Andre; Travis; Jackson
More and more, I understand why people hide in the ivory tower. The rest of the world pretty much sucks. I've heard people say that you aren't really educated until you understand how much you don't know - in that case, our education system is obviously a piece of crap.
I guess I should probably email Andre about tickets. I'm not that into classical, but it was a nice gesture for him to offer me comps, and I ought to be polite enough to take him up on it. It's not grading, anyway, so there's there peace of mind.
10/31/2006
=NYC= Mid-Manhattan Public Library - Midtown - Manhattan
The main room of the library branch is simple in its layout: computers that provide internet access as well as partial access to the library catalog system for the entire state of New York, the shelves that house the books, the desk where patrons would take to have the books checked out.
Monday evening is not prime library activity time. There are some people wandering the stacks sure enough, a few of people tap away at computers, the occasional individual comes up to the desk to check something out. But for the requisite quiet of libraries, there is less visible activity than might happen on a weekend, during story hour, or close to midterms. Andre is one of those people just wandering the stacks. He holds a couple of books under one arm and his laptop bag is slung over the other shoulder, but the pace of his walk is easy and his eyes flicker over the contents of random shelves he passes on the way toward a reading area with cushy chairs.
Midterms have come and gone for Natalie, which means that she's currently seated with a stack of said papers and a red pen. It is very, very red - so are some of the papers she's marking. Her piles on the table in front of her are neatly divided, alphabetical, graded, ungraded, and she works with a thoughtful gnawing of her lower lip.
Red stands out in a room that's of classic architectural style in darkish colors, all the more so considering many of the books on the shelves have been stripped of their colorful dustjackets. Andre, wearing a yellow shirt with blue lettering on it, which does not quite render him beelike, still catches sight of that red and wanders toward it as a bee might. Not quite fast enough to be a proper beeline, but the idea is there. When he reaches the area with the chairs, Andre sinks down into one roughly across from Natalie. He releases the books onto the table with a thud slightly too loud for the environment, briefly grits his teeth, then waves with his now-freed hand.
Natalie startles at the thud and glances up, halfway to a glare before recognition settles in and she blinks at Andre. One hand lifts to shove her glasses back on her nose and she blinks again. Huh. "Hi."
Andre slides the books back toward him, as if that would somehow undo the noise. "Hey," he whispers, stereotypically library-soft. "Sorry if that interrupted. How are things?"
"They don't arrest you if you talk normally," Natalie whispers back, head lowered and bent toward Andre to match the stereotype. She does not quite smile, but her eyes are warmly amused.
"Good to know," Andre continues, just as softly, his mouth forced into a straight line for now. His posture straightens out now and he raises a finger. "I realized I didn't give you contact info for that concert stuff the other night." This time, his voice is of a perfectly normal expressive quality, respectfully soft, no longer silly.
"Oh!" Natalie lifts her head a touch, and her voice rises as she nods. "Right. Yeah. When is that again?"
Andre pulls his bag up into his lap, rummaging through it as he speaks. "The latest word is this weekend, though who knows if /that/ will actually happen." He shakes his head and produces a small pad of paper from the bag. "It's usually two or three nights. This one's two, as it stands now."
"What're you guys playing again?" Natalie wonders. Her pen tap-tap-taps against the edge of the table before she sweeps it up to gnaw on the end of it while she watches Andre.
Andre pulls a pen out of his pocket and scribbles something on the paper before resorting to his own pen-tapping. At a different tempo from Natalie's. Hurrah for mixed meters! "Schumann and de Falla," he says, then extends the pen to tap on the books on the table with barely a missed beat. "I'm reading about them. Since we've worked on the pieces so long and all."
"Schumann and-- right." Natalie's nod is a fast attempt to cover the fact that she has absolutely no idea what sort of music that is, outside of the fact that it sounds likely to involve violins.
"Classical," Andre offers, his fingers tapping against his little pile of books. "Well, technically Romantic and then 20th century, but yeah." It does involve violins. But also a tambourine! "I just read that de Falla tried to stop a political murder! I'd call that pretty badass."
"Depends on the political murder," Natalie opines in a murmur.
Andre was grinning when he said that, but Natalie's remark cuts his facial expression down about as effectively as a machete takes a dandelion. "Not like what just happened..." he murmurs, wrinkling his nose and scrunching up his forehead. "I mean, the government was trying to kill the poet Lorca, and Falla tried to stop them..." The enthusiasm of his earlier statement is not there now.
Natalie lifts her brows slightly, a barely visible movement as she watches Andre. "You think what just happened was justified?"
"They wanted to kill him because they didn't like his poetry. That's about as far from justice as--" Andre cuts himself off this time, giving an emphatic shake of his head. "That's not what you meant." His tapping fingers cease in order to brush hair back from his forehead. "Nobody should ever get murdered, though."
"That's not what I meant," Natalie agrees. Her eyes remain fixed on Andre, watchful.
Andre shoves the book, a biography of de Falla, away from him, sits up straighter, and starts tapping on his elbow. "I think I've gotta be trying to distract myself. I don't know if that's better or worse than harping on it."
"Harping on it?"
"Talking about it all the time. Like the news is." And like he did with the riot.
"Ah. Well." Natalie shifts a bit and pulls herself straighter. Her pen drops to the table. "You think about it a lot?"
Andre laughs, short and dry. "The president was killed. I'm thinking about it a whole lot. I didn't like the guy, but he shouldn't have been killed, and the uncertainty now is worse than anything his administration was cooking up."
"Most people don't pay much attention to things outside themselves," Natalie points out.
"I'm plenty guilty of that sometimes," Andre admits. "But not now, I don't think. Unless reading about dead composers to try to not think about dead presidents is being selfish."
"It's hardly as if you're going to affect anything." Natalie's tone remains even, her expression sharply thoughtful as she studies Andre.
"Believe me, I know that." Andre's tone, on the other hand, is darkened slightly by defensiveness. He shifts slightly in his seat. "But most things effect more people than can effect the things back."
"So why's it selfish?" Practicality colors Natalie's tone, and she sweeps up her pen again.
Andre's defensiveness permeates a few more words. "I didn't say I necessarily thought it was." He shifts again, his posture in the chair becoming slightly looser. "I was asking if it came across that way to other people."
"Ah." Natalie's pen goes tap-tap-tap again. "I missed that."
Andre's fingers have not stopped tap-tapping the entire time. "Well, I missed your point earlier, so we're even." As with his position, much of the tension has left his voice as well.
Natalie's lips twist into dry amusement. "I had a point?"
"I mean, I thought you were still talking about de Falla!" Andre shakes his head, the corners of his own lips threatening to turn up as well.
"I don't know who de Falla is," Natalie points out.
Andre reaches out and taps the book once. "The composer of one of the pieces on the program. Who I was talking about earlier." Cyclical conversations are fun!
Or something! Natalie, at least, seems to find them baffling, if not mildly irritating, and her pen freezes in midair as she replies, "Ah."
Andre opens the front cover and flips a few pages, not actually looking at them. "He wasn't able to save Lorca, even though he knew they were after him." For such a factual statement, there is a distinct note of questioning in its delivery.
