(no subject)
22 August 2007:
Late-summer days call for ice cream. This is one of those things that, if not a universal truth, treads rather near that exalted designation. And so the afternoon finds a small crowd of people gathering in Molly's Icecream Parlor, in search of tasty frozen-milk treats. One of these patrons is Elliott, humming to herself as she studies the case full of icecream. Too many choices. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, hands twining behind her back (mustn't touch the glass!) as she deliberates. "Chocolate or berry?" she wonders aloud, the question not directed at anyone in particular - any conveniently nearby patron will do!
Andre might not be the nearest patron to Elliott in the store. In fact, he's the newest entered, and thus the furthest from the priveledged front row seats to the vast palette of flavors behind glass. However, overhearing things depends just as much on recognition as it does on volume in some situations. The pyrokinetic's voice reaches Andre as if it were, well, fire clearing through a block of ice cream, and the percussionist can't help but smile. Appending himself to the end of the line, he leans as far forward as he can manage without getting into the personal space of the individual in front of him and suggests, "There's no rule against combining them."
There's a somber, almost dull stare as Jayven steps into the shop and glances down at his wrist, pulling up the sleeve of his tattered New York Yankees up to glance at the cheap, black, digital Casio watch sitting there. Mid-afternoon, going on five, now. New York's been recently battered with hurricanes and, of all things, something that Brooklyn hasn't seen in like a hundred and ten years - a tornado. We're not in Kansas anymore... or are we? It might be the sullen grey weather, but Jayven's expression is just as sullen, and his attempted smile just as grey. Augusts, though, call for ice cream, no matter what.
"Green tea ice cream," Jayven mumbles. "Could be interesting." He's a little ways down from Andre and Elliott, rubbing his chin, which recently has seen the growth of rather annoying prickly little hairs... He's going to have to start to shave soon. As he overhears the two to the right of him, he blinks twice, considering it. "Chocolate mocha raspberry. Doable," he mutters to himself, before straightening down the sides of his really, rather destroyed Yankees club jacket. And then he speaks, this time, clearly.
"Are, uh, you two in line?"
It is a moment before Elliott's head appears, peeking around the man behind her in line - given her diminutive stature, nothing else is visible. At least, not until she raises one arm to wave vigorously in Andre's direction. "Oh, hey! Long time no see! Been in a show?" Jayven, unfamiliar though he is, is favoured with the quick, sunny smile of the genuinely outgoing.
At the counter, a young boy, about six year old, is arguing vocally with his mother. You see, he /needs/ a double scoop of the chocolate ice cream. It is like oxygen! Mother does not seem entirely convinced.
Andre's smile broadens as Elliott's head peeks out to the side, and he lifts the hand on that same side of the line to give a narrow but energetic wave. Perhaps someone is not in need of /more/ sugar today. "Heya! Yeah, surprisingly long, since there /haven't/ been all that many rehearsals and stuff this summer." The hand withdraws, though his shoulder pokes out further as he shrugs. The combination of Jayven's question and the redirection of Elliott's smile causes Andre to look back and tip an easy nod to the other man. "Yeah, but it usually goes pretty fast here."
Jayven glances blankly around the area, before letting his eyes settle near the corner table, as he watches the pair sitting there. In the corner, over a shared banana split sundae, a typical Upper West Side teenager couple sits - perfectly groomed, wearing Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirt and tank top respectively, watching each other boredly, murmuring something about the ambience of the ice cream parlor.
Raising an eyebrow, Jay slowly turns back, before sticking his hand into his pocket. "The Upper West Side. Only place where you'll find an eight dollar triple-scoop cone without a raffle ticket to go with it." Snide, dry commentary included, Jay pulls his hand out and produces a set of crumpled bills, ranging from Washingtons to Grants - he must have just gotten his paycheck or something. Along with his stash of cash drops a brochure of Columbia University, the blue and white colors of the school showing brightly. He bends over, picks it up and folds it in half, before stuffing it into his jacket pocket again. Somehow, one can tell that he's not the neatest guy.
"Been pretty busy, so maybe I'm just missing you?" Elliott calls back, her own shrug swallowed by the angle at which she stands. Dark eyes blink once, slowly, as she catches the commentary, and she studies Jayven a moment. The brochure is noted, and the classification of 'student' applied, erroneous though it might be in this case. Sense is made! "It's good icecream," she points out, cheerfully enough.
Up ahead, the small child is shuffled away from the counter, treat in hand. It is a single scoop. Elliott holds up one finger, to indicate she will be a minute before rejoining the conversation, and makes her way up to order her own sugary summer treat.
"Probably that," Andre remarks to Elliott, shrugging again, then brushing his hair back so that one eye is not obscured at this odd sideways angle. "I've been camping out under my air conditioner, then collapsing from utility-bill-shock, then camping out under public air conditioners." He chuckles drily. "Your job's got you working summers?" And to Jayven, he concurs, "Worth it, especially when you see the size of the scoops."
There's a vague shrug, but Jayven's already lost in counting his own bills, shuffling forward a step as he follows the Latina towards the cashier. Finally, he glances up and clears his throat, tapping his foot.
"WelcometoMolly'showmayIhelpyou?" A Midwestern accent - in other words, entirely accentless - is issued from the girl behind the counter.
"I'd like..." Jayven pauses. "A single scoop of green tea ice cream." He turns and glances over at Andre before tapping the side of his head and pointing at the young man. "I'm trusting you on this. If what you say is true, a single scoop's enough for me." As he sidles over to the cashier to pay, he simply drops down the bills first, before attempting to smooth them out and uncrumple them.
Elliott blinks once, surprised by the sudden appearance of Jayven next to her in line. Her head cants slightly to one side, but any comment is cut off by the cashier's greeting. Like a good little consumer, the woman turns to make her order - rather more elaborate. And large. One wonders, do coffee, chocolate, and cherry ice creams really go together in a trio? Her own payment comes in the form of a debit card, opened wallet displaying little in the way of cash, though it is packed with enough receipts to give the impression of having not been emptied since sometime around last Christmas.
Andre straightens rather suddenly the reordering of the line, eyebrows raising, breathing out audibly through his nose and slowly slipping both hands into the side pockets of his jeans. "Taking my word to the point of impatience to try, hm?" There is a cautionary overtone in Andre's words, voice pitched a little higher than usual and inflection rather flattened. "Least the line goes fast." The last sentence is more directed toward the countertop next to where Jayven currently stands. His hands emerge from his pockets empty aside from a pencil, which he replaces, then reaches to his back pocket to produce his wallet.
