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{RW-1} Waking Up.; Closed for Renovations.
Topic Started: Dec 10 2010, 11:22 PM (371 Views)
North

Just remember. Through All of this.
EXITUS ACTA PROBAT
The End Justifies The Means.


Somewhere along Rathdowne Lane. Just past 0100hours. Wednesday.


It's the fourth night. Water from the river. An empty plastic bottle. What little yen possessed was nickle-and-dimed away. Food here and there. The occasional cup of coffee to ward off frostbite. A few spent on getting gloves, a hat. It was gone. Survival tactics kick in when all else fails - at least, for some people. Ryan had, for the first time, stolen something; but not for the rush; not for the money or the glory; the fame or power. He stole to survive. An apple from a vendor; and away he was. The nature of right and wrong had become lost; somewhere in this morally gray underworld where crimes were conditional. When he reached into his jacket, he found out he had only one cigarette left; one, from the carton she'd given him. Now that was a crime.

When he had found the train-tracks was beyond him, but they were here, now. Playing with balance, walking down the beam; losing all sense of time. Nothing mattered. There was something absolutely and euphorically freeing about hitting rock bottom. Once you've lost everything, you're free to do anything. Once you've mastered letting that which you cannot control, that which doesn't matter, truly slide? Life becomes simple. There was no shovel; not tonight. He wasn't digging deeper; just skimming the surface of the tracks; of his vapid existence and musing over the simple fact that playing around like a twelve year old kid was keeping his fingertips warm. It didn't last; the train horn sounded, and he wove through the station, back into the streets. He had a few drags left. Putzing down the sidewalk; not strolling along; more like a dismemberd gait; and then, suddenly, the rush, the feel of cold on his face and pain in his arms, on his knees. For a moment he laid in the snow. His toe had smashed into something he couldn't see; the thin layer of frost was making everything look the same.

When he turned around, back in the sidewalk, ass on the ground, he looked up. Looked up into structure in front of him; and something about it felt...Strange. That gut feeling of danger; of purpose. Something about this two-story silhouette in the dark glow of the moon; the way it creeped over the edge of the roof, like an eye opening after a deep sleep. And for a moment, he breathed in that cold, chill air around him; as if for the first time in Japan. As if he'd waken from a long and boring dream and it was time to get up. So he did. He stood, and tapped his foot against the object lying in the sidewalk; ten pounds, made of wood? It was an inch thick, shape of a shield. His fingertips traced the rough-hewn, worn out lettering. The chain at the top was frayed, it must have fallen off the creaky wooden post over his head just yesterday in the wind-storm. The name was Italian. Simple. Distinguished; something you'd only hear with Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo. Sign in hand, he looked back up at the building. The windows boarded up. The door on one hinge. The paint faded, chipped and scratched from who knew how many years of abuse.
And at once, he knew it was going to be his.

The front door was locked. They're always locked. The place was abandoned; but who could say for how long? He went around the back, tripping, again, over some storm-doors in the process, grumbling about their worthlessness in the modern-age. The backdoor was locked; but the window to the left of it looked smashed in. Euch. Was he not the first person that had thought about Spending the Night in an abandoned pub? This is what ghost stories are made of. But, nevertheless, he climbed through the window, careful of the broken glass on the other side.
His heart stopped when he heard voices inside.

Back against the wall his eyes instinctively shut. There was a lightness to their tone; naive. Joking. That facade of a deep voice; the giggle of a young girl. Four, distinct voices, just beyond the wall he was leaning against. He peered around the corner; there was nothing but black anywhere around. The door must have been on the other side. But what was it, high schoolers? Young college students? Drop outs? What reason would anyone have to be out this late/early on a school night? That's when it hit him; that aroma, dank, and he knew they were up to no good. So, maybe a good scare would do them straight. The flashlight slid off his belt; the gun out of it's holster and he held them down as he rounded the corner. The voices were louder; the floor wasn't creaking. You could hear the lighter going off again; and that's when the flashlight kicked on, and the tall, dark imposing man with the revolver stepped around the corner; standing in the kitchen, and in the only doorway.

"Alright kids, parties over!"
There was a collective slur of profanities and a scramble. Some tried to hide things; some just stood like deer in headlights. He shined the flashlight in all of their faces. Five; one of them had been shy, not said a word. Two of them were women. And no one, apparently, had the joint between them. When asked to hand it over, after a brief no-bullshit look and the click on the hammer, it was handed to Ryan who, for all intents and purposes, was acting like a Cop. Go figure. A Felon, playing a cop; a wolf in sheeps clothing. He took a single sniff of the small, badly rolled blunt and inconsequentially let it fall to the floor; crushed under the heel of his foot.

"You'll thank me someday. That was skank weed anyway. Now get the hell out of here 'fore I make your parents come get you at the station. And I'd better not ever see you back here. Understood?"