Natalie's responding "Fascinating" suggests that, perhaps, it is not in fact.
"Just kind of makes me wonder what inevitable really is," Andre elaborates. "Heard some people calling Lowe inevitable."
Natalie's expression closes abruptly and she shifts. Uncomfortable. Brown eyes flicker upward to take quick note of those around them. "He made a lot of enemies," she acknowledges eventually.
"Clearly." Is that dark humor behind that word? If so, Andre appears just as uncomfortable with his own statement as with anything Natalie has said. "I think I picked the wrong composer to read about. Should have picked up a book that couldn't possibly include anything related to this."
"For someone who doesn't want to think about it, you keep bringing things back around to the situation a lot," Natalie agrees, gaze still dark and sharp on Andre.
"I have a tendency to do that. I need to stop."
"Or stop pretending that you don't want to think about it," Natalie suggests.
"I could do that, too," Andre concedes. "But I really should be thinking more about the concert and practicing more, you know? I'm usually more excited about concerts."
"It's been postponed twice because the world has abruptly gone fucking insane." Natalie's tone smiles to match her expression, at odds with profanity.
This incongruousness is enough to make Andre laugh out loud, though whether it is a short laugh just because it would have been anyway or because he's cut it short to stay at library volume is up in the air. "Exactly!"
Natalie responds with a short nod, and her pen taps once more on the tabletop before the point comes to rest on the paper in front of her.
Andre looks up at the ceiling and inhales slowly, letting the breath hiss out at an equal rate through a small gap in his lips. It's a nice long pause before he looks back down. "Did you, ah, still want a ticket?"
"You're giving me the information, right?" Natalie prompts.
"Oh!" Andre seems entirely too startled by this. He picks up his own little notepad, which he had previously stuck on the table with his books. "That would be true." And he contines scribbling information that he'd left off in half-sentences earlier.
Natalie waits through this in silence, watching Andre scribble patiently.
Andre finishes and tears the sheet off, handing it across the table to Natalie. His handwriting would make most grade school teachers cringe, but it is still recognizeable as English. The sheet reads, 'Concert! De Falla Three Cornered Hat, Schumann 1st, Friday 8, Sunday 2. Carnegie Hall! Andre Harrison mrsanandreas@gmail.com.'
Natalie leans across the table to take the sheet of paper with nimble fingers, and she spends a moment considering it before she looks up at Andre again. "So if I want tickets I should do what?"
"Email me when you know if you're going and what day," Andre says, flicking his pen up and down between two fingers. "I'm going to find out how many comps I can get at the rehearsal tomorrow."
"Ok." Natalie studies the paper for another moment and then shifts to tuck it into a pocket. "Thanks."
Andre smiles, teeth showing even through tiredness. "I'm glad people are still interested in coming."
"Distraction," Natalie suggests, small smile rising to meet his. "I'm sure you'll have a crowd."
"I certainly hope so." He's still smiling, but his voice trails off and his expression slowly fades to something more neutral. He leans slightly forward, looking at the pile of papers near Natalie. "Scary math?"
"Scary?" Natalie glances down at the papers, mouth twisting, and then back up to Andre. "Not really. Second year stuff. I imagine it scares /them/."
Andre squints toward it, any comprehension he might have not aided by the fact that it is upside down from this angle. "Judging by the amount of red, it is both scary and mean."
"I could grade in blue, but it seems as if they might miss the message, then," Natalie replies. There might be a small twinkle of evil in her eye.
"The message that math will sap the very blood from your brain if you do it wrong?" Andre gets the evil. This is how he felt about math, anyway.
"The message that you cannot bullshit your way through calculus," Natalie corrects patiently. She might, we note, be using her teacher's voice.
Andre sits up straight and places one hand on his books and the other hand on the first, a good student posture. "In the unlikely case that I have to take calculus, I will keep that in mind."
"One thing in life where the answers are either right or wrong," Natalie approves, and it's a fond smile she drops down to the work in front of her.
"Huh." Despite the monosyllabism, Andre sounds like he's genuinely thought of something, and his brows raise in conjunction with the inflection of his speech. "That's a nice quality to have when everything else is so subjective." This is the most credit he has given math in a while. "TAing music history ws not subjective."
*was not objective
"No?" Natalie's brows lift slightly. "I've always thought history was terribly subjective."
Andre frowns. "It is...did I say it wasn't subjective?" It's a question, not a challenge. "I meant it's not objective. That class almost got to flame war status sometimes."
"Sounds fun," Natalie allows, and there's a moment's dry solidarity for the overworked TA.
"It meant at least some people were reading and absorbing the stuff." Andre was a nice TA.
"Or they just thought you'd think that if they argued a lot." Natalie is not.
"Point. Definite point." Andre laughs softly, this time well within library standards. "The point of musicology class was to talk enough that we sounded like we knew what we were doing."
"In math, there's not much room to hide if you don't know what you're doing." Natalie's voice is pragmatic, and there's a sense of deep satisfication in the proclamation.
Andre hates to admit it, but, "That's another good thing." His mouth turns upward. "But it takes away the options for discussions of things like how one would musically represent a shark and whether it is masculine or feminine."
"Yes, it does." Natalie looks grateful for this fact.
Andre just shrugs at that, amusement still playing on his features and sounding slightly in his breath.
Natalie waves her pen slightly, fingers splayed over the paper she's grading. "Anyway," she says. "I should probably get this done."
Andre scoots his pad of paper off the table and sticks it in his bag, then takes his two library books in the other hand. "And I should probably let you get it done. I hope I didn't keep you too long!"
"Nope. Good luck with your concert and stuff."
Andre slowly extracts himself from the chair and stretches his arms above his head. "Thanks. Hope to see you there!" And he heads toward the checkout counter.
10-31
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
It's early evening, and the streets are paved with kiddies. And candy wrappers. Some parents still fight with hyperactive kids, trying to make a memory or something of that nature. The smart ones have shipped their offspring home and doped them up with Benedril. Travis, though, has found a window seat, where he sits, mostly ignoring the open book in hand as he stares at the window.
Natalie looks harried, juggling a folder filled with papers and a book under one arm while the other lifts swiftly from its brace against the door to free a space for a small child darting out of the coffee shop without care for the woman in his way. His bedraggled mother follows, and she throws Natalie an irritated glance before pushing her way past. Natalie heaves out a puffed sigh and steps her way inside, free hand already rising to push dark locks back behind her ear.
Travis observes. A snicker escapes, the sound carrying across the room, before he returns to his book, shaking his head and smirking to himself.
Natalie's gaze shifts quickly toward the source of that snicker, and her eyes narrow behind her glasses as she frowns at him. There's a moment of irritated consideration before she turns away and steps toward the counter to order a latte.
Travis flips a page, and reaches for his drink, his gaze trailing over the book to settle on the woman. He unabashedly watches her motions as she places her order, sipping at his coffee.
The order takes awhile, as all lattes do, and Natalie takes advantage of the time to shuffle her papers into a neater arrangement, back turned to rest against the counter as she waits. At one point her eyes flicker up and then back down -- and then up again as Travis' gaze sinks in. She blinks at him across the room.
