. Oh! Thank-you," she chirped in a distracted singsong tone, and like most ancient tales--Aesopians in particular--she immediately presumed he was at least a little insane. Patricia was a fine woman, swift, businesslike and efficient, but Elena would not grant the same confidence to her charges without remarkable proof to the contrary. She spun a piece of paper across the table at him, just to be dated and signed. "I think I'll be able to make my meeting fine, don't worry about that." As her hands moved silently and efficiently through the files, she tugged up a manila folder, checked it, flipped it open, and found for her troubles a long line of check-marks: paid, in full, on time.
"Oh, you're one of the good ones! You should have said. It's hard to..." Elena trailed off as she caught sight of her watch, and rose to her feet. "You'll need to initial on the back, too," she added. It was a meeting in the building, so she didn't grab for her coat or briefcase, merely smoothed her lapel. It wasn't even a meeting, to be honest; she'd lean back in one of Noah's comfortable chairs and rail on about her fellow Aesopians for a quarter hour or so, then make some smug inquiries about life in LA, with the implication that he'd burn out any day now, after those years of hard living.
John: He kept a hopeful eye on the folder in her hand, for all the good it did him, while he dutifully wrangled the paperwork into order. No worse than dealing with his mortgage, actually, or the insurance policy -- which needed a second look, now that he thought about it. Should call his agent and see what his options were. Had to be able to get a better deal on the premium, given his history . . .
Elena's comment about "good ones" brought him back to the moment. He was opening his mouth to ask about it (just what kind of "bad ones" did the Pentamerone staff have to deal with?), but she was already standing up and smoothing her lapel, clearly ready to move on to that meeting. Right. John quickly pushed paper and check across the desk toward her (initialed? Yes, there we go) and stood up, too, with another polite smile. He did offer his hand this time. "Well, it was a pleasure, Ms. Morales. Thanks for taking the time, and I hope you have a good day."
He intended to have one, himself, and try not feel like he was escaping from this place. Next time, he privately decided, I'll just send the thing in as usual. Save everyone a lot of hassle.
Elena: She adjusted her glasses lower on her nose so that she could scan the completed paperwork, slid the check into yet another folder, and replaced the first in its filing cabinet, all to the rhythmic clicking of sensible heels on a hardwood floor. Her thin lips twitched into the appreciative smile of a woman who didn't often appreciate things. She took and shook the man's extended hand, saying, "Oh, well, the pleasure's all mine where timely dues are concerned." A tug on the chain of her green glass study lamp plunged the desk into... moderately-less-brightness, for the nearsighted Elena was a stickler for good lighting and the overhead was just as strong without.
It might be the informality of her next meeting creeping in, but Elena's practice of being curious about other Tales was finding a keen challenge in John Tracey. Even Elena would throw a small fit about paying for services she was not using, which estranged Tales were supposed to do, and which Mr. Tracey actually did. He seemed rather sane for a lurker. She plucked her keys from the desk, and her empty coffee cup on a whim. "I'll be walking out to the stairwell, so your good day might be a minute postponed."
John: "That's heading my way," he agreed and took a step back to let her out the door first, though he'd be quick to get out of her way, out in the hall, if she was going to lock up. With all those filing cabinets, the information (he still burned to get a good look!) and the money, he was sure she would. Anything less that such conscientiousness would seem to go against her nature, from what he'd seen so far. Or against her Tale? He had to wonder. He did have to wonder.
He went with the curiosity, though down a different path. "Timely dues are expected, aren't they? Like any other bill we have in life." He slanted a wry smile, tucking his reading glasses back into his inner coat pocket. "Well, not like any other, but . . . you know. And you said 'good ones' earlier -- I'll guess the 'bad ones' don't pay on time? --If that's not getting into confidential business," he added. He suspected it might be, but hell, you never got anywhere in life by not asking the borderline questions now and then.