If there's any change in Andre's tone or friendliness, Jayven doesn't seem to notice. "Thanks a lot," the Chinese teen notes dryly to the cashier girl, before taking his cone gingerly in one hand and straightening. The tall teen pauses before glancing back at Andre, giving him a onceover that seems not hostile, but rather curious. He takes a step towards the closest table to the exit and drops down, enjoying his cone.
Joan walks into the icecream parlor, holding the door with a small wet baby-wipe, which she then throws into a nearby trashcan. Looking at the ground as she walks, she's careful to avoid stepping over the cracks in the blue and white tile floor, and gradually makes her way towards the line.
Elliott does notice, and as she ducks her way around the line to join Andre, improbably large icecream in hand, she offers a wry, "Kids these days..." Dark eyes flick up to study her not-quite-neighbour, and she grins slightly. "And yeah, they got me working the summer. The IT world never sleeps! --At least it comes with an air-conditioned office, and all the pop I could want, though. I actually /haven't/ keeled over yet this summer. 'Course, I think my apartment could double as an igloo, so maybe that's got something to do with it. Oh, did I tell you I was moving?" To the unobservant ear, Elliott does not so much seem to pause for breath, let alone to let a listener catch up as she hops from subject to subject. Oops?
New York! It's the greatest place on earth, just ask any New Yorker! People think they have seen everything living in New York but this day event he most jaded of residents are surprised by the large horse walking down the sidewalk. He is rather large so most people just move out of his way. He is dirty and wet on his lower legs. He looks a mess to be honest. He stops just outside the ice-cream shop window and snuffles around in the trashcan for a moment. Not something you see every day even in the big city.
The curious will not note much remarkable about Andre. He's wearing simple worn-in blue jeans, and a yellow t-shirt with the word Parkfield printed on it in blue capital letters. His hair is a little shaggy and his stance favors his right leg. Once Jayven has slipped out of line, though, his expression regulates back to casually even, if not cheerful. "Air conditioning and soda plus salary. Makes it worth the hours at least partway, right?" He tilts his head toward Elliott, then steps up to the counter, ordering a scoop of Rocky Road and a scoop of Java Chip, then producing payment in the form of a recently ATM'd 20.
When Joan makes her way, eventually, to the front of the line, she begins...negotiating, with the counter girl. "Err....excuse me, can you scoop my ice-cream with a fresch scoop? I'd like to see it cleaned in front of me." she asks, smiling at the counter lady. Joan is, for the record - a bit nersnickity.
Of course, thats before the horse walks down the street, which causes her to flip out. "Aah! Its a Clydesdale /horse/!" she screams, once she notices it - and retreats to a section of the parlor as far from the door as possible. "It could have Eastern Equine Encephalitis! Someone call the cops!"
At the moment, Jayven looks like a shabby college teen, with an old and grey Guns n' Roses shirt covering his chest, underneathe an even more tattered NY Yankees club jacket, which he plays with consistently, creasing and uncreasing the folds of the ripped leather arms. It's an incessant action, stopped only now, as Jayven has his hands occupied, namely, with a large, single scoop cone of green tea ice cream. As he makes his way over to his table, Jayven pats down the lap of his destroyed jeans.
Reaching into his other pocket, Jayven pulls out a MTA map and starts carefully unfolding it with more preciseness than... well, really, what has been seen of him since, using one hand only, as his other hand is occupied with the cone. And there, he sits, studying the map with his almost black, hard and unforgiving eyes, stoically devoid of emotion. He glances up and takes a lick of his cone, staring out at the rather dreary sky through the wide storefront window of Molly's. He licks once more, before his fingers loosen their grip on the cone and the cone tilts full-way, plopping the big glob of forest green ice cream right onto the subway map.
Elliott, for all that she has not been one for several years now, could be most easily mistaken for a student herself. She looks closer to her early twenties than to her actual age, an illusion that is undisturbed by her cheery, somewhat scattered demeanor. The blue tanktop and long, flowing skirt she wears are ideal for the summer heat, allowing airflow as they do. She toes lightly at the floor with one be-sandalled foot, sending a wayward M&M dropped from someone's sundae skittering along the tile. "I like my job," she tells Andre cheerfully, pausing to take a bite of icecream. Which turns into a longer pause at the panicked shrieks. Her attention is drawn, magnet-like, towards the window. And the horse. Her brow furrows slightly, expression easily readable. 'OMGWTFHORSE?!' "Umm. I didn't realize they did the carriage tour thingy all the way out /here/..."
"It's a good thing, to like one's job," Andre concurs, tipping his head upward to emphasize the mock snootiness of his wording "I like mine. Especially the lazy summers part." Conversation is momentarily interrupted for the delivery of ice cream; Andre licks the top edge of the cone right where the ice cream meets it to preemptively stop any dripping. "Why're you moving, though? The building'll seem so empty!" He grins hugely, though not brilliantly whitely by virtue of a little chocolate shaving clinging to one front tooth. He pulls out of the way of the next customer, then promptly diverts even further to peer out the window. "Is it some sort of holiday or history anniversary, maybe?" His voice inflects up with surprise, but does not draw out with worry.
At the sound of the scream about the police the horse looks up and looks right at the germaphobe through the class window of the shop like he is not happy with the woman, not happy at all. Nostrils flaring the horse grunts and shakes its head the long black mane whipping back and forth, white stuff drips from his mouth where he has been into the left over ice-cream in the trashcan outside. Not a pretty sight, not at all..
"I don't know how I get talked into these things," says one Lieutenant Matthew Ian Kessler to one Alyssa Carter. Arms crossed over his chest, the plain navy of his t-shirt and trousers identifies him as FDNY only by the little crest over the left breast of the shirt. The large frame, large muscles and heat-weathered cast to his skin might help give a clue as well. Down the street the blond man ambles nonetheless, headed for the ice cream parlour despite his protests, until... "...h?" he says. "-Horse-?" he succeeds in saying a moment later.
Jayven is the type to note something passably entertaining and possibly illegal going-ons, and then leave it to some other more civic-minded folks to report whatever's going on. In other words, he's like most other New Yorkers, even post-9/11. Clearing his throat, the Asian kid picks up his entire subway map, globbedy-gook green tea ice creamm and all stuck to the map. Rolling his eyes, the Chinese teen moves back in line, though he keeps back towards the counter, his almond-shaped eyes following the trail of the horse outside the window.
Joan acks at the dirty, ice-cream mouth of the horse. "Telephone! Telephone! Look at it - its an escaped animal! Someone call Animal Control! We just can't let it sit out there." She looks at the countergirl. "You work here. Its unsanitary - it can't be outside the door! Hurry!"