Travis offers a slight nod, recogniion of her recognition, before taking a long drink and setting the mug back on the table. "Terribly inconsiderate," he says, pitching his voice to carry across the room.
"What, staring?" Natalie shoots back, only to be interrupted in her accusation by the barista with her coffee.
Travis laughs aloud at that. "Well, least you're not afraid to speak your mind," he shrugs, setting the book page-down on the table, spine spread wide. "Her, not you, I meant. Can't say I'm sorry she finally took that brat home, though. He'd been whining for the last 20 minutes while she gabbed on her cell phone."
Natalie turns from accepting her drink to stare at Travis, and there's a faint note of bafflement in her gaze before she concedes to step toward him. She hovers over his table for a moment, steaming latte in one hand and folder tucked under the opposite arm. "Well," she allows grudgingly after a moment. "Yes, she was, but most people in New York are. Aren't most of them opinionated, too?"
"Vocal, at least," Travis shrugs. "I'm not sure half the views even warrant the term 'opinion.'" He swivles his chair slightly. "Sit, if you like. Not like the place has a lot of selection for company," he says, gaze trailing to one obvious homeless person in one corner, and a lone elderly couple in another.
"And noting that staring is rude, that wins approval?" Natalie wonders. Still, she can't quite keep amusement from her voice, and her gaze lingers curiously on Travis as she hesitates, and then finally moves to sit. Her folder and book clatter onto the table ungracefully.
"I respect people who say it like it is," Travis says simply, reaching again for his drink, then leaning the chair back against bit of wall that the window table offers. "Travis. Not a lot of people who settle for coffee on this all unhallowed of nights."
"Natalie," his companion offers, distracted as she shuffles through papers, shoving them into a neat pile and reordering a few as she goes. Her eyes flick upward to rest on Travis for a moment, and her smile is dry. "Some of us are working. All unhallowed of nights? You just come from a haunted house or something?"
"Bracing myself for one," Travis rolls his eyes. "Except these ghouls are still alive. Don't let the hyphenated last names fool you. They'll still try to suck your blood dry, though." His eyes trail across her papers. "What do you do?"
Natalie blinks evenly at Travis and folds her hands over the piled papers to ask, "What?"
"You said 'Some of us are working,'" Travis repeats, bemused. "So that begs the question 'What do you do?' Or was it supposed to be 'How is your grandmother?' No, no, I was right before."
"I meant," Natalie explains patiently, lifting a hand to push glasses back on the bridge of her nose, "What the hell are you talking about, ghouls and hyphenated last names?"
"Oooooh," Travis draws the sound of understanding out. "Just that I have a party later tonight, and not all the people who will attend, well, to be nice, would be my selection to invite."
"So why go?" Natalie wonders. She shoves her work aside to pull her cup toward her, hands warming around the porcelin of the mug. "Seems a bit stupid, don't you think?"
"It's my job," Travis shrugs. "I'm security."
Natalie's gaze sharpens on him, raking from head to toe before she answers, "Huh. You don't seem like the type. Not really your party then anyway, is it?"
"Well, I won't be there for /pleasure/," Travis says. "So, Natalie, what type /do/ I seem then? Just curious."
"Bored," Natalie opines without hesitation. She lifts her mug for a sip.
"Bored?" That solicits a stare from Travis. "Well, can't say as I've gotten /that/ before. How so?"
"You're sitting in a coffee shop chatting up a stranger," Natalie points out. "Only you're not really hitting on me, so. Bored."
Travis actually throws back his head and laughs at that. Which draws a glare from the couple in the corner, not that Travis pays them any mind. "Well there you have gist of it. Ok, so I'm bored."
Natalie's eyes narrow on Travis again, thoughtful, and she shifts slightly in her seat. "You're a bit odd, aren't you." It's statement, not question.
"I like to think so," Travis says, before pausing to take sip at his drink. "Or at least different, from say, that poor sap with his three kids," he says, head tilting to a small scene outside the window.
"Not up for children, huh?" Natalie's gaze follow's the tilt of Travis' head. "Why not?"
"The poor screwed up things," Travis says, mock sympathy for the thought. "The world could do with a few less breeders as is. No need to add myself to the list of offenders."
"Wow," Natalie answers. "Bored and /bitter/. What's up with that?"
"I live in New York. You expect otherwise?"
"Not everyone in New York thinks that having kids is a travesty. /Someone's/ got to, you know."
"You'd be amazed the things they can do in test tubes these days," Travis counters. "Seriously, though, I'm not against kids. Just the people who have them for a status symbol or just because they can and then let them raise themselves."
"I think you've just upped the 'New York cynical' quotient in this place at least a couple of good notches," Natalie observes dryly. "So what happens if you fall in love and she wants kids, huh?"
Natalie pauses and considers for a moment before she adds, "Unless you're gay."
"Isn't going to happen," Travis says confidently. He chuckles at that last bit, as if amused by the thought. "Hardly. But you say cynical like it's a bad thing."
"Kids, or love?" Natalie wonders.
"Yes?" Travis shrugs. "The latter is just an abstract made up by publishers of romance novels. Which then deludes people into the former."
"Damn," Natalie pronounces. Her eyes widen slightly. "You're even worse than I thougth."
"Quite hopeless, I've been told," Travis says cheerfully.
"And so bafflingly cheerful about it. Good grief."
"It's hardly as bad as all /that/," Travis shrugs off the response. "Most people go through life, looking to better themselves or find something they've been missing or paint the next Mona Lisa or whatever the hell their personal terminology of it is. Me?" Travis says, with a bit of a wave toward himself. "Me, I've found I'm perfectly satisfied without such grandeurish aspirations. Let them have their rat race. I'll sit on the sidelines, point and laugh."
"You think so well of people," Natalie remarks dryly. "There are, you know, a lot of people who are happy. With themselves, with each other. Even people who are in love, and manage to stay that way."
"Well, give them my number if you ever meet one of them," Travis shrugs. "I'd like to write a book about it."
"I've met many of them," Natalie answers matter-of-factly.
"One," Travis declares. "And even she had a hard time not succumbing to the pressures around. Well, two, perhaps. Neither of them disillusioned with ideas of love, though, I note."
Natalie blinks at Travis, and her gaze clouds with confusion. "What?"
"Two people satisfied with themselves."
"Who you've known?"
"That is what we were discussing, correct?"
"Oh, and bitchy, too," Natalie observes swiftly.
"Now that I /have/ heard before," Travis says, allowing a single nod.
"World-wise and weary," Natalie answers. Her mug lifts for a sip.
"Perhaps," Travis allows. "Though I usually call it 'observant.'"
"In case you missed it," Natalie allows kindly, "I was kind of mocking you."
"I'm used to it," Travis shrugs. "Don't dish it out, if you can't take it."
"You are a very strange man."
"Well, now we're in circular conversation," Travis smirks. "That's /my/ specialty. Start the point over again, change up a few adjectives, and get them so confused they don't know which side they're arguing."
"Right." Natalie's gaze on Travis is bafflement edged with irritation, and her shoulders roll back uncomfortably. "Well. Have fun with that."