Elena: She did lock up, giving the key an expert twist until a hearty click confirmed her efforts. She was not sure if there were more Tales who wished to nick a couple thousand from the Atheneum's coffers, or Tales who wanted a peek at her records (which were less useful, themselves, than the archives kept by librarians), but knew the latter party to be more dangerous. She nestled the (undecorated) key chain in the palm of her hand so it was not dropped or forgotten, and nodded as they took to the hallway. "They're hoped for. Expected, yes. But what's that slogan everyone tries to make positive... expect the unexpected? We do a lot of that at this institution." Her tone skirted only lightly above that of a groan, and she waved a hand.
"Everyone pays in the end. The bad ones don't pay on time... the worst ones make me sit through lengthy explanations of why they don't or should not have to." Elena needed little excuse to complain about those individuals.
John: Ambling beside her up the hallway, John admitted to that last, "I never really considered why I should keep paying. I mean, what is all that money getting me? Unless as a tax of sorts that goes to help the less fortunate in the community." He could be all right with that -- more than all right, even. What else was money good for? And, Tales were people first, people with needs like anyone else. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that, when he'd been doing all he could to stay away from even casual encounters with his fellows.
I probably should give them more of a chance, he reflected and briefly considered Elena sidelong. She was giving him that chance, on this little walk-and-talk . . . and he personally knew from stereotyping and discrimination, for crying out loud. Maybe Patricia was even right about using his Compendium. Perish the thought.
"'Expect the unexpected' does seem to come with the territory," he picked back up, more musing than prompting now. "I've only been here a few times. Seems pretty quiet to me. Am I missing all the fun?"
Elena: The treasurer did not often fall into the role of Pentamerone cheerleader, and true to form she did dwell upon the negatives. Her leeriness manifested itself in bullet points. "There has been a raccoon loose, there have been... rabbits, and mistletoe, and magic items. Imagine every trickster and ne'er-do-well in fairy and folk tale alike, then imagine the percentage that jump at free New York housing. We just replaced a window out front because the Troll punted a Billy Goat Gruff through it." Elena wagged a finger in the air in front of her. She was not chastising John, but when she even said things like that, she had a strong urge to chastise someone.
Her pace slowed, and she hesitated rather than continue in a list of faults. "But we do all have our parts to play, and it's not without reward. Of course, I have to believe there's a larger ordered system," she admitted with a small smile, "I'm the Ant."
John: The scolding finger made him grin a little; she did take the job seriously. He liked that. "Through a window," he marveled and shook his head. "I don't know if I wish I could have seen that or if I'm glad I wasn't anywhere nearby when it happened." Probably the latter: punted goats were best avoided, all told.
As she slowed, John followed suit, but he found that he couldn't go as far in matching her admission. He never talked about his Tale that casually (okay, at all) and just didn't have the comfort -- even pride? -- in it that she did. It wasn't a cold-sweat moment, but wariness was squeezing watchfully around his thoughts once more. As if she'd find fault in a mere Modern keeping company with the likes of her. He'd heard about those group divides, didn't like them one bit. Didn't want to be on the receiving end of one, certainly.
"That's . . . nice," he came up with, and shit, it sounded awkward, like to make her clam up or go back into the litany of Pentamerone troubles. He'd been enjoying the chat, too. He shrugged with a smile, thinking quickly for a cover. "Sorry. Was trying to place that one -- Ant and the Grasshopper, maybe? I always liked that story, growing up. It made me want to pile up all my food for winter coming. Of course, I was seven, and the food was mashed potatoes and peas on my plate at dinner. . . ."
Elena: The way her conversations usually went, Elena was so used to awkwardness that she barely noticed it when it came up; she assumed it was her fault but didn't at all mind having caused it. A modern who didn't spread his Tale identity everywhere? Such were her age-old prejudices that she thought this was a positive trait. They weren't a universally bad lot (and the Arabics, who were almost as ancient as Aesopians, had their own share of scoundrels, as did the Aesopians themselves), but in Elena's observation they were rather.. unique, and took a lot of pride in attributes she didn't think were worth celebrating.
