What is the sauce, kids?

[sinsense]

New default icon, courtesy of stereomer. I quote: "DRINK THAT BOOZE, SMOKE THAT BLUNT, WALK THAT BITCH."

Let's talk about what is up, LJ. What the haps are. What boogie is going down.

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2!

[sinsense]

"Hm?" the guy says, and looks up from his book. He looks baffled.

Bob points to the guy's feet and says, "Your socks. Just take them off."

"Oh," the guy says. He looks down at his feet. "I didn't-- shit, I always do that." He reaches down and yanks up on the tops of his socks.

"Just don't like socks, huh?" Bob says. He flips his book back open.

"No," the guy says. He's looking over at Bob, squinting a little. "Do you-- okay, do I know you?"

Bob hardly ever gets recognized out of context, and even less often by older dudes. That, and the faint familiarity he has with the guy's face, leads Bob to think that he ought to know the guy's name somehow. Ought to, but totally doesn't. "I'm Bob, Bob Bryar," he says, and hopes he isn't being a dick.

"Oh, okay," the guy says. He takes Bob's hand when Bob reaches over, and they shake. "Jon Walker," the guy says, lowering his voice and glancing around. "Panic at the Disco."

"Fuck, of course you are," Bob says, before he thinks about it, and then feels like a moron. The guy -- Jon -- grins at him, and Bob grins back. "Nice to meet you," Bob says. He's pretty sure they've met before, somehow, but it feels like what he ought to say.

"Likewise," Jon says.

They sit in silence, paging through their books. Bob feels kind of weird, sitting next to this dude he barely sort-of knows, so he finally just gives up on browsing and gathers together his books. When he turns to get his coat off of the back of the sofa, though, Jon's already standing up. "Oh," Bob says. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I'll head out with you," Jon says.

Jon waits while Bob leaves his coffee mug on the counter, and as they're heading downstairs he says, "Can I get you a book?" It's kind of bizarre, but kind of sweet, in a gentlemanly, I thought those kind of manners died out long ago way.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Bob shifts the stack of books he was looking at out from under his arm and plops them in Jon's waiting hands. Jon eyeballs the stack, his forehead creasing, and Bob struggles not to laugh.

"Thanks for getting that for me," Bob says. He aims for earnest. "I'm really broke right now, what with the tumor."

"The tumor," Jon says.

"Well, more like an anal polyp," Bob says seriously. "It costs a lot to have polyps cut out, you know."

Jon stares at him, his arms weighted down with books, his forehead folded into neat lines. Bob stares back. Usually he can convince almost anyone, but maybe Jon is used to pranks; he starts smiling, and then laughing, and that just sets Bob off.

"Polyps," Jon says. The books are sliding out of his hands, and Bob has to grab at them to keep them from falling on the floor. "Polyps!"

"Are you laughing at my ass tumor, dude?" Bob asks, but he's lost his straight face now, and he isn't going to get it back. He takes the one book he was considering buying out of the stack. "Do you still want to buy me a book?"

"Yeah, give it," Jon says. "Polyps. Jesus."

"You never know," Bob says sagely. "Polyps don't discriminate."