"Oh, I do, I do."
"Yeah." Natalie blinks once and then stirs, hands shifting her papers to gather them up. "Anyway. I've got work to do."
"As do I," Travis nods, accepting the dismissal with a nod. "And all my ghastly guests." He picks his book up, closing it without a glance at the page, then stands abruptly. "Well, Natalie, it certainly made for interesting conversation. I thank you for that."
"Uh huh." If Natalie sounds doubtful-- well. As Travis stands, she remains where she is, tipping her head back to look at him.
Then, with a tip of the imaginary hat on his head, Travis is gone, without further word.
11/3/2006
=NYC= Mid-Manhattan Public Library - Midtown - Manhattan
The main room of the library branch is simple in its layout: computers that provide internet access as well as partial access to the library catalog system for the entire state of New York, the shelves that house the books, the desk where patrons would take to have the books checked out.
Libraries are meant to be quiet places, conducive to studying; it is hit or miss whether here, in the large public library, that will actually be true. Today a frown knits Jacksons brow as he attempts to focus on his copy of /Being and Nothingness/; focus does not come easy. A few tables away a homeless man, taking shelter from the crisp autumn day, mumbles incoherently to himself. In the stacks nearby a pair of toddlers has been unleashed by their frazzled mother and are thumping around in chase of each other. At the table next to him a teenager is apparently endeavoring to deafen himself; the tinny music coming from his ipod headphones is clearly audible even at a distance. Jacksons head drops into his hands, fingers running through jet-black hair in frustration as he stares at the open book on the table in front of him.
Natalie , on the other hand, seems to have some sort of superpower that enables her to block out distractions - or perhaps the paper she's peering at is just that fascinating. She sits a table down from the teenager, papers and books piled neatly in place, with a high-powered calculator at her elbow and a red pen gripped between twitching fingers.
That would be a secondary mutation Jackson would be thankful to have. The harder he tries to focus on his book, the more distracting the distractions seem to get. One of the children comes tearing over to the tables to take refuge from his slightly-elder brother underneath Jackson's. Concealment is short-lived, as the other boy thumps his way over and joins him; an argument shortly commences about whether rights to the 'hiding' place should go to the elder or the one who was there first. With a sigh, Jackson picks up his book and moves to the next table. "Miss, d'you mind if I --" He blinks, only just noticing that the woman he addresses is familiar. "-- sit here?" he finishes then, hesitantly.
Natalie lifts her eyes and then her brows. She considers Jackson in silence for a moment, nothing hesitation with something of a wry smile before she tips her head to the free seat across the table. Her hands stretch out to gather piles in otward her, making room.
"Thanks," he murmurs apologetically, sliding into the seat across from her. "I kind of got --" There is a loud crash from the next table, as one of the children tips over the chair Jackson has just vacated. "-- invaded," he finishes with a wince.
"You can complain to the librarians, you know," Natalie points out. Her eyes shift beyond Jackson to settle on the children beyond with mild distaste.
Jackson considers this a long moment, lower lip caught between his teeth as he watches the children. At length he rises; rights the toppled chair, and crosses the room to the front desk. Quiet words and meaningful glances are exchanged, and the libararian disappears in search of the children's guardian while Jackson returns to his chair, re-seating himself stiffly, posture uncomfortably straight. "How d'you ignore all that?" he asks, head shaking.
Natalie , in the meantime, has gone back to grading. Her red pen dances the dance of doom. There's a moment's concentrated silence as she finishes marking a problem before she looks up again. Her smile deepens with amusement. "I teach undergrads," she answers.
Jackson breathes out a quiet snort of laughter at this, lips quirking. "Must be a blast," he says, amusement carrying through even in his library-hushed tone. "Still, even my classes never got that bad. Art students are crazy but none of them ever tried hiding under my easel." He frowns slightly. "'Least, not while I was actually painting on it."
"I imagine your instructors might have a different point of view," Natalie remarks dryly. "What are you reading?"
"Most likely," Jackson agrees easily, as he holds the book up for Natalie to see. "Sartre. You -- grading?"
Natalie's brows lift just slightly as they settle on the book, and her lips twitch, but she makes no comment. Instead she nods and waggles her read pen in the air. "As always. Never-ending, in math."
"Math's gotta make more sense than this guy," Jackson says with a shake of his head, resting his book open on the table in front of him. "M'firmly convinced all the existentialists were thoroughly insane. -- Hey," he asks then, leaning forward slightly, expression suddenly purposeful, "D'you think you could --" He breaks off, looking at Natalie thoughtful, before pursing his lips and sitting back in his seat, one hand waving dismissal.
"Reading him for class?" Natalie wonders, lowering her pen to tap it swiftly against the table. Waved dismissal is met with lifted brows and an expectant gaze.
Jackson's head shakes quickly. "For fun. I got kicked out of school. I --" His lips curl in an awkward smile. "I was going to have to take calculus next semester, you know, they want to make sure we know something 'sides how to draw, and it's been a couple years since I took math, so I was hoping you might -- know someone who could --" He falters. "Help brush up, but I guess it's irrelevant now anyway."
"If you don't like him, why read him for fun?" Natalie asks with a touch of exasperation. Her eyes narrow consideringly on Jackson. "Pretty much. Most departments offer tutors, though."
Jackson's eyebrows raise slightly, and his eyes fall to the pages of his book. "It's not a case of like or dislike. He's one of the most influential philosophers in the movement," he explains carefully. "Even if I disagree with his ideas, it's still a good exercise in critical thinking. Don't you ever just read things for the sake of learning more?"
"No, Jackson. I have made it my life's goal to avoid education," Natalie answers dryly. The tip of her pen bleeds ink into an unsuspecting student's paper.
Jackson says nothing, eyes narrowing to focus on Natalie contemplatively before turning a troubled, distracted gaze back to the pages of his book.
Natalie makes a small sound that might be an amused snort before she drops her own attention back to her work. Her pen flies.
"You know, you don't always have to be so --" Jackson's eyes lift suddenly from the pages of his book back to Natalie before his sentence breaks off abruptly, distraction fading to a slight, crooked smile as they drop again. "Sorry."
"Sarcastic when people ask me stupid, semi-insulting questions?" Natalie wonders sweetly, without looking up.
"Sarcastic /all/ the time," Jackson corrects. "Especially after you asked one first."
"I'm not sarcastic all the time. Nor was my question stupid. If you find an author to be not worth reading, they probably aren't, at least right now." Natalie lifts her eyes to settle on Jackson mildly. "Even if you think it will somehow make you smarter to read it. That tends to require thinking outside your box."
"I never said it wasn't worth reading, I said I didn't agree with it. It was a stupid question. As if you have to like or agree with something for it to be worthwhile." Jackson's brow furrows slightly, then. "And you are," he says, more curious than accusatory. "You've always been."
"Well then. You're obviously quite smart and observant. Go back to your philosophy, Jackson." Natalie certainly seems intent on going back to her grading.
Jackson shakes his head, letting out a small breath that might be amusement or might be exhaustion. "You're the only one who thinks you are," he says, tiredly, before rising stiffly to head for the counter and check out his book.