"Yes, that's the one," she replied with an nod. She appreciated that it was one of Aesop's more ubiquitous fables, but it could still take a moment to place. They were approaching the stairs now, and she shifted her keys in her palm, a distraction which gave her a second to work up a smile of light amusement. "The Ant lives off her blackberry, and you'll be able to identify the Grasshopper by his cloud of pot smoke. Truly we're a parable for the modern age." Her voice was heavy with irony, but she still clearly believed that she was a good example and Logan would freeze to death.
John: He felt like he'd gotten away with something, the way she took his cute kiddie anecdote in stride, and that feeling tightened rather than eased the constriction in his mind. Oh, his Tale liked being covert, the unseen observer in the shadows, and so did he, and it was all the same, in the end. John let resignation, lighter than usual when he hit that wall, slide through him; it did keep the conversation going, though they were nearly at the stairs and their paths' divergence.
He gave a short chuckle for her ironic summary and offered a little well-tended scoffing with, "Pot smoke -- perfect. I guess only the means change with the years, not the underlying impulse. Our lives in a nutshell, huh?" Especially back in Boulder, enough students had shown up in his classroom, half-baked and wholly unprepared for quiz or discussion (or, sometimes, wakefulness), for him to be less than sanguine about that particular drug in society. The Sixties were long over, kids, and "turn on, tune in, drop out," besides being wildly out of context, wasn't going to get you a passing grade to keep Daddy's tuition money coming.
Already thinking ahead to work. He shot his cuff just enough, as they walked, to get a glimpse of his watch: plenty of time still, no worries.
Elena: It gratified Elena to be agreed with, especially when the subject of derision was the Grasshopper. It was a good warm-up for the derision that she'd be dipping into up in Noah's office. Deadbeats, slackers, cons--there was a thick layer of disreputable sludge in the bottom of the Tale barrel, Elena thought, and the assumption that other people were as bothered as she gave her a measure of comfort and pleasure. She nodded, waving her key-holding hand in a cyclical, almost impatient sort of motion. "Over and over and over again." Her voice slipped into a rare, more interesting accent for the purposes of being matter-of-fact. It was not a frequent indulgence, this wryness. She liked new (even older Moderns were new) Tales who offered checks first, and the commiseration about the pot smoking kids today. It restored the faith in Taledom that more irrational citizens worked so hard to erode. Still, she checked her watch with far less subtlety than John had used on his. Such social graces were lost upon her, most of the time.
"Ah, now we'll be having nice days," she said, and hesitated at the foot of the stairs. "Provided you can make it out of the hallway without someone trying to enlist you in some... scheme." The last word was so seeped in hatred that it dripped off the end of her sentence, and she shook her head to get it off.
John: "I promise not to fall in with anyone," John said, soberly as befitted that strong punctuating emotion. "I'm practically unknown, anyway." And preferred it that way. Schemes? What kind? Whose? Man, the mysteries of this place . . .
Well, Elena Morales seemed pretty damn grounded, at least. That saucy accent was a kick, too; briefly, he wondered what she was like off-duty, after hours. Then again, maybe not. So wound up in her work and her propriety -- those ordered systems of hers -- he couldn't quite imagine her kicking off her shoes, letting down her hair, and slouching onto the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. And I'm not going to ask about it, either. Such a thing as ending on a good note.
So he smiled, genuinely this time, and stuck out his hand for another shake. "I'm sure I'll make it out okay. Thanks again for the help, Ms. Morales, and for the chat. Hope your meeting goes well."
Elena: She was almost unable to pause before a flight of stairs without immediately beginning to scale them. That would be the most efficient course of action, stomping and talking, but even she had to acknowledge it wasn't a good conclusion to such a polite conversation. Efficiency sometimes had to be put off--a little--for the sake of those. She had them so rarely. "And thank you, Mr. Tracey. For the check." Overcome with a mysterious need to clarify, she did lift one foot onto the first step, alighting it hesitantly but with clear intentions. Her eyes flickered past him, in the direction of the exit (or at least the perilous road leading there), and then returned.