"Because I bring you dinner half the time," the teenager answers back, grinning up (and up!) at her rather muscular companion. While her shirt may advertise the same affiliation, it obviously a gift: the overlarge navy t-shirt has been knotted at the waist, revealing the slightest skim of pale skin when she moves/ Otherwise, she's clad in jeans, frayed at the knees, and flip-flops. ".../horse/," she echoes, then corrects herself. "Looks like a Clydesdale," she informs, as one who has been horse-crazy for years. "Someone's probably missing him, I'd bet."
Elliott eyes Joan, her expression the sort generally reserved for one studying a person they are concerned may well be legitimately mentally ill. "...It's an escaped horse," she points out, not unkindly. "It's probably more sanitary than half the people in the city, not to mention their pets. And it's not hurting anyone - calm /down/." She does not rummage for her cellphone, though both hands are taken up with her icecream - she couldn't, were she so inclined. "Whoever belongs to it'll be along in a few minutes, probably. No one's gonna let their horse run off without chasing it."
Andre's attention is also drawn toward Joan, and he bolsters Elliott's point with an even-toned, "The more we look panicked in here, the more it's going to get freaked out out there, I think. Lots of noise and motion." He shrugs, then takes another lick of ice cream, one hand clutching the bottom of the cone and the other cupped up higher to guard against drippage.
The horse looks very thin, well, for his breed anyway, like he hasn't eaten in a long time. He's sweat his coat into a horrible mess and his lower legs are soaked down making the normally fine white hair stick together caked with mud. Ears flipping forward and his head swinging back towards the sidewalk where the strangers are talking the horse sizes them up with bright ocean-blue eyes. At least he isn't glaring at Joan any more. He takes a step back and turns his body twords the people on the outside of the building putting himself between them and the trashcan. His food! They aren't going to take it!
"...big horse," says Matt, pop-eyed and distant as he continues to stare at the horse. Country boy, he is not. "-Nice- horse?" he essays, attempting an ingratiating tone, as one hand reaches out to land firmly and fraternally on Alyssa's shoulder as the great beast turns. "Don't even think of going near that thing," he says, finding firmness as his free hand finds his cell phone, and starts thumbing about for the number for Dispatch.
"I'd ask questions about how it got here. Central Park West is pretty far from here, and the horse cab drivers don't usually come up this north or west. No tourists," Jayven comments congenially, folding his arms across his wide chest, rubbing his sternum before checking the time again. A few minutes past five. The sky hasn't started to darken quite yet. He flickers his attention over to the girl behind the counter, who happens to be staring wide-eyed out at the horse. "Ma'am?" He taps the glass over the ice cream. "Ma'am? Chocolate cherry double scoop," he orders, getting a distracted nod from the girl.
Joan sighs in Matt's direction. "Oh thank my lucky supernovae. Someone has some sense. No, I'm not going near it at all." She looks at the horse warily, as if expected it to suddenly break into the store and start kicking people.
Alyssa has already started to do that, hand out, palm up and nonthreatening, when Matt's hand lands on her shoulder. She looks up at him, expression uncertain. "Someone should at least get him some water or something," she says quietly, "he looks awfully hot. Lukewarm, though, not cold. He's sweating an awful lot." She reaches up with her free hand, curling small, worried fingers around Matt's larger ones. "Don't do anything that'll scare him. If you call, make sure they come in quiet." Her tone is not quite bossy, but very matter-of-fact. "You don't want him to run 'cause of a bunch of sirens or anything."
It is not only the pedestrians and patrons of the shop that have noticed the horse. In the street there is a loud crash, followed by a very irate, and equally loud bout of honking and cursing, as one rubbernecker is rear-ended by an early-evening commuter.
The sound of the wreck sets off the already confused and panicing horse. Trust me, if you woke up to what he woke up to this morning you would be freaking out as well. The horse starts to turn and run but he's not what you call graceful in the turn he spins himself around not looking where he is going and smacks himself headfirst into a lamp post. Staggering the animal already weakend from the lack of food he needs plops down rump-first on the sidewalk sitting there looking dazed and confused breathing as hard as if he was running.
"At a safe distance," Matt caveats. Oh, how he caveats! His eyes dart nrvously from horse to surroundings to horse again, mentally weighing the odds of whether he'll have to do something stupidly heroic like dive into the way of an enraged equine about to trample a baby carriage. "You don't know that animal, and it's got hooves the size of my head, and those teeth are fucking -huge-- oh, hey, this is Kessler with the two-six ladder," he segues suddenly, as his call gets through. "There's.... uh, well, there's a horse." A pause. "A -horse-, ma'am. With the four legs and the froofy tail-- ohshit, it just fell down. Molly's Ice Cream Parlour, that place on --th Ave?"
Her hands begin shaking, Joan says. "...its...it has acute encephalitis! Ceebral disfunction, confusion, delerium. All the classic symptoms of acute encephalitis!" She cautiously moves to the forefront of the store. "Get away from it!" she hisses to those outside. "Can't you clearly see whats wrong with it? Its dangerous!"
"It might be /hurt/," Aly insists, as howevermany tons of horseflesh go thud onto his bum. She squeezes Matt's hand again, asking, "You guys got a vet on retainer?" It is only partially tongue-in-cheek, as she abandons her reluctant hero and approaches the dazed equine slowly, her hand still extended. "That's a boy," she calls, voice loud enough to be heard but hopefully pitched soothingly. "That's a boy," she repeats, "we're going to get you some help, and some water, and no one's going to hurt you." It is not that she expects him to understand! As she gets closer to the door, she asks toward the general direction of people -inside-, "Have any of you thought to get some /water/? It's August out here..."
Elliott jumps, uttering a yelp of surprise, the sound not unlike that made by a startled puppy. Her gaze jaunts from horse to fender-bender, and she grimaces. "Crap. D'you think anyone is hurt? They don't /look/ hurt." Indeed, the two drivers have already begun to exit their respective vehicles, the cursing and gesticulating serving only to add to the chaos of the scene. /They/ have not been advised to avoid loud noises so as not to further spook the wayward animal.
Ever have one of those days where everything goes wrong. Just you can't take it any more there are so many things that go wrong so suddenly and you just want to crawl into a hole? Well thats what the horse feels like as blood starts to trickle down the side of his head just in front of his ear. The soft kind words of the stranger, the promice of help, of comfort, of someone making it all stop. That was the last straw. He doesn't have the strength to go on any more. He's so hungry he's burning up inside and it so hard to think. The horse just lays down half on the side walk and half in the parking space next to the road. He lays down and just starts to cry. His body shakes like he is cold but his body still sweats like he is running at full speed. The large heart in his chest thunders against his ribs. She's right though, up close you can tell there is something wrong with this horse.