Natalie spends a moment chuckling down at her papers before she shuffles one back to exchange it for another and continues her work.
I guess I should probably email Andre about tickets. I'm not that into classical, but it was a nice gesture for him to offer me comps, and I ought to be polite enough to take him up on it. It's not grading, anyway, so there's there peace of mind.
10/31/2006
=NYC= Mid-Manhattan Public Library - Midtown - Manhattan
The main room of the library branch is simple in its layout: computers that provide internet access as well as partial access to the library catalog system for the entire state of New York, the shelves that house the books, the desk where patrons would take to have the books checked out.
Monday evening is not prime library activity time. There are some people wandering the stacks sure enough, a few of people tap away at computers, the occasional individual comes up to the desk to check something out. But for the requisite quiet of libraries, there is less visible activity than might happen on a weekend, during story hour, or close to midterms. Andre is one of those people just wandering the stacks. He holds a couple of books under one arm and his laptop bag is slung over the other shoulder, but the pace of his walk is easy and his eyes flicker over the contents of random shelves he passes on the way toward a reading area with cushy chairs.
Midterms have come and gone for Natalie, which means that she's currently seated with a stack of said papers and a red pen. It is very, very red - so are some of the papers she's marking. Her piles on the table in front of her are neatly divided, alphabetical, graded, ungraded, and she works with a thoughtful gnawing of her lower lip.
Red stands out in a room that's of classic architectural style in darkish colors, all the more so considering many of the books on the shelves have been stripped of their colorful dustjackets. Andre, wearing a yellow shirt with blue lettering on it, which does not quite render him beelike, still catches sight of that red and wanders toward it as a bee might. Not quite fast enough to be a proper beeline, but the idea is there. When he reaches the area with the chairs, Andre sinks down into one roughly across from Natalie. He releases the books onto the table with a thud slightly too loud for the environment, briefly grits his teeth, then waves with his now-freed hand.
Natalie startles at the thud and glances up, halfway to a glare before recognition settles in and she blinks at Andre. One hand lifts to shove her glasses back on her nose and she blinks again. Huh. "Hi."
Andre slides the books back toward him, as if that would somehow undo the noise. "Hey," he whispers, stereotypically library-soft. "Sorry if that interrupted. How are things?"
"They don't arrest you if you talk normally," Natalie whispers back, head lowered and bent toward Andre to match the stereotype. She does not quite smile, but her eyes are warmly amused.
"Good to know," Andre continues, just as softly, his mouth forced into a straight line for now. His posture straightens out now and he raises a finger. "I realized I didn't give you contact info for that concert stuff the other night." This time, his voice is of a perfectly normal expressive quality, respectfully soft, no longer silly.
"Oh!" Natalie lifts her head a touch, and her voice rises as she nods. "Right. Yeah. When is that again?"
Andre pulls his bag up into his lap, rummaging through it as he speaks. "The latest word is this weekend, though who knows if /that/ will actually happen." He shakes his head and produces a small pad of paper from the bag. "It's usually two or three nights. This one's two, as it stands now."
"What're you guys playing again?" Natalie wonders. Her pen tap-tap-taps against the edge of the table before she sweeps it up to gnaw on the end of it while she watches Andre.
Andre pulls a pen out of his pocket and scribbles something on the paper before resorting to his own pen-tapping. At a different tempo from Natalie's. Hurrah for mixed meters! "Schumann and de Falla," he says, then extends the pen to tap on the books on the table with barely a missed beat. "I'm reading about them. Since we've worked on the pieces so long and all."
"Schumann and-- right." Natalie's nod is a fast attempt to cover the fact that she has absolutely no idea what sort of music that is, outside of the fact that it sounds likely to involve violins.
"Classical," Andre offers, his fingers tapping against his little pile of books. "Well, technically Romantic and then 20th century, but yeah." It does involve violins. But also a tambourine! "I just read that de Falla tried to stop a political murder! I'd call that pretty badass."
"Depends on the political murder," Natalie opines in a murmur.
Andre was grinning when he said that, but Natalie's remark cuts his facial expression down about as effectively as a machete takes a dandelion. "Not like what just happened..." he murmurs, wrinkling his nose and scrunching up his forehead. "I mean, the government was trying to kill the poet Lorca, and Falla tried to stop them..." The enthusiasm of his earlier statement is not there now.
Natalie lifts her brows slightly, a barely visible movement as she watches Andre. "You think what just happened was justified?"
"They wanted to kill him because they didn't like his poetry. That's about as far from justice as--" Andre cuts himself off this time, giving an emphatic shake of his head. "That's not what you meant." His tapping fingers cease in order to brush hair back from his forehead. "Nobody should ever get murdered, though."
"That's not what I meant," Natalie agrees. Her eyes remain fixed on Andre, watchful.
Andre shoves the book, a biography of de Falla, away from him, sits up straighter, and starts tapping on his elbow. "I think I've gotta be trying to distract myself. I don't know if that's better or worse than harping on it."
"Harping on it?"
"Talking about it all the time. Like the news is." And like he did with the riot.
"Ah. Well." Natalie shifts a bit and pulls herself straighter. Her pen drops to the table. "You think about it a lot?"
Andre laughs, short and dry. "The president was killed. I'm thinking about it a whole lot. I didn't like the guy, but he shouldn't have been killed, and the uncertainty now is worse than anything his administration was cooking up."
"Most people don't pay much attention to things outside themselves," Natalie points out.
"I'm plenty guilty of that sometimes," Andre admits. "But not now, I don't think. Unless reading about dead composers to try to not think about dead presidents is being selfish."
"It's hardly as if you're going to affect anything." Natalie's tone remains even, her expression sharply thoughtful as she studies Andre.
"Believe me, I know that." Andre's tone, on the other hand, is darkened slightly by defensiveness. He shifts slightly in his seat. "But most things effect more people than can effect the things back."
"So why's it selfish?" Practicality colors Natalie's tone, and she sweeps up her pen again.
Andre's defensiveness permeates a few more words. "I didn't say I necessarily thought it was." He shifts again, his posture in the chair becoming slightly looser. "I was asking if it came across that way to other people."
"Ah." Natalie's pen goes tap-tap-tap again. "I missed that."
Andre's fingers have not stopped tap-tapping the entire time. "Well, I missed your point earlier, so we're even." As with his position, much of the tension has left his voice as well.
Natalie's lips twist into dry amusement. "I had a point?"
"I mean, I thought you were still talking about de Falla!" Andre shakes his head, the corners of his own lips threatening to turn up as well.
"I don't know who de Falla is," Natalie points out.
Andre reaches out and taps the book once. "The composer of one of the pieces on the program. Who I was talking about earlier." Cyclical conversations are fun!
Or something! Natalie, at least, seems to find them baffling, if not mildly irritating, and her pen freezes in midair as she replies, "Ah."
Andre opens the front cover and flips a few pages, not actually looking at them. "He wasn't able to save Lorca, even though he knew they were after him." For such a factual statement, there is a distinct note of questioning in its delivery.
Natalie's responding "Fascinating" suggests that, perhaps, it is not in fact.