The second step. Elena was now on the second step, and if she didn't trot up and down those stairs so often, the way she was scaling them sideways might have been cause for concern. She jerked her neck upwards, gave him a smile. "Good luck on..." she gestured towards the lobby with a light brushing motion of the hand, "Making it out."
John: She couldn't wait to be off to whatever this all-important meeting was, and really, he couldn't blame her. Business was concluded, wasn't it? He could stand around and chat, but an Ant had her timetables. They were practically forcing her up the stairs, just look at that. Nice that she paused to finish things up properly, though, unless that was simply more of the efficient same.
"Hope I won't need it," John replied lightly, leaving his smile with hers as he turned to make his way out. Interesting encounter; he had a lot to chew on later. Maybe paying dues directly hadn't been a bad idea. He'd keep that in mind for the next time, even drop by her office if he was in the building again before then. He might never get a peek at those tempting files, or understand anything in them (no accountant, he!), but she seemed full of information herself. He'd like to hear more about those "schemes," for one thing, even if she might not appreciate an unscheduled visitor, however well-mannered and sympathetic.
Well, he'd call it as he saw it if the time came around again, and just follow his instincts. An Ant had her duties, after all, but a snake had his curiosity.
What: Paying dues.
When: Weekday, March 2008, after this.
Where: Elena's office, the Pentamerone.
Rating: PG at max (tiny bits of swearing!)
John: He was still thinking about Patricia's last words on his slow-footed way to the next stop on the day's to-do list: the treasurer's office, whose location he vaguely knew from having passed it (he thought) on the way in. Yes, he knew that his Compendium worked, and yes, he knew that he could use it to find out . . . whatever he wanted to find out. But it was easy for her to talk blithely about using it. Until recently, and that only briefly, he hadn't touched the damn thing in, what, ten, twelve years? Kept it in a box with odds and ends from his days at Berkeley, shoved into the back of a closet, out of sight and definitely out of mind.
Well, he wasn't going to think about it right now, either, because here was the office, exactly as he remembered it in passing. With his free hand, the other still holding his leather satchel at his side, he patted his sport coat's inner pocket, making sure his reading glasses were there in case he needed them for the check-writing or paperwork or-- Hell, he didn't know. He'd always handled this dues business long-distance or through Patricia, not directly. He didn't even really know who the treasurer was: name, age, real job if any, Tale. Certainly not that last, he reflected with a grimace. If he didn't have to deal with another of his fellows today, he'd be a happy man. It was trying enough, this experimental skirmish with his self-imposed boundaries against the community. Definitely easy for his Librarian to talk about Compendiums, to push him where he hadn't gone for over half his life.
Best get this meeting over with and get back to the real world; he had class further uptown in a couple hours, and office work to do before then. John took a breath and let it out with a firm, short knock on the door.
Elena: Barely a second passed before John had a response; it was not a fellow Modern tale which would address him now, but an inconvenienced authority figure of a more ancient variety. "In in in," Elena urged, but she was not beckoning with anything like warmth or welcome. She was gesturing him into her office with a cupping and waving motion of her left hand, as her right hand tightened around a ballpoint pen that scratched numerals into tidy columns on a form of her own design. "I have exactly fifteen minutes until a meeting I won't reschedule, so we should make this quick. I--"
What, precisely, Aesop's Ant was about to do was lost in hesitation. It was clear from the parting, then pursing of her lips that she was not used to wasting time with puzzlement, and also that, despite herself, she was puzzled now. This was not one of the usual subjects. If her eyes did not deceive her, it wasn't one of their usual anythings. She ran the man before her through a mental catalog of tales, and when his image (which, she thought, she would have remembered) did not toss up any red flags, she assumed it was an addition as opposed to an omission. Thinking, a second, she worked her lips together, then drew the furious stroke of her signature across the bottom of a page. Business first, business was always first. It was hard enough to find the treasurer's office that his presence there meant he'd passed a Librarian sweep. "New?"