Within ten seconds, the pub officially belonged to Ryan. His flashlight roved over the interior walls in the main hall and he laughed, slowly, to himself.

"My my, Renato. What a lovely pub you've left me..."
--
Beginning of the First Night.
Total Expenses; 0.
Total Earnings; 0.
Edited by North, Dec 12 2010, 03:37 AM.
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North

Inside the Renato's Abandoned Pub. 08:12hours. Wednesday.

On second thought, sleeping on top of the bar? Maybe not the best idea...

With a groan, a yawn, a stir, Knox woke from his first nap. Most of the night he spent awake, fighting the urge to look around the pub. If those kids came back; if they brought real cops, if any other vandals came in, he would have to be ready. When the sun started peeking through the trees, he allowed himself to rest; but not for long. There was work to be done. Slipping off the leather jacket and the borrowed hoody, Ryan let his boots touch the floor. There were no creaking floorboards. That was the sound of a good foundation and a strong roof in the basement. Perfect. Slowly, he walked up and down every floorboard on the first floor. Back to front. Front to back. Nothing on the first floor creaked; in front of the bar, behind it; not even in the kitchen. It was as solid as a rock. Point of interest; two fixated pool-tables in a room to the side; felt shredded and no balls or cues to speak of, but it was a step in the right direction. Half a dozen booths were against the walls, but again, the upholstery was ruined. He was, however, noticing the occasional torn-up hole in the plaster-wall; a combination of bricks and 2x4's behind it.

Ceiling; check. Ten foot off the ground; second floor was, presumably, the same. It was the beginning of December; he'd slept through and yet felt comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans. The insulation was in good shape. The draft from the occasional hole in the wall, but other than that, things were starting to look up. Warm roof over head. That was a step in the right direction. Speaking of directions, he'd headed right for the bathroom after his initial walkthrough. I'll spare you the details, but there was a smile on his face as he washed up. The pipes, for a moment, creaked; strained, as if out of use, and after a few short seconds of orange, rust-coated water pouring through the pipes, clear water shot out. It wasn't warm, but it was enough. Enough to wash his face; cup his hands, take a drink; enough to let him know the water still worked in the establishment. Unfortunately, the power didn't.

His fingertips flicked the meter outside. It wasn't running; which meant one thing. Power had since been shut off to the building; which meant, he'd have to call and have it turned back on. Which meant one other thing; Money. He groaned, slowly. At least, for now, it wasn't essential. He could sleep in the dark. He had a flashlight. And with that flashlight in hand, he went through the backdoor [which he'd unlocked for himself] and resumed his tour. His footsteps were everywhere; apparent in the thick layers of dust like a carpet over the floor; the odd chirp of a stray animal also using this place as a home. It didn't take him long to find the stairs. They creaked on the way up; not the best sign, but far easier to fix than a bad floor. He added it to his mental checklist.

The light at his hip peered out into the hallway. If you could call it that. At the top of the stairs were two doors; one on the right, and one straight ahead. It looked undisturbed. A light atop the stairs just over his head; a switch nearby. The empty click of it not working. It's an instinct thing; you know it won't work, but there's something satisfying in the empty sound. The condition of the paint was slightly better, but was still in need of a touch-up. His hands stretched over the wall; the occasional knockout of sheetrock failure; the bump and rattle of the occasional mark against the wall's finish. He couldn't distinguish the sheen in the poor light conditions, but the stipple felt of high-gloss. Maybe Satin. Sheen didn't matter. His knuckles rapped against the wall; against the wood, against the door.

Behind door number two [The one on the right] was a washout. An near-empty space, somewhat triangular in shape. It fanned out before him and the first thing you feel is the rush; like an artificial dose of epinephrine. The first thing you notice is the color on the walls; just the right shade of red to make people feel angry. There was the occasional creak under his weight as he walked through what appeared to be little more than storage for the previous owner. Renato. Fingertips teased over various trade-tools in the corner as he wondered what type of man Renato was; what type of man Ryan would be. Is it true that there's a connection in a home, when you take something over? He wasn't expecting a hologram of the man to suddenly appear, but his presence was known. It was in the worn-out tools; it was in the paint. This was a home for someone, once; and would be so again.

With a creak the crowbar bit the gap between plywood and brick and lurched; forced out with both hands. There was a sliver of light beaming through the crack; but only when the creak erupted in a chorus of nails leaving the mortar did it happen; the spectacle of that bright, morning sun washing into the empty storage hall; and for a short moment he shielded his eyes. Then he smiled, looking out the window. A view of the train-tracks he'd walked down; the station met right outside the pub's front door. The bus terminal wasn't far off. He kept the crowbar with him, and stole off to the hallway once more. He'd be back in there; and he couldn't wipe that dangerous smirk off his face. That whole room just felt...risky. Hmm.