"Just kind of makes me wonder what inevitable really is," Andre elaborates. "Heard some people calling Lowe inevitable."
Natalie's expression closes abruptly and she shifts. Uncomfortable. Brown eyes flicker upward to take quick note of those around them. "He made a lot of enemies," she acknowledges eventually.
"Clearly." Is that dark humor behind that word? If so, Andre appears just as uncomfortable with his own statement as with anything Natalie has said. "I think I picked the wrong composer to read about. Should have picked up a book that couldn't possibly include anything related to this."
"For someone who doesn't want to think about it, you keep bringing things back around to the situation a lot," Natalie agrees, gaze still dark and sharp on Andre.
"I have a tendency to do that. I need to stop."
"Or stop pretending that you don't want to think about it," Natalie suggests.
"I could do that, too," Andre concedes. "But I really should be thinking more about the concert and practicing more, you know? I'm usually more excited about concerts."
"It's been postponed twice because the world has abruptly gone fucking insane." Natalie's tone smiles to match her expression, at odds with profanity.
This incongruousness is enough to make Andre laugh out loud, though whether it is a short laugh just because it would have been anyway or because he's cut it short to stay at library volume is up in the air. "Exactly!"
Natalie responds with a short nod, and her pen taps once more on the tabletop before the point comes to rest on the paper in front of her.
Andre looks up at the ceiling and inhales slowly, letting the breath hiss out at an equal rate through a small gap in his lips. It's a nice long pause before he looks back down. "Did you, ah, still want a ticket?"
"You're giving me the information, right?" Natalie prompts.
"Oh!" Andre seems entirely too startled by this. He picks up his own little notepad, which he had previously stuck on the table with his books. "That would be true." And he contines scribbling information that he'd left off in half-sentences earlier.
Natalie waits through this in silence, watching Andre scribble patiently.
Andre finishes and tears the sheet off, handing it across the table to Natalie. His handwriting would make most grade school teachers cringe, but it is still recognizeable as English. The sheet reads, 'Concert! De Falla Three Cornered Hat, Schumann 1st, Friday 8, Sunday 2. Carnegie Hall! Andre Harrison mrsanandreas@gmail.com.'
Natalie leans across the table to take the sheet of paper with nimble fingers, and she spends a moment considering it before she looks up at Andre again. "So if I want tickets I should do what?"
"Email me when you know if you're going and what day," Andre says, flicking his pen up and down between two fingers. "I'm going to find out how many comps I can get at the rehearsal tomorrow."
"Ok." Natalie studies the paper for another moment and then shifts to tuck it into a pocket. "Thanks."
Andre smiles, teeth showing even through tiredness. "I'm glad people are still interested in coming."
"Distraction," Natalie suggests, small smile rising to meet his. "I'm sure you'll have a crowd."
"I certainly hope so." He's still smiling, but his voice trails off and his expression slowly fades to something more neutral. He leans slightly forward, looking at the pile of papers near Natalie. "Scary math?"
"Scary?" Natalie glances down at the papers, mouth twisting, and then back up to Andre. "Not really. Second year stuff. I imagine it scares /them/."
Andre squints toward it, any comprehension he might have not aided by the fact that it is upside down from this angle. "Judging by the amount of red, it is both scary and mean."
"I could grade in blue, but it seems as if they might miss the message, then," Natalie replies. There might be a small twinkle of evil in her eye.
"The message that math will sap the very blood from your brain if you do it wrong?" Andre gets the evil. This is how he felt about math, anyway.
"The message that you cannot bullshit your way through calculus," Natalie corrects patiently. She might, we note, be using her teacher's voice.
Andre sits up straight and places one hand on his books and the other hand on the first, a good student posture. "In the unlikely case that I have to take calculus, I will keep that in mind."
"One thing in life where the answers are either right or wrong," Natalie approves, and it's a fond smile she drops down to the work in front of her.
"Huh." Despite the monosyllabism, Andre sounds like he's genuinely thought of something, and his brows raise in conjunction with the inflection of his speech. "That's a nice quality to have when everything else is so subjective." This is the most credit he has given math in a while. "TAing music history ws not subjective."
*was not objective
"No?" Natalie's brows lift slightly. "I've always thought history was terribly subjective."
Andre frowns. "It is...did I say it wasn't subjective?" It's a question, not a challenge. "I meant it's not objective. That class almost got to flame war status sometimes."
"Sounds fun," Natalie allows, and there's a moment's dry solidarity for the overworked TA.
"It meant at least some people were reading and absorbing the stuff." Andre was a nice TA.
"Or they just thought you'd think that if they argued a lot." Natalie is not.
"Point. Definite point." Andre laughs softly, this time well within library standards. "The point of musicology class was to talk enough that we sounded like we knew what we were doing."
"In math, there's not much room to hide if you don't know what you're doing." Natalie's voice is pragmatic, and there's a sense of deep satisfication in the proclamation.
Andre hates to admit it, but, "That's another good thing." His mouth turns upward. "But it takes away the options for discussions of things like how one would musically represent a shark and whether it is masculine or feminine."
"Yes, it does." Natalie looks grateful for this fact.
Andre just shrugs at that, amusement still playing on his features and sounding slightly in his breath.
Natalie waves her pen slightly, fingers splayed over the paper she's grading. "Anyway," she says. "I should probably get this done."
Andre scoots his pad of paper off the table and sticks it in his bag, then takes his two library books in the other hand. "And I should probably let you get it done. I hope I didn't keep you too long!"
"Nope. Good luck with your concert and stuff."
Andre slowly extracts himself from the chair and stretches his arms above his head. "Thanks. Hope to see you there!" And he heads toward the checkout counter.
10-31
=NYC= The White Room - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
It's early evening, and the streets are paved with kiddies. And candy wrappers. Some parents still fight with hyperactive kids, trying to make a memory or something of that nature. The smart ones have shipped their offspring home and doped them up with Benedril. Travis, though, has found a window seat, where he sits, mostly ignoring the open book in hand as he stares at the window.
Natalie looks harried, juggling a folder filled with papers and a book under one arm while the other lifts swiftly from its brace against the door to free a space for a small child darting out of the coffee shop without care for the woman in his way. His bedraggled mother follows, and she throws Natalie an irritated glance before pushing her way past. Natalie heaves out a puffed sigh and steps her way inside, free hand already rising to push dark locks back behind her ear.
Travis observes. A snicker escapes, the sound carrying across the room, before he returns to his book, shaking his head and smirking to himself.
Natalie's gaze shifts quickly toward the source of that snicker, and her eyes narrow behind her glasses as she frowns at him. There's a moment of irritated consideration before she turns away and steps toward the counter to order a latte.
Travis flips a page, and reaches for his drink, his gaze trailing over the book to settle on the woman. He unabashedly watches her motions as she places her order, sipping at his coffee.
The order takes awhile, as all lattes do, and Natalie takes advantage of the time to shuffle her papers into a neater arrangement, back turned to rest against the counter as she waits. At one point her eyes flicker up and then back down -- and then up again as Travis' gaze sinks in. She blinks at him across the room.