John: "No, not new," he replied automatically, surprised into a defensiveness ("new"? Oh, hell, no) that surprised him even more. He'd have to think about that reaction later, though. For now, he hooked the door mostly closed behind him with a deft foot and stepped toward the desk. His hand wanted to stretch out for a shake -- no, manners, might as well keep up appearances. She looked like a stickler that way, at first impression, or at least someone who had fifteen better things to do with her time than tick through points of etiquette. Either way, uptight and busy, he decided and got on with it accordingly.
"I just haven't come here very often, and never to pay dues. But since I was in the neighborhood today . . ." That, from that perversely pricked pride: he had every right to be here, didn't he, whether or not he actually wanted to be? He glanced at what he could see of her work, then dragged his eyes back to her face. She was younger than he'd expected, but obviously sharp. Respecting that on top of her briskness, he nodded short greeting and dealt out a smile composed for politeness rather than for warmth. Hoped the rum he'd had with Patricia wasn't in olfactory evidence. "John Tracey. Is a personal check all right?"
Elena: She liked nothing more after an introduction than an offer for a personal check. Raising her eyebrows, she set her pen crosswise on the paperwork. She laced her hands together in front of her. In her shoulders and hair and hands, she was in every way symmetrical, balanced, and a little bored. "Elena Morales," she introduced, her eyes narrowed in careful reservation of judgment, and she gave a quiet sideways nod. In truth, she was a little impressed whenever a Tale came in of his own volition, an offer to pay their dues without having to be shaken down. There were days it felt like half of her job was spent explaining to people why their excuses were insufficient. "And a personal check will do fine. I'm sorry, when I hear a knock on this door, it's more often than not some delinquent... delinquent."
She rolled back her chair so that she could address a series of filing cabinets behind her. "Tracey, Tracey. What Tale group do you belong to?" There was no precise filing reason for her to ask this--though there easily could have been--but Elena liked asking more questions than she needed to. It was soothing to needlessly exercise her will over newcomers.
John: He took her return nod for invitation and folded himself down into the nearest chair. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Morales, and I understand." He snorted while digging around in his satchel, plumped on his lap for now, for the checkbook. "I just want to pay and go, so you won't miss your meeting. My delinquent days are long behind me, obviously." As if she wouldn't know by looking at him: mild-mannered college professor from head to toe, paid his taxes (and Tale dues) on time, never troubled another living soul in his whole quiet, retiring life.
His mouth quirked at one corner for the very thought. But then, ah, here was the checkbook, and there was her question, which put him even more tightly on guard. "Modern," he clipped out warily. How much did she have to know? And there were files? What was in them? How far back did they go? He focused on the cabinets, torn between itchy hunger to see for himself and appalled dismay that he had never really considered the bureaucracy behind the magic.
Elena: "Nice to meet you too. Oh! Thank-you," she chirped in a distracted singsong tone, and like most ancient tales--Aesopians in particular--she immediately presumed he was at least a little insane. Patricia was a fine woman, swift, businesslike and efficient, but Elena would not grant the same confidence to her charges without remarkable proof to the contrary. She spun a piece of paper across the table at him, just to be dated and signed. "I think I'll be able to make my meeting fine, don't worry about that." As her hands moved silently and efficiently through the files, she tugged up a manila folder, checked it, flipped it open, and found for her troubles a long line of check-marks: paid, in full, on time.
"Oh, you're one of the good ones! You should have said. It's hard to..." Elena trailed off as she caught sight of her watch, and rose to her feet. "You'll need to initial on the back, too," she added. It was a meeting in the building, so she didn't grab for her coat or briefcase, merely smoothed her lapel. It wasn't even a meeting, to be honest; she'd lean back in one of Noah's comfortable chairs and rail on about her fellow Aesopians for a quarter hour or so, then make some smug inquiries about life in LA, with the implication that he'd burn out any day now, after those years of hard living.