Andre jolts to the side in response to Elliott's yelp, reflexes jumpier with the excitement in the store and, indeed, from the sugar. He takes longer to regain full balance than most would, his left leg not immediately offering the support to his new position. He is not the victim of anything painful as a result, though; he does stabilize, but not without smearing the top of his ice cream cone against the window. Wonderful. "They just look mad," Andre observes, corners of his mouth tipping downward. "The horse looks worse off than the drivers, you think?" He raises his eyebrows at Elliott.
Bravery, thy name is the FDNY... but not so much where horses are concerned, if you're one Lt. Kessler. Four alarm widowmaker? Fine. Smoke cover so thick you feel your way by inches? Peachy! Horse? "Aly..." he temporizes, yielding in the face of a teenaged horsewoman. "Be careful," he sighs at last, before resuming the telephone conversation and wandering in the direction of the fender-bender to see about any first aid. "Now we got car crashes," he relays. "Send down some EMTs to go with the animal control people...? I'm going to go see what I can do with the crash people."
"Dude -- Eh. Cops."
With that short exclamation, Jayven drops his cash and picks up the ice cream like it was drive through. Apparently having a healthy aversion to lawful authority, the Jay-man picks his way along the linoleum, stepping gingerly around to avoid the rather manic Joan, before stepping out to enjoy his ice cream. He's not going to stay for this drama, curious as he might be, because really, who wants all the ruckus of a two car pile-up on the middle of... what is it? 7th or 8th Avenue? Oh, and a sick horse.
"Shit," quoth the Aly, as the large horse goes down, down, down. She doesn't run, but there is an /urgency/ in the way she closes the remainging distance -- once she makes sure Matt is taking care of any human casualties, that is. "It's okay, boy," she continues to say, "it's okay -- oh, you're /hurt/!" She chews on her bottom lip, then reaches out an incautios hand to pet the horse's large head, murmuring soothing nonsense at it until someone has the sense to come provide some backup.
"Li'l bit," Elliott agrees. "But I don't know any vets. I know where to /find/ doctors for /people/." She frowns out the window. Is the horse convulsing? Oh dear. "Excuse me!" she calls in the direction of the counter, and then cuts off. "Oh, good."
One of the clerks had apparently heard Alyssa's question, and is busy bustling over to the door with a bowl of tapwater. She clears her throat in Joan's direction. "Miss? Move."
Its not convulsing its feverish, its also sobbing, sobbing like a child. The mind of the boy trapped within the brain of the horse just can't take it any more. He just lays there panting barely moving a glazed and distant i'm going into shock look in his eyes. But at least he's not dangerous. Just really really big. Hope animal control has a fork lift.
Joan slowly moves out of the ice cream shop, careful to not step on the cracks of any of the tiles - or of the sidewalk. "Its clearly in shock, now." she comments to Aly. "Its a rabid animal - of course its hurt. And if you arn't careful, its going to hurt you." She pulls out a baby-wipe and begins moving towards the traffic accident, trying to see if she can help the people without actually /touching/ anything.
"Aren't the animal control guys connected to the police?" Andre wonders, using a free finger to scoop off the ice cream from the side of the cone that touched the window. All bets are off in terms of keeping from getting sticky. May the OCD beware! "They'd take it to the vet first. That's what they do on Animal Planet." It becomes clear what Andre has been doing with his time off.
"It's not acting rabid," Alyssa counters with all the surety of an invincible teenager, "and yes, he does look shocky--" But then the clerk comes with the water, and Aly offers a wide, thankful smile. "Can you drink?" she asks, though she knows it's a futile question, but just keeps right on talking as she gestures for the water to be set down within reach. "Aught to get someone to rub you down, get some food in you." The words aren't exactly necessary, but the tone is soothing. "People'll be here soon, take good care of you."
"Oh! You're probably right. That'd make sense." There is a reprise of the yelp then. After a moment of juggling, Elliott manages to get one hand free to grab her cellphone, set at some indeterminate point to 'vibrate'. She grimaces slightly. "Crap. Work. I gotta go. --Umm, see you around the building." There is a flurry of activity as the small woman makes for the door, dodging through the slowly-expanding crowd. Her car is around somewhere!
The horse's nose flares at the smell of water, its so thirsty its head comes up off the ground slowly and its large neck reaches out slowly for the water as it gets closer. The horse's blue eyes look back between the girl and the water at least he is showing some responce instead of slipping into shock. Food! She said the magic word. His stomach growls at the very thought of it he is so hungry. He's just so worn out from this whole horse experiance he can harly lift his head until he gets some more energy. At least he's not dangerous like this.
Andre lifts his be-ice-cream'd hand in a wave, side to side motion stalling as Elliott scoots. "Um, yeah. Hopefully sooner than later this time!" he calls after her, all the while his fingers drip. Once the pyrokinetic has departed, the seismic dampener again turns his attention to the horse, watching quietly but intently, periodically licking the side of the ice cream that did not smear the window.
"That's a boy," Alyssa encourages, "that's a boy." She's paying more attention now, and his eyes catch her attention -- she squints, overbright eyes focusing, focusing -- whoah. "You're not blind," she murmurs, "but those aren't normal for a Clydesdale --" She looks around, and frowns -- but unfortunately there's no one for her to ask. No one for her to think questions at. "I wish Dr. Jean were around," she tells the horse. Or whoever else is listening.
Joan can't really stand all the dirt on the road and the cars, so she makes her way back to the horse, looking down at it with her nose scrunched up. "I'm a Dr, technically. I have....oh, a half dozen degrees or so. I stopped keeping track."
The horse, never actually having drunk anything as a horse before, looks at the water as if thinking about it then in desperation it dips its mouth into the water trying to keep its nose out of the water and it takes a deep breath slurping the water into its mouth in a noisy sloppy manuver but at least the water gets in there. He swallows and tries to drink again slurping the water without using his tongue at all. He drinks as fast as he can. Fortunatly there is a lot of him compared to the amount of water so he can't make himself sick drinking so much so fast.
As Andre watches, the ice cream residue on his fingers grows increasingly sticky, to the point of becoming essentially a low-grade adhesive. As his fingers attempt to move in their percussionist-instinctive tapping against the window, he notices this sticky factor and frowns. The horse has been helped by water, and now it's time for the same to be run over one sticky Californian's hand. Eyeing the melting remains of the contents of his cone, he deems that a little under a quarter of the massive two-scooper is not worth trying to prop up. With a shrug, he deposits the remnants in the trash and heads toward the bathroom in the back of the room to destickify.
A regular trip to the ice cream parlor is made weird by virtue of marauding horse.