Travis offers a slight nod, recogniion of her recognition, before taking a long drink and setting the mug back on the table. "Terribly inconsiderate," he says, pitching his voice to carry across the room.
"What, staring?" Natalie shoots back, only to be interrupted in her accusation by the barista with her coffee.
Travis laughs aloud at that. "Well, least you're not afraid to speak your mind," he shrugs, setting the book page-down on the table, spine spread wide. "Her, not you, I meant. Can't say I'm sorry she finally took that brat home, though. He'd been whining for the last 20 minutes while she gabbed on her cell phone."
Natalie turns from accepting her drink to stare at Travis, and there's a faint note of bafflement in her gaze before she concedes to step toward him. She hovers over his table for a moment, steaming latte in one hand and folder tucked under the opposite arm. "Well," she allows grudgingly after a moment. "Yes, she was, but most people in New York are. Aren't most of them opinionated, too?"
"Vocal, at least," Travis shrugs. "I'm not sure half the views even warrant the term 'opinion.'" He swivles his chair slightly. "Sit, if you like. Not like the place has a lot of selection for company," he says, gaze trailing to one obvious homeless person in one corner, and a lone elderly couple in another.
"And noting that staring is rude, that wins approval?" Natalie wonders. Still, she can't quite keep amusement from her voice, and her gaze lingers curiously on Travis as she hesitates, and then finally moves to sit. Her folder and book clatter onto the table ungracefully.
"I respect people who say it like it is," Travis says simply, reaching again for his drink, then leaning the chair back against bit of wall that the window table offers. "Travis. Not a lot of people who settle for coffee on this all unhallowed of nights."
"Natalie," his companion offers, distracted as she shuffles through papers, shoving them into a neat pile and reordering a few as she goes. Her eyes flick upward to rest on Travis for a moment, and her smile is dry. "Some of us are working. All unhallowed of nights? You just come from a haunted house or something?"
"Bracing myself for one," Travis rolls his eyes. "Except these ghouls are still alive. Don't let the hyphenated last names fool you. They'll still try to suck your blood dry, though." His eyes trail across her papers. "What do you do?"
Natalie blinks evenly at Travis and folds her hands over the piled papers to ask, "What?"
"You said 'Some of us are working,'" Travis repeats, bemused. "So that begs the question 'What do you do?' Or was it supposed to be 'How is your grandmother?' No, no, I was right before."
"I meant," Natalie explains patiently, lifting a hand to push glasses back on the bridge of her nose, "What the hell are you talking about, ghouls and hyphenated last names?"
"Oooooh," Travis draws the sound of understanding out. "Just that I have a party later tonight, and not all the people who will attend, well, to be nice, would be my selection to invite."
"So why go?" Natalie wonders. She shoves her work aside to pull her cup toward her, hands warming around the porcelin of the mug. "Seems a bit stupid, don't you think?"
"It's my job," Travis shrugs. "I'm security."
Natalie's gaze sharpens on him, raking from head to toe before she answers, "Huh. You don't seem like the type. Not really your party then anyway, is it?"
"Well, I won't be there for /pleasure/," Travis says. "So, Natalie, what type /do/ I seem then? Just curious."
"Bored," Natalie opines without hesitation. She lifts her mug for a sip.
"Bored?" That solicits a stare from Travis. "Well, can't say as I've gotten /that/ before. How so?"
"You're sitting in a coffee shop chatting up a stranger," Natalie points out. "Only you're not really hitting on me, so. Bored."
Travis actually throws back his head and laughs at that. Which draws a glare from the couple in the corner, not that Travis pays them any mind. "Well there you have gist of it. Ok, so I'm bored."
Natalie's eyes narrow on Travis again, thoughtful, and she shifts slightly in her seat. "You're a bit odd, aren't you." It's statement, not question.
"I like to think so," Travis says, before pausing to take sip at his drink. "Or at least different, from say, that poor sap with his three kids," he says, head tilting to a small scene outside the window.
"Not up for children, huh?" Natalie's gaze follow's the tilt of Travis' head. "Why not?"
"The poor screwed up things," Travis says, mock sympathy for the thought. "The world could do with a few less breeders as is. No need to add myself to the list of offenders."
"Wow," Natalie answers. "Bored and /bitter/. What's up with that?"
"I live in New York. You expect otherwise?"
"Not everyone in New York thinks that having kids is a travesty. /Someone's/ got to, you know."
"You'd be amazed the things they can do in test tubes these days," Travis counters. "Seriously, though, I'm not against kids. Just the people who have them for a status symbol or just because they can and then let them raise themselves."
"I think you've just upped the 'New York cynical' quotient in this place at least a couple of good notches," Natalie observes dryly. "So what happens if you fall in love and she wants kids, huh?"
Natalie pauses and considers for a moment before she adds, "Unless you're gay."
"Isn't going to happen," Travis says confidently. He chuckles at that last bit, as if amused by the thought. "Hardly. But you say cynical like it's a bad thing."
"Kids, or love?" Natalie wonders.
"Yes?" Travis shrugs. "The latter is just an abstract made up by publishers of romance novels. Which then deludes people into the former."
"Damn," Natalie pronounces. Her eyes widen slightly. "You're even worse than I thougth."
"Quite hopeless, I've been told," Travis says cheerfully.
"And so bafflingly cheerful about it. Good grief."
"It's hardly as bad as all /that/," Travis shrugs off the response. "Most people go through life, looking to better themselves or find something they've been missing or paint the next Mona Lisa or whatever the hell their personal terminology of it is. Me?" Travis says, with a bit of a wave toward himself. "Me, I've found I'm perfectly satisfied without such grandeurish aspirations. Let them have their rat race. I'll sit on the sidelines, point and laugh."
"You think so well of people," Natalie remarks dryly. "There are, you know, a lot of people who are happy. With themselves, with each other. Even people who are in love, and manage to stay that way."
"Well, give them my number if you ever meet one of them," Travis shrugs. "I'd like to write a book about it."
"I've met many of them," Natalie answers matter-of-factly.
"One," Travis declares. "And even she had a hard time not succumbing to the pressures around. Well, two, perhaps. Neither of them disillusioned with ideas of love, though, I note."
Natalie blinks at Travis, and her gaze clouds with confusion. "What?"
"Two people satisfied with themselves."
"Who you've known?"
"That is what we were discussing, correct?"
"Oh, and bitchy, too," Natalie observes swiftly.
"Now that I /have/ heard before," Travis says, allowing a single nod.
"World-wise and weary," Natalie answers. Her mug lifts for a sip.
"Perhaps," Travis allows. "Though I usually call it 'observant.'"
"In case you missed it," Natalie allows kindly, "I was kind of mocking you."
"I'm used to it," Travis shrugs. "Don't dish it out, if you can't take it."
"You are a very strange man."
"Well, now we're in circular conversation," Travis smirks. "That's /my/ specialty. Start the point over again, change up a few adjectives, and get them so confused they don't know which side they're arguing."
"Right." Natalie's gaze on Travis is bafflement edged with irritation, and her shoulders roll back uncomfortably. "Well. Have fun with that."
"Oh, I do, I do."
"Yeah." Natalie blinks once and then stirs, hands shifting her papers to gather them up. "Anyway. I've got work to do."