John: He kept a hopeful eye on the folder in her hand, for all the good it did him, while he dutifully wrangled the paperwork into order. No worse than dealing with his mortgage, actually, or the insurance policy -- which needed a second look, now that he thought about it. Should call his agent and see what his options were. Had to be able to get a better deal on the premium, given his history . . .
Elena's comment about "good ones" brought him back to the moment. He was opening his mouth to ask about it (just what kind of "bad ones" did the Pentamerone staff have to deal with?), but she was already standing up and smoothing her lapel, clearly ready to move on to that meeting. Right. John quickly pushed paper and check across the desk toward her (initialed? Yes, there we go) and stood up, too, with another polite smile. He did offer his hand this time. "Well, it was a pleasure, Ms. Morales. Thanks for taking the time, and I hope you have a good day."
He intended to have one, himself, and try not feel like he was escaping from this place. Next time, he privately decided, I'll just send the thing in as usual. Save everyone a lot of hassle.
Elena: She adjusted her glasses lower on her nose so that she could scan the completed paperwork, slid the check into yet another folder, and replaced the first in its filing cabinet, all to the rhythmic clicking of sensible heels on a hardwood floor. Her thin lips twitched into the appreciative smile of a woman who didn't often appreciate things. She took and shook the man's extended hand, saying, "Oh, well, the pleasure's all mine where timely dues are concerned." A tug on the chain of her green glass study lamp plunged the desk into... moderately-less-brightness, for the nearsighted Elena was a stickler for good lighting and the overhead was just as strong without.
It might be the informality of her next meeting creeping in, but Elena's practice of being curious about other Tales was finding a keen challenge in John Tracey. Even Elena would throw a small fit about paying for services she was not using, which estranged Tales were supposed to do, and which Mr. Tracey actually did. He seemed rather sane for a lurker. She plucked her keys from the desk, and her empty coffee cup on a whim. "I'll be walking out to the stairwell, so your good day might be a minute postponed."
John: "That's heading my way," he agreed and took a step back to let her out the door first, though he'd be quick to get out of her way, out in the hall, if she was going to lock up. With all those filing cabinets, the information (he still burned to get a good look!) and the money, he was sure she would. Anything less that such conscientiousness would seem to go against her nature, from what he'd seen so far. Or against her Tale? He had to wonder. He did have to wonder.
He went with the curiosity, though down a different path. "Timely dues are expected, aren't they? Like any other bill we have in life." He slanted a wry smile, tucking his reading glasses back into his inner coat pocket. "Well, not like any other, but . . . you know. And you said 'good ones' earlier -- I'll guess the 'bad ones' don't pay on time? --If that's not getting into confidential business," he added. He suspected it might be, but hell, you never got anywhere in life by not asking the borderline questions now and then.
Elena: She did lock up, giving the key an expert twist until a hearty click confirmed her efforts. She was not sure if there were more Tales who wished to nick a couple thousand from the Atheneum's coffers, or Tales who wanted a peek at her records (which were less useful, themselves, than the archives kept by librarians), but knew the latter party to be more dangerous. She nestled the (undecorated) key chain in the palm of her hand so it was not dropped or forgotten, and nodded as they took to the hallway. "They're hoped for. Expected, yes. But what's that slogan everyone tries to make positive... expect the unexpected? We do a lot of that at this institution." Her tone skirted only lightly above that of a groan, and she waved a hand.
"Everyone pays in the end. The bad ones don't pay on time... the worst ones make me sit through lengthy explanations of why they don't or should not have to." Elena needed little excuse to complain about those individuals.
John: Ambling beside her up the hallway, John admitted to that last, "I never really considered why I should keep paying. I mean, what is all that money getting me? Unless as a tax of sorts that goes to help the less fortunate in the community." He could be all right with that -- more than all right, even. What else was money good for? And, Tales were people first, people with needs like anyone else. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that, when he'd been doing all he could to stay away from even casual encounters with his fellows.
I probably should give them more of a chance, he reflected and briefly considered Elena sidelong. She was giving him that chance, on this little walk-and-talk . . . and he personally knew from stereotyping and discrimination, for crying out loud. Maybe Patricia was even right about using his Compendium. Perish the thought.