Late-summer days call for ice cream. This is one of those things that, if not a universal truth, treads rather near that exalted designation. And so the afternoon finds a small crowd of people gathering in Molly's Icecream Parlor, in search of tasty frozen-milk treats. One of these patrons is Elliott, humming to herself as she studies the case full of icecream. Too many choices. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, hands twining behind her back (mustn't touch the glass!) as she deliberates. "Chocolate or berry?" she wonders aloud, the question not directed at anyone in particular - any conveniently nearby patron will do!
Andre might not be the nearest patron to Elliott in the store. In fact, he's the newest entered, and thus the furthest from the priveledged front row seats to the vast palette of flavors behind glass. However, overhearing things depends just as much on recognition as it does on volume in some situations. The pyrokinetic's voice reaches Andre as if it were, well, fire clearing through a block of ice cream, and the percussionist can't help but smile. Appending himself to the end of the line, he leans as far forward as he can manage without getting into the personal space of the individual in front of him and suggests, "There's no rule against combining them."
There's a somber, almost dull stare as Jayven steps into the shop and glances down at his wrist, pulling up the sleeve of his tattered New York Yankees up to glance at the cheap, black, digital Casio watch sitting there. Mid-afternoon, going on five, now. New York's been recently battered with hurricanes and, of all things, something that Brooklyn hasn't seen in like a hundred and ten years - a tornado. We're not in Kansas anymore... or are we? It might be the sullen grey weather, but Jayven's expression is just as sullen, and his attempted smile just as grey. Augusts, though, call for ice cream, no matter what.
"Green tea ice cream," Jayven mumbles. "Could be interesting." He's a little ways down from Andre and Elliott, rubbing his chin, which recently has seen the growth of rather annoying prickly little hairs... He's going to have to start to shave soon. As he overhears the two to the right of him, he blinks twice, considering it. "Chocolate mocha raspberry. Doable," he mutters to himself, before straightening down the sides of his really, rather destroyed Yankees club jacket. And then he speaks, this time, clearly.
"Are, uh, you two in line?"
It is a moment before Elliott's head appears, peeking around the man behind her in line - given her diminutive stature, nothing else is visible. At least, not until she raises one arm to wave vigorously in Andre's direction. "Oh, hey! Long time no see! Been in a show?" Jayven, unfamiliar though he is, is favoured with the quick, sunny smile of the genuinely outgoing.
At the counter, a young boy, about six year old, is arguing vocally with his mother. You see, he /needs/ a double scoop of the chocolate ice cream. It is like oxygen! Mother does not seem entirely convinced.
Andre's smile broadens as Elliott's head peeks out to the side, and he lifts the hand on that same side of the line to give a narrow but energetic wave. Perhaps someone is not in need of /more/ sugar today. "Heya! Yeah, surprisingly long, since there /haven't/ been all that many rehearsals and stuff this summer." The hand withdraws, though his shoulder pokes out further as he shrugs. The combination of Jayven's question and the redirection of Elliott's smile causes Andre to look back and tip an easy nod to the other man. "Yeah, but it usually goes pretty fast here."
Jayven glances blankly around the area, before letting his eyes settle near the corner table, as he watches the pair sitting there. In the corner, over a shared banana split sundae, a typical Upper West Side teenager couple sits - perfectly groomed, wearing Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirt and tank top respectively, watching each other boredly, murmuring something about the ambience of the ice cream parlor.
Raising an eyebrow, Jay slowly turns back, before sticking his hand into his pocket. "The Upper West Side. Only place where you'll find an eight dollar triple-scoop cone without a raffle ticket to go with it." Snide, dry commentary included, Jay pulls his hand out and produces a set of crumpled bills, ranging from Washingtons to Grants - he must have just gotten his paycheck or something. Along with his stash of cash drops a brochure of Columbia University, the blue and white colors of the school showing brightly. He bends over, picks it up and folds it in half, before stuffing it into his jacket pocket again. Somehow, one can tell that he's not the neatest guy.
"Been pretty busy, so maybe I'm just missing you?" Elliott calls back, her own shrug swallowed by the angle at which she stands. Dark eyes blink once, slowly, as she catches the commentary, and she studies Jayven a moment. The brochure is noted, and the classification of 'student' applied, erroneous though it might be in this case. Sense is made! "It's good icecream," she points out, cheerfully enough.
Up ahead, the small child is shuffled away from the counter, treat in hand. It is a single scoop. Elliott holds up one finger, to indicate she will be a minute before rejoining the conversation, and makes her way up to order her own sugary summer treat.
"Probably that," Andre remarks to Elliott, shrugging again, then brushing his hair back so that one eye is not obscured at this odd sideways angle. "I've been camping out under my air conditioner, then collapsing from utility-bill-shock, then camping out under public air conditioners." He chuckles drily. "Your job's got you working summers?" And to Jayven, he concurs, "Worth it, especially when you see the size of the scoops."
There's a vague shrug, but Jayven's already lost in counting his own bills, shuffling forward a step as he follows the Latina towards the cashier. Finally, he glances up and clears his throat, tapping his foot.
"WelcometoMolly'showmayIhelpyou?" A Midwestern accent - in other words, entirely accentless - is issued from the girl behind the counter.
"I'd like..." Jayven pauses. "A single scoop of green tea ice cream." He turns and glances over at Andre before tapping the side of his head and pointing at the young man. "I'm trusting you on this. If what you say is true, a single scoop's enough for me." As he sidles over to the cashier to pay, he simply drops down the bills first, before attempting to smooth them out and uncrumple them.
Elliott blinks once, surprised by the sudden appearance of Jayven next to her in line. Her head cants slightly to one side, but any comment is cut off by the cashier's greeting. Like a good little consumer, the woman turns to make her order - rather more elaborate. And large. One wonders, do coffee, chocolate, and cherry ice creams really go together in a trio? Her own payment comes in the form of a debit card, opened wallet displaying little in the way of cash, though it is packed with enough receipts to give the impression of having not been emptied since sometime around last Christmas.
Andre straightens rather suddenly the reordering of the line, eyebrows raising, breathing out audibly through his nose and slowly slipping both hands into the side pockets of his jeans. "Taking my word to the point of impatience to try, hm?" There is a cautionary overtone in Andre's words, voice pitched a little higher than usual and inflection rather flattened. "Least the line goes fast." The last sentence is more directed toward the countertop next to where Jayven currently stands. His hands emerge from his pockets empty aside from a pencil, which he replaces, then reaches to his back pocket to produce his wallet.