"As do I," Travis nods, accepting the dismissal with a nod. "And all my ghastly guests." He picks his book up, closing it without a glance at the page, then stands abruptly. "Well, Natalie, it certainly made for interesting conversation. I thank you for that."
"Uh huh." If Natalie sounds doubtful-- well. As Travis stands, she remains where she is, tipping her head back to look at him.
Then, with a tip of the imaginary hat on his head, Travis is gone, without further word.
11/3/2006
=NYC= Mid-Manhattan Public Library - Midtown - Manhattan
The main room of the library branch is simple in its layout: computers that provide internet access as well as partial access to the library catalog system for the entire state of New York, the shelves that house the books, the desk where patrons would take to have the books checked out.
Libraries are meant to be quiet places, conducive to studying; it is hit or miss whether here, in the large public library, that will actually be true. Today a frown knits Jacksons brow as he attempts to focus on his copy of /Being and Nothingness/; focus does not come easy. A few tables away a homeless man, taking shelter from the crisp autumn day, mumbles incoherently to himself. In the stacks nearby a pair of toddlers has been unleashed by their frazzled mother and are thumping around in chase of each other. At the table next to him a teenager is apparently endeavoring to deafen himself; the tinny music coming from his ipod headphones is clearly audible even at a distance. Jacksons head drops into his hands, fingers running through jet-black hair in frustration as he stares at the open book on the table in front of him.
Natalie , on the other hand, seems to have some sort of superpower that enables her to block out distractions - or perhaps the paper she's peering at is just that fascinating. She sits a table down from the teenager, papers and books piled neatly in place, with a high-powered calculator at her elbow and a red pen gripped between twitching fingers.
That would be a secondary mutation Jackson would be thankful to have. The harder he tries to focus on his book, the more distracting the distractions seem to get. One of the children comes tearing over to the tables to take refuge from his slightly-elder brother underneath Jackson's. Concealment is short-lived, as the other boy thumps his way over and joins him; an argument shortly commences about whether rights to the 'hiding' place should go to the elder or the one who was there first. With a sigh, Jackson picks up his book and moves to the next table. "Miss, d'you mind if I --" He blinks, only just noticing that the woman he addresses is familiar. "-- sit here?" he finishes then, hesitantly.
Natalie lifts her eyes and then her brows. She considers Jackson in silence for a moment, nothing hesitation with something of a wry smile before she tips her head to the free seat across the table. Her hands stretch out to gather piles in otward her, making room.
"Thanks," he murmurs apologetically, sliding into the seat across from her. "I kind of got --" There is a loud crash from the next table, as one of the children tips over the chair Jackson has just vacated. "-- invaded," he finishes with a wince.
"You can complain to the librarians, you know," Natalie points out. Her eyes shift beyond Jackson to settle on the children beyond with mild distaste.
Jackson considers this a long moment, lower lip caught between his teeth as he watches the children. At length he rises; rights the toppled chair, and crosses the room to the front desk. Quiet words and meaningful glances are exchanged, and the libararian disappears in search of the children's guardian while Jackson returns to his chair, re-seating himself stiffly, posture uncomfortably straight. "How d'you ignore all that?" he asks, head shaking.
Natalie , in the meantime, has gone back to grading. Her red pen dances the dance of doom. There's a moment's concentrated silence as she finishes marking a problem before she looks up again. Her smile deepens with amusement. "I teach undergrads," she answers.
Jackson breathes out a quiet snort of laughter at this, lips quirking. "Must be a blast," he says, amusement carrying through even in his library-hushed tone. "Still, even my classes never got that bad. Art students are crazy but none of them ever tried hiding under my easel." He frowns slightly. "'Least, not while I was actually painting on it."
"I imagine your instructors might have a different point of view," Natalie remarks dryly. "What are you reading?"
"Most likely," Jackson agrees easily, as he holds the book up for Natalie to see. "Sartre. You -- grading?"
Natalie's brows lift just slightly as they settle on the book, and her lips twitch, but she makes no comment. Instead she nods and waggles her read pen in the air. "As always. Never-ending, in math."
"Math's gotta make more sense than this guy," Jackson says with a shake of his head, resting his book open on the table in front of him. "M'firmly convinced all the existentialists were thoroughly insane. -- Hey," he asks then, leaning forward slightly, expression suddenly purposeful, "D'you think you could --" He breaks off, looking at Natalie thoughtful, before pursing his lips and sitting back in his seat, one hand waving dismissal.
"Reading him for class?" Natalie wonders, lowering her pen to tap it swiftly against the table. Waved dismissal is met with lifted brows and an expectant gaze.
Jackson's head shakes quickly. "For fun. I got kicked out of school. I --" His lips curl in an awkward smile. "I was going to have to take calculus next semester, you know, they want to make sure we know something 'sides how to draw, and it's been a couple years since I took math, so I was hoping you might -- know someone who could --" He falters. "Help brush up, but I guess it's irrelevant now anyway."
"If you don't like him, why read him for fun?" Natalie asks with a touch of exasperation. Her eyes narrow consideringly on Jackson. "Pretty much. Most departments offer tutors, though."
Jackson's eyebrows raise slightly, and his eyes fall to the pages of his book. "It's not a case of like or dislike. He's one of the most influential philosophers in the movement," he explains carefully. "Even if I disagree with his ideas, it's still a good exercise in critical thinking. Don't you ever just read things for the sake of learning more?"
"No, Jackson. I have made it my life's goal to avoid education," Natalie answers dryly. The tip of her pen bleeds ink into an unsuspecting student's paper.
Jackson says nothing, eyes narrowing to focus on Natalie contemplatively before turning a troubled, distracted gaze back to the pages of his book.
Natalie makes a small sound that might be an amused snort before she drops her own attention back to her work. Her pen flies.
"You know, you don't always have to be so --" Jackson's eyes lift suddenly from the pages of his book back to Natalie before his sentence breaks off abruptly, distraction fading to a slight, crooked smile as they drop again. "Sorry."
"Sarcastic when people ask me stupid, semi-insulting questions?" Natalie wonders sweetly, without looking up.
"Sarcastic /all/ the time," Jackson corrects. "Especially after you asked one first."
"I'm not sarcastic all the time. Nor was my question stupid. If you find an author to be not worth reading, they probably aren't, at least right now." Natalie lifts her eyes to settle on Jackson mildly. "Even if you think it will somehow make you smarter to read it. That tends to require thinking outside your box."
"I never said it wasn't worth reading, I said I didn't agree with it. It was a stupid question. As if you have to like or agree with something for it to be worthwhile." Jackson's brow furrows slightly, then. "And you are," he says, more curious than accusatory. "You've always been."
"Well then. You're obviously quite smart and observant. Go back to your philosophy, Jackson." Natalie certainly seems intent on going back to her grading.
Jackson shakes his head, letting out a small breath that might be amusement or might be exhaustion. "You're the only one who thinks you are," he says, tiredly, before rising stiffly to head for the counter and check out his book.
Natalie spends a moment chuckling down at her papers before she shuffles one back to exchange it for another and continues her work.