"'Expect the unexpected' does seem to come with the territory," he picked back up, more musing than prompting now. "I've only been here a few times. Seems pretty quiet to me. Am I missing all the fun?"
Elena: The treasurer did not often fall into the role of Pentamerone cheerleader, and true to form she did dwell upon the negatives. Her leeriness manifested itself in bullet points. "There has been a raccoon loose, there have been... rabbits, and mistletoe, and magic items. Imagine every trickster and ne'er-do-well in fairy and folk tale alike, then imagine the percentage that jump at free New York housing. We just replaced a window out front because the Troll punted a Billy Goat Gruff through it." Elena wagged a finger in the air in front of her. She was not chastising John, but when she even said things like that, she had a strong urge to chastise someone.
Her pace slowed, and she hesitated rather than continue in a list of faults. "But we do all have our parts to play, and it's not without reward. Of course, I have to believe there's a larger ordered system," she admitted with a small smile, "I'm the Ant."
John: The scolding finger made him grin a little; she did take the job seriously. He liked that. "Through a window," he marveled and shook his head. "I don't know if I wish I could have seen that or if I'm glad I wasn't anywhere nearby when it happened." Probably the latter: punted goats were best avoided, all told.
As she slowed, John followed suit, but he found that he couldn't go as far in matching her admission. He never talked about his Tale that casually (okay, at all) and just didn't have the comfort -- even pride? -- in it that she did. It wasn't a cold-sweat moment, but wariness was squeezing watchfully around his thoughts once more. As if she'd find fault in a mere Modern keeping company with the likes of her. He'd heard about those group divides, didn't like them one bit. Didn't want to be on the receiving end of one, certainly.
"That's . . . nice," he came up with, and shit, it sounded awkward, like to make her clam up or go back into the litany of Pentamerone troubles. He'd been enjoying the chat, too. He shrugged with a smile, thinking quickly for a cover. "Sorry. Was trying to place that one -- Ant and the Grasshopper, maybe? I always liked that story, growing up. It made me want to pile up all my food for winter coming. Of course, I was seven, and the food was mashed potatoes and peas on my plate at dinner. . . ."
Elena: The way her conversations usually went, Elena was so used to awkwardness that she barely noticed it when it came up; she assumed it was her fault but didn't at all mind having caused it. A modern who didn't spread his Tale identity everywhere? Such were her age-old prejudices that she thought this was a positive trait. They weren't a universally bad lot (and the Arabics, who were almost as ancient as Aesopians, had their own share of scoundrels, as did the Aesopians themselves), but in Elena's observation they were rather.. unique, and took a lot of pride in attributes she didn't think were worth celebrating.
"Yes, that's the one," she replied with an nod. She appreciated that it was one of Aesop's more ubiquitous fables, but it could still take a moment to place. They were approaching the stairs now, and she shifted her keys in her palm, a distraction which gave her a second to work up a smile of light amusement. "The Ant lives off her blackberry, and you'll be able to identify the Grasshopper by his cloud of pot smoke. Truly we're a parable for the modern age." Her voice was heavy with irony, but she still clearly believed that she was a good example and Logan would freeze to death.
John: He felt like he'd gotten away with something, the way she took his cute kiddie anecdote in stride, and that feeling tightened rather than eased the constriction in his mind. Oh, his Tale liked being covert, the unseen observer in the shadows, and so did he, and it was all the same, in the end. John let resignation, lighter than usual when he hit that wall, slide through him; it did keep the conversation going, though they were nearly at the stairs and their paths' divergence.
He gave a short chuckle for her ironic summary and offered a little well-tended scoffing with, "Pot smoke -- perfect. I guess only the means change with the years, not the underlying impulse. Our lives in a nutshell, huh?" Especially back in Boulder, enough students had shown up in his classroom, half-baked and wholly unprepared for quiz or discussion (or, sometimes, wakefulness), for him to be less than sanguine about that particular drug in society. The Sixties were long over, kids, and "turn on, tune in, drop out," besides being wildly out of context, wasn't going to get you a passing grade to keep Daddy's tuition money coming.