If there's any change in Andre's tone or friendliness, Jayven doesn't seem to notice. "Thanks a lot," the Chinese teen notes dryly to the cashier girl, before taking his cone gingerly in one hand and straightening. The tall teen pauses before glancing back at Andre, giving him a onceover that seems not hostile, but rather curious. He takes a step towards the closest table to the exit and drops down, enjoying his cone.
Joan walks into the icecream parlor, holding the door with a small wet baby-wipe, which she then throws into a nearby trashcan. Looking at the ground as she walks, she's careful to avoid stepping over the cracks in the blue and white tile floor, and gradually makes her way towards the line.
Elliott does notice, and as she ducks her way around the line to join Andre, improbably large icecream in hand, she offers a wry, "Kids these days..." Dark eyes flick up to study her not-quite-neighbour, and she grins slightly. "And yeah, they got me working the summer. The IT world never sleeps! --At least it comes with an air-conditioned office, and all the pop I could want, though. I actually /haven't/ keeled over yet this summer. 'Course, I think my apartment could double as an igloo, so maybe that's got something to do with it. Oh, did I tell you I was moving?" To the unobservant ear, Elliott does not so much seem to pause for breath, let alone to let a listener catch up as she hops from subject to subject. Oops?
New York! It's the greatest place on earth, just ask any New Yorker! People think they have seen everything living in New York but this day event he most jaded of residents are surprised by the large horse walking down the sidewalk. He is rather large so most people just move out of his way. He is dirty and wet on his lower legs. He looks a mess to be honest. He stops just outside the ice-cream shop window and snuffles around in the trashcan for a moment. Not something you see every day even in the big city.
The curious will not note much remarkable about Andre. He's wearing simple worn-in blue jeans, and a yellow t-shirt with the word Parkfield printed on it in blue capital letters. His hair is a little shaggy and his stance favors his right leg. Once Jayven has slipped out of line, though, his expression regulates back to casually even, if not cheerful. "Air conditioning and soda plus salary. Makes it worth the hours at least partway, right?" He tilts his head toward Elliott, then steps up to the counter, ordering a scoop of Rocky Road and a scoop of Java Chip, then producing payment in the form of a recently ATM'd 20.
When Joan makes her way, eventually, to the front of the line, she begins...negotiating, with the counter girl. "Err....excuse me, can you scoop my ice-cream with a fresch scoop? I'd like to see it cleaned in front of me." she asks, smiling at the counter lady. Joan is, for the record - a bit nersnickity.
Of course, thats before the horse walks down the street, which causes her to flip out. "Aah! Its a Clydesdale /horse/!" she screams, once she notices it - and retreats to a section of the parlor as far from the door as possible. "It could have Eastern Equine Encephalitis! Someone call the cops!"
At the moment, Jayven looks like a shabby college teen, with an old and grey Guns n' Roses shirt covering his chest, underneathe an even more tattered NY Yankees club jacket, which he plays with consistently, creasing and uncreasing the folds of the ripped leather arms. It's an incessant action, stopped only now, as Jayven has his hands occupied, namely, with a large, single scoop cone of green tea ice cream. As he makes his way over to his table, Jayven pats down the lap of his destroyed jeans.
Reaching into his other pocket, Jayven pulls out a MTA map and starts carefully unfolding it with more preciseness than... well, really, what has been seen of him since, using one hand only, as his other hand is occupied with the cone. And there, he sits, studying the map with his almost black, hard and unforgiving eyes, stoically devoid of emotion. He glances up and takes a lick of his cone, staring out at the rather dreary sky through the wide storefront window of Molly's. He licks once more, before his fingers loosen their grip on the cone and the cone tilts full-way, plopping the big glob of forest green ice cream right onto the subway map.
Elliott, for all that she has not been one for several years now, could be most easily mistaken for a student herself. She looks closer to her early twenties than to her actual age, an illusion that is undisturbed by her cheery, somewhat scattered demeanor. The blue tanktop and long, flowing skirt she wears are ideal for the summer heat, allowing airflow as they do. She toes lightly at the floor with one be-sandalled foot, sending a wayward M&M dropped from someone's sundae skittering along the tile. "I like my job," she tells Andre cheerfully, pausing to take a bite of icecream. Which turns into a longer pause at the panicked shrieks. Her attention is drawn, magnet-like, towards the window. And the horse. Her brow furrows slightly, expression easily readable. 'OMGWTFHORSE?!' "Umm. I didn't realize they did the carriage tour thingy all the way out /here/..."
"It's a good thing, to like one's job," Andre concurs, tipping his head upward to emphasize the mock snootiness of his wording "I like mine. Especially the lazy summers part." Conversation is momentarily interrupted for the delivery of ice cream; Andre licks the top edge of the cone right where the ice cream meets it to preemptively stop any dripping. "Why're you moving, though? The building'll seem so empty!" He grins hugely, though not brilliantly whitely by virtue of a little chocolate shaving clinging to one front tooth. He pulls out of the way of the next customer, then promptly diverts even further to peer out the window. "Is it some sort of holiday or history anniversary, maybe?" His voice inflects up with surprise, but does not draw out with worry.
At the sound of the scream about the police the horse looks up and looks right at the germaphobe through the class window of the shop like he is not happy with the woman, not happy at all. Nostrils flaring the horse grunts and shakes its head the long black mane whipping back and forth, white stuff drips from his mouth where he has been into the left over ice-cream in the trashcan outside. Not a pretty sight, not at all..
"I don't know how I get talked into these things," says one Lieutenant Matthew Ian Kessler to one Alyssa Carter. Arms crossed over his chest, the plain navy of his t-shirt and trousers identifies him as FDNY only by the little crest over the left breast of the shirt. The large frame, large muscles and heat-weathered cast to his skin might help give a clue as well. Down the street the blond man ambles nonetheless, headed for the ice cream parlour despite his protests, until... "...h?" he says. "-Horse-?" he succeeds in saying a moment later.
Jayven is the type to note something passably entertaining and possibly illegal going-ons, and then leave it to some other more civic-minded folks to report whatever's going on. In other words, he's like most other New Yorkers, even post-9/11. Clearing his throat, the Asian kid picks up his entire subway map, globbedy-gook green tea ice creamm and all stuck to the map. Rolling his eyes, the Chinese teen moves back in line, though he keeps back towards the counter, his almond-shaped eyes following the trail of the horse outside the window.
Joan acks at the dirty, ice-cream mouth of the horse. "Telephone! Telephone! Look at it - its an escaped animal! Someone call Animal Control! We just can't let it sit out there." She looks at the countergirl. "You work here. Its unsanitary - it can't be outside the door! Hurry!"