The other door at the top of the stairs looked just as plain as the other one. But what secrets lie in wait? The knob rattled in his mitt, but the door swung; much harder than he'd expected; as if it were on springs. No; the door was just heavier. Much heavier; thicker, too. He shut it behind him and looked around; with a growing smirk. Oh, this was definitely the place for him. The walls were a combination of sheetrock and exposed brick; the occasional brick gone from the wall; lying on the floor in pieces. Walls of deep, deep purple; a callingcard of Italy, no doubt. It was instantly soothing; regal. Mystical, royal. Just a few shades away from depressing, but not light enough for giddy. Whomever painted clearly knew what they were doing; unfortunately, the paint in the room was also fading, chipping, cracked; it was more than likely lead-based. But, who knew. His fingertips traced over the burners on the old stove - the taps in the sink. No furniture to speak of. A support pillar in the center of the floor; light washing over it revealing the faded floorboards; the only sheen left was the two inches around the walls; around the pillar. Anywhere foot traffic never was.

Again, he put a crowbar to the window; and again; light washed through the old man's apartment. When that plywood hit the floor and light shone through, he looked out and saw the harbor. Saw the street below. Facing a completely different way than the storage next-door; it was nice. Serenity found in someone else's abandoned home. He had found the apartment; a new place of residence, and though there was no bed, he would make do with what he could. He had a jacket; the place was keeping out the cold fairly well; and as his eyes roaved over the apartment he eyed a twist of metal. Laughed. Seriously? A winding metal staircase in the corner of the apartment that led up. The roof? Without a second thought, he was making his way up.

The crunch of tiny rocks under his feet; squinting in the beating sun. His crowbar was holding the door open. Who knew if he'd get locked up there. There was a three-foot high brick-laid 'fence' that wrapped the roof; the occasional riser with a decorative top; like a fitting on a Christmas tree. Very Gothic style architecture - and he found his way to the center. Right above the front door; the head of the triangle and climbed the short structure at the apex of the derelict building. Crouched down, staring out into the biting cold atop his latest, and arguably, greatest discovery, he laughed. He laughed loudly, proudly, and with a great sense of relief. He had seen kings toppled; he had battled hordes of demons, robot-monsters, he had been to the gates of Hell; he had once found the spear of destiny; or at least, something that looked like it. Gemstones and statues around the world; all given away for cash.
But this one...this discovery; he would keep, for himself. And he shouted out at the morning sun; his only audience at this hour;

"Nella vita - chi non risica - non rosica! Hahaha!"

Start of the first morning.
Total Expenses; 0.
Total Earnings; 0.
To-Do; Patch Walls, replace bricks, sweep, wipe down appliances, uncover all windows, change locks, fix back window, get mattress, turn power back on, find Renato, legal possession of property, meet the neighbors.
Edited by North, Dec 11 2010, 10:08 AM.
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North

Inside Renato's "Abandoned Pub". 0730hrs. Eight days Later.
Beginning of the eighth day.

[OOC; I'm not going to lie. I don't care enough to convert everything into Yen. If you REALLY want to know? Do it yourself. ]
Total Earnings; 4,000¥ [~$47.00].
Jobs; Collected & returned bottles. Cleaned neighborhood gutters. Extracted canine excrement from topsoil. Lots of door-knocking; lots of smiles. Moved furniture. Taken out garbage for elderly.
Total Expenses; 3,500¥ [~$41.00]
Expense List; Panel of Sheetrock - ~$8. Box of screws, $6. Two-dozen bricks [Found, no expense], 50lb concrete mix bag, $10. New broom, $10. Grocery cart for carrying supplies to/from pub - Stolen from grocery store [Free]. New utility knife - $7.

To-Do; Patch Walls, replace bricks, sweep, wipe down appliances, uncover all windows, change locks, fix back window, get mattress, turn power back on, find Renato, meet the neighbors.

--
Serenity disturbed; the light brush against skin and the sleeping monster stirred. The dreamworld was pleasant, that night; he swam in oceans of air; trekked through the desert with a gun strapped to his chest; he saw old friends, old loves, and new challenges; he saw faces from years ago; he saw temples and mansions he'd looted and pillaged and plundered over the years. It was like watching a highlight reel from his past adventures. When he finally stirred, he almost rolled over; until he felt the pressure in his chest like a dozen miniature knives, biting, sinking in, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make their presence known. He let his eyes creak open; he knew his assailant; he knew the one being that knew of his presence at the bar. The only one; and would have come for him again, eventually...

"Good morning Cat."