Already thinking ahead to work. He shot his cuff just enough, as they walked, to get a glimpse of his watch: plenty of time still, no worries.
Elena: It gratified Elena to be agreed with, especially when the subject of derision was the Grasshopper. It was a good warm-up for the derision that she'd be dipping into up in Noah's office. Deadbeats, slackers, cons--there was a thick layer of disreputable sludge in the bottom of the Tale barrel, Elena thought, and the assumption that other people were as bothered as she gave her a measure of comfort and pleasure. She nodded, waving her key-holding hand in a cyclical, almost impatient sort of motion. "Over and over and over again." Her voice slipped into a rare, more interesting accent for the purposes of being matter-of-fact. It was not a frequent indulgence, this wryness. She liked new (even older Moderns were new) Tales who offered checks first, and the commiseration about the pot smoking kids today. It restored the faith in Taledom that more irrational citizens worked so hard to erode. Still, she checked her watch with far less subtlety than John had used on his. Such social graces were lost upon her, most of the time.
"Ah, now we'll be having nice days," she said, and hesitated at the foot of the stairs. "Provided you can make it out of the hallway without someone trying to enlist you in some... scheme." The last word was so seeped in hatred that it dripped off the end of her sentence, and she shook her head to get it off.
John: "I promise not to fall in with anyone," John said, soberly as befitted that strong punctuating emotion. "I'm practically unknown, anyway." And preferred it that way. Schemes? What kind? Whose? Man, the mysteries of this place . . .
Well, Elena Morales seemed pretty damn grounded, at least. That saucy accent was a kick, too; briefly, he wondered what she was like off-duty, after hours. Then again, maybe not. So wound up in her work and her propriety -- those ordered systems of hers -- he couldn't quite imagine her kicking off her shoes, letting down her hair, and slouching onto the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. And I'm not going to ask about it, either. Such a thing as ending on a good note.
So he smiled, genuinely this time, and stuck out his hand for another shake. "I'm sure I'll make it out okay. Thanks again for the help, Ms. Morales, and for the chat. Hope your meeting goes well."
Elena: She was almost unable to pause before a flight of stairs without immediately beginning to scale them. That would be the most efficient course of action, stomping and talking, but even she had to acknowledge it wasn't a good conclusion to such a polite conversation. Efficiency sometimes had to be put off--a little--for the sake of those. She had them so rarely. "And thank you, Mr. Tracey. For the check." Overcome with a mysterious need to clarify, she did lift one foot onto the first step, alighting it hesitantly but with clear intentions. Her eyes flickered past him, in the direction of the exit (or at least the perilous road leading there), and then returned.
The second step. Elena was now on the second step, and if she didn't trot up and down those stairs so often, the way she was scaling them sideways might have been cause for concern. She jerked her neck upwards, gave him a smile. "Good luck on..." she gestured towards the lobby with a light brushing motion of the hand, "Making it out."
John: She couldn't wait to be off to whatever this all-important meeting was, and really, he couldn't blame her. Business was concluded, wasn't it? He could stand around and chat, but an Ant had her timetables. They were practically forcing her up the stairs, just look at that. Nice that she paused to finish things up properly, though, unless that was simply more of the efficient same.
"Hope I won't need it," John replied lightly, leaving his smile with hers as he turned to make his way out. Interesting encounter; he had a lot to chew on later. Maybe paying dues directly hadn't been a bad idea. He'd keep that in mind for the next time, even drop by her office if he was in the building again before then. He might never get a peek at those tempting files, or understand anything in them (no accountant, he!), but she seemed full of information herself. He'd like to hear more about those "schemes," for one thing, even if she might not appreciate an unscheduled visitor, however well-mannered and sympathetic.
Well, he'd call it as he saw it if the time came around again, and just follow his instincts. An Ant had her duties, after all, but a snake had his curiosity.