"Because I bring you dinner half the time," the teenager answers back, grinning up (and up!) at her rather muscular companion. While her shirt may advertise the same affiliation, it obviously a gift: the overlarge navy t-shirt has been knotted at the waist, revealing the slightest skim of pale skin when she moves/ Otherwise, she's clad in jeans, frayed at the knees, and flip-flops. ".../horse/," she echoes, then corrects herself. "Looks like a Clydesdale," she informs, as one who has been horse-crazy for years. "Someone's probably missing him, I'd bet."
Elliott eyes Joan, her expression the sort generally reserved for one studying a person they are concerned may well be legitimately mentally ill. "...It's an escaped horse," she points out, not unkindly. "It's probably more sanitary than half the people in the city, not to mention their pets. And it's not hurting anyone - calm /down/." She does not rummage for her cellphone, though both hands are taken up with her icecream - she couldn't, were she so inclined. "Whoever belongs to it'll be along in a few minutes, probably. No one's gonna let their horse run off without chasing it."
Andre's attention is also drawn toward Joan, and he bolsters Elliott's point with an even-toned, "The more we look panicked in here, the more it's going to get freaked out out there, I think. Lots of noise and motion." He shrugs, then takes another lick of ice cream, one hand clutching the bottom of the cone and the other cupped up higher to guard against drippage.
The horse looks very thin, well, for his breed anyway, like he hasn't eaten in a long time. He's sweat his coat into a horrible mess and his lower legs are soaked down making the normally fine white hair stick together caked with mud. Ears flipping forward and his head swinging back towards the sidewalk where the strangers are talking the horse sizes them up with bright ocean-blue eyes. At least he isn't glaring at Joan any more. He takes a step back and turns his body twords the people on the outside of the building putting himself between them and the trashcan. His food! They aren't going to take it!
"...big horse," says Matt, pop-eyed and distant as he continues to stare at the horse. Country boy, he is not. "-Nice- horse?" he essays, attempting an ingratiating tone, as one hand reaches out to land firmly and fraternally on Alyssa's shoulder as the great beast turns. "Don't even think of going near that thing," he says, finding firmness as his free hand finds his cell phone, and starts thumbing about for the number for Dispatch.
"I'd ask questions about how it got here. Central Park West is pretty far from here, and the horse cab drivers don't usually come up this north or west. No tourists," Jayven comments congenially, folding his arms across his wide chest, rubbing his sternum before checking the time again. A few minutes past five. The sky hasn't started to darken quite yet. He flickers his attention over to the girl behind the counter, who happens to be staring wide-eyed out at the horse. "Ma'am?" He taps the glass over the ice cream. "Ma'am? Chocolate cherry double scoop," he orders, getting a distracted nod from the girl.
Joan sighs in Matt's direction. "Oh thank my lucky supernovae. Someone has some sense. No, I'm not going near it at all." She looks at the horse warily, as if expected it to suddenly break into the store and start kicking people.
Alyssa has already started to do that, hand out, palm up and nonthreatening, when Matt's hand lands on her shoulder. She looks up at him, expression uncertain. "Someone should at least get him some water or something," she says quietly, "he looks awfully hot. Lukewarm, though, not cold. He's sweating an awful lot." She reaches up with her free hand, curling small, worried fingers around Matt's larger ones. "Don't do anything that'll scare him. If you call, make sure they come in quiet." Her tone is not quite bossy, but very matter-of-fact. "You don't want him to run 'cause of a bunch of sirens or anything."
It is not only the pedestrians and patrons of the shop that have noticed the horse. In the street there is a loud crash, followed by a very irate, and equally loud bout of honking and cursing, as one rubbernecker is rear-ended by an early-evening commuter.
The sound of the wreck sets off the already confused and panicing horse. Trust me, if you woke up to what he woke up to this morning you would be freaking out as well. The horse starts to turn and run but he's not what you call graceful in the turn he spins himself around not looking where he is going and smacks himself headfirst into a lamp post. Staggering the animal already weakend from the lack of food he needs plops down rump-first on the sidewalk sitting there looking dazed and confused breathing as hard as if he was running.
"At a safe distance," Matt caveats. Oh, how he caveats! His eyes dart nrvously from horse to surroundings to horse again, mentally weighing the odds of whether he'll have to do something stupidly heroic like dive into the way of an enraged equine about to trample a baby carriage. "You don't know that animal, and it's got hooves the size of my head, and those teeth are fucking -huge-- oh, hey, this is Kessler with the two-six ladder," he segues suddenly, as his call gets through. "There's.... uh, well, there's a horse." A pause. "A -horse-, ma'am. With the four legs and the froofy tail-- ohshit, it just fell down. Molly's Ice Cream Parlour, that place on --th Ave?"
Her hands begin shaking, Joan says. "...its...it has acute encephalitis! Ceebral disfunction, confusion, delerium. All the classic symptoms of acute encephalitis!" She cautiously moves to the forefront of the store. "Get away from it!" she hisses to those outside. "Can't you clearly see whats wrong with it? Its dangerous!"
"It might be /hurt/," Aly insists, as howevermany tons of horseflesh go thud onto his bum. She squeezes Matt's hand again, asking, "You guys got a vet on retainer?" It is only partially tongue-in-cheek, as she abandons her reluctant hero and approaches the dazed equine slowly, her hand still extended. "That's a boy," she calls, voice loud enough to be heard but hopefully pitched soothingly. "That's a boy," she repeats, "we're going to get you some help, and some water, and no one's going to hurt you." It is not that she expects him to understand! As she gets closer to the door, she asks toward the general direction of people -inside-, "Have any of you thought to get some /water/? It's August out here..."
Elliott jumps, uttering a yelp of surprise, the sound not unlike that made by a startled puppy. Her gaze jaunts from horse to fender-bender, and she grimaces. "Crap. D'you think anyone is hurt? They don't /look/ hurt." Indeed, the two drivers have already begun to exit their respective vehicles, the cursing and gesticulating serving only to add to the chaos of the scene. /They/ have not been advised to avoid loud noises so as not to further spook the wayward animal.
Ever have one of those days where everything goes wrong. Just you can't take it any more there are so many things that go wrong so suddenly and you just want to crawl into a hole? Well thats what the horse feels like as blood starts to trickle down the side of his head just in front of his ear. The soft kind words of the stranger, the promice of help, of comfort, of someone making it all stop. That was the last straw. He doesn't have the strength to go on any more. He's so hungry he's burning up inside and it so hard to think. The horse just lays down half on the side walk and half in the parking space next to the road. He lays down and just starts to cry. His body shakes like he is cold but his body still sweats like he is running at full speed. The large heart in his chest thunders against his ribs. She's right though, up close you can tell there is something wrong with this horse.
Andre jolts to the side in response to Elliott's yelp, reflexes jumpier with the excitement in the store and, indeed, from the sugar. He takes longer to regain full balance than most would, his left leg not immediately offering the support to his new position. He is not the victim of anything painful as a result, though; he does stabilize, but not without smearing the top of his ice cream cone against the window. Wonderful. "They just look mad," Andre observes, corners of his mouth tipping downward. "The horse looks worse off than the drivers, you think?" He raises his eyebrows at Elliott.
Bravery, thy name is the FDNY... but not so much where horses are concerned, if you're one Lt. Kessler. Four alarm widowmaker? Fine. Smoke cover so thick you feel your way by inches? Peachy! Horse? "Aly..." he temporizes, yielding in the face of a teenaged horsewoman. "Be careful," he sighs at last, before resuming the telephone conversation and wandering in the direction of the fender-bender to see about any first aid. "Now we got car crashes," he relays. "Send down some EMTs to go with the animal control people...? I'm going to go see what I can do with the crash people."
"Dude -- Eh. Cops."
With that short exclamation, Jayven drops his cash and picks up the ice cream like it was drive through. Apparently having a healthy aversion to lawful authority, the Jay-man picks his way along the linoleum, stepping gingerly around to avoid the rather manic Joan, before stepping out to enjoy his ice cream. He's not going to stay for this drama, curious as he might be, because really, who wants all the ruckus of a two car pile-up on the middle of... what is it? 7th or 8th Avenue? Oh, and a sick horse.
"Shit," quoth the Aly, as the large horse goes down, down, down. She doesn't run, but there is an /urgency/ in the way she closes the remainging distance -- once she makes sure Matt is taking care of any human casualties, that is. "It's okay, boy," she continues to say, "it's okay -- oh, you're /hurt/!" She chews on her bottom lip, then reaches out an incautios hand to pet the horse's large head, murmuring soothing nonsense at it until someone has the sense to come provide some backup.
"Li'l bit," Elliott agrees. "But I don't know any vets. I know where to /find/ doctors for /people/." She frowns out the window. Is the horse convulsing? Oh dear. "Excuse me!" she calls in the direction of the counter, and then cuts off. "Oh, good."
One of the clerks had apparently heard Alyssa's question, and is busy bustling over to the door with a bowl of tapwater. She clears her throat in Joan's direction. "Miss? Move."
Its not convulsing its feverish, its also sobbing, sobbing like a child. The mind of the boy trapped within the brain of the horse just can't take it any more. He just lays there panting barely moving a glazed and distant i'm going into shock look in his eyes. But at least he's not dangerous. Just really really big. Hope animal control has a fork lift.
Joan slowly moves out of the ice cream shop, careful to not step on the cracks of any of the tiles - or of the sidewalk. "Its clearly in shock, now." she comments to Aly. "Its a rabid animal - of course its hurt. And if you arn't careful, its going to hurt you." She pulls out a baby-wipe and begins moving towards the traffic accident, trying to see if she can help the people without actually /touching/ anything.
"Aren't the animal control guys connected to the police?" Andre wonders, using a free finger to scoop off the ice cream from the side of the cone that touched the window. All bets are off in terms of keeping from getting sticky. May the OCD beware! "They'd take it to the vet first. That's what they do on Animal Planet." It becomes clear what Andre has been doing with his time off.
"It's not acting rabid," Alyssa counters with all the surety of an invincible teenager, "and yes, he does look shocky--" But then the clerk comes with the water, and Aly offers a wide, thankful smile. "Can you drink?" she asks, though she knows it's a futile question, but just keeps right on talking as she gestures for the water to be set down within reach. "Aught to get someone to rub you down, get some food in you." The words aren't exactly necessary, but the tone is soothing. "People'll be here soon, take good care of you."
"Oh! You're probably right. That'd make sense." There is a reprise of the yelp then. After a moment of juggling, Elliott manages to get one hand free to grab her cellphone, set at some indeterminate point to 'vibrate'. She grimaces slightly. "Crap. Work. I gotta go. --Umm, see you around the building." There is a flurry of activity as the small woman makes for the door, dodging through the slowly-expanding crowd. Her car is around somewhere!
The horse's nose flares at the smell of water, its so thirsty its head comes up off the ground slowly and its large neck reaches out slowly for the water as it gets closer. The horse's blue eyes look back between the girl and the water at least he is showing some responce instead of slipping into shock. Food! She said the magic word. His stomach growls at the very thought of it he is so hungry. He's just so worn out from this whole horse experiance he can harly lift his head until he gets some more energy. At least he's not dangerous like this.
Andre lifts his be-ice-cream'd hand in a wave, side to side motion stalling as Elliott scoots. "Um, yeah. Hopefully sooner than later this time!" he calls after her, all the while his fingers drip. Once the pyrokinetic has departed, the seismic dampener again turns his attention to the horse, watching quietly but intently, periodically licking the side of the ice cream that did not smear the window.
"That's a boy," Alyssa encourages, "that's a boy." She's paying more attention now, and his eyes catch her attention -- she squints, overbright eyes focusing, focusing -- whoah. "You're not blind," she murmurs, "but those aren't normal for a Clydesdale --" She looks around, and frowns -- but unfortunately there's no one for her to ask. No one for her to think questions at. "I wish Dr. Jean were around," she tells the horse. Or whoever else is listening.
Joan can't really stand all the dirt on the road and the cars, so she makes her way back to the horse, looking down at it with her nose scrunched up. "I'm a Dr, technically. I have....oh, a half dozen degrees or so. I stopped keeping track."
The horse, never actually having drunk anything as a horse before, looks at the water as if thinking about it then in desperation it dips its mouth into the water trying to keep its nose out of the water and it takes a deep breath slurping the water into its mouth in a noisy sloppy manuver but at least the water gets in there. He swallows and tries to drink again slurping the water without using his tongue at all. He drinks as fast as he can. Fortunatly there is a lot of him compared to the amount of water so he can't make himself sick drinking so much so fast.
As Andre watches, the ice cream residue on his fingers grows increasingly sticky, to the point of becoming essentially a low-grade adhesive. As his fingers attempt to move in their percussionist-instinctive tapping against the window, he notices this sticky factor and frowns. The horse has been helped by water, and now it's time for the same to be run over one sticky Californian's hand. Eyeing the melting remains of the contents of his cone, he deems that a little under a quarter of the massive two-scooper is not worth trying to prop up. With a shrug, he deposits the remnants in the trash and heads toward the bathroom in the back of the room to destickify.
A regular trip to the ice cream parlor is made weird by virtue of marauding horse.