A shabby calico with no collar had been roaming around the streets lately. A few nights ago Knox had let him in to get out of the wind. A few breadcrumbs and some water later, it appeared he had made a friend. It was about as well as a friendship could have gone. Cat would come around every other day, sometimes longer, eat, drink, sleep on the pool table, on top of the bar, watch Knox work, and leave without a word. Friendly as all Hell, but with a sassy side; loud purrer, with that occasional love bite when you don't pet him quite right. After a few minutes of silent bonding [basically, if he tried to move, he got clawed. So, he just pet Cat.] Cat finally relinquished his hold on Knox, who got up and worked his way to the kitchen. The mud-pan from last night's drywall finishing was still in the sink and, after a few minutes of washing it out, he filled it, and set it out for Cat, atop the bar. Cat obliged by taking a few laps, dipping his paws in it, cleaning his face, lapping some more. You know; a cat shower.
He groaned; "Yeah, I hear ya pal. I should do that sometime soon too...But first, I gotta get us some food. I'll be back soon, arright?"

CSK. It was hosted in an old church, a dozen blocks away from the pub. Now, it took Ryan until the fourth day with no food and only water to finally cave; to finally admit that he couldn't handle it on his own. It took pains in the stomach so bad he couldn't swing a hammer; an incessant growling so low and loud he couldn't sleep. It's one of those defining moments in life when you weigh your options; is having Pride in the ability to be self-sufficient [and failing miserably] worth starvation? Worth the possibility of death? Knox had stopped stealing food; but he'd stopped eating. He stopped begging, roadside. It took a considerable long internal talk for him to swallow what was left of his pride; to enter the door of CSK for the first time. To wait in line; avoiding eyes; wishing he had shaved.

It had been Knox's first time at a Soup Kitchen. Too poor to buy his own food.

Community Soup Kitchen was ran by volunteers, food donated by local restaurants, people kind enough to give from their own homes. It was more than just soup; it was a balanced meal. Bread, vegetables, the apple, cup of soup, juice. It was very basic, but it was keeping him alive. He had been coming for three days now. Twice a day since he'd finally bit the bullet and decided it was better to eat than be stubborn. Whatever scraps he could manage, he brought home to Cat; he'd eat later on in the evening; as it was closed at night. The first day, he avoided any and everyone; saying thank you to the woman who gave him his tray, and eating at a table, alone. It took him another day to smile at people, look them in the eyes when he entered. Another to start talking; sitting with people he'd seen there before; trading pleasantries with the people on the line. By the fourth day, when he entered, people waved; people smiled at him, and he smiled back.

It's only when you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything;
And there's something dangerously humbling about admitting you need help, just to survive in the world. His attitude was fading away into gratitude. Knox found himself asking people about their stories; how they had wound up here, who they were in their previous life. He met school professors, ex-military, widows and widowers. Wall-street traders, business owners, and the occasional person of questionable legality. His Japanese started improving when he met more and more bilingual people; people that knew Japanese and Italian, or Japanese and English. Asking questions; correcting small grammatical errors; writing down symbols on napkins to learn written word, instead of just spoken. Hell; going to the Soup Kitchen and making a few acquaintances may have been one of the better things Knox had done in his life.

Back inside the Pub he was tearing up a piece of bread; Cat was purring, drinking the little ounce of milk he'd brought home, eating bread, and meowing loudly when he took a bite instead of giving it up. Cats are greedy. He talked to Cat for a while, until the bread and milk were gone. He dropped the mud-pan off in the kitchen sink and when he came back out, Cat was gone. He laughed, slowly. As long as he rooted out the mice in the place [of which, he had caught one], it didn't matter. The occasional company was nice as it was. A song in his head as the tool-belt went back around his waist and he toyed with his hammer. Fingertips traced over the patchwork he'd done on the walls; talking with the employees at the hardware store a few blocks over was definitely helping the process along; he'd learned how to [after a lot of trial and error] correctly Tape; apply mud to wall, create bonding agent, apply paper, wipe down; feather edges. He'd learned a little about plumbing; few wrench twists and no more leaky taps. He'd asked about fixing creaky stairs; that's where the hammer and nails came in handy. Doing things on your own will do two things; broaden your horizons, and show you how much you still have to learn.

It was a slight commotion and a groan from outside that had his head whipping around, looking to see his neighbor. He heard the word 'Malaka' and laughed to himself before heading out the doors. There was, across the street, a simple, small house; not far from the tracks in Knox's backyard. There was a ladder on the ground, a string of multi-colored Christmas lights hanging in disarray, and an old man cursing in Greek. There was a light falling of snow coming down around them; Ryan put his jacket on before he went across the street. He tried not to think about the ramifications of the dangerous business, walking out the front door to meet his neighbor. The other people in the neighborhood, knew not where he lived; but this man, would know, he was not Renato; probably looked nothing like him, and would know it wasn't his property. He tried not to gulp; only smile, as his boots crunched the light patter of snow under his feet. He was within arms reach of the man before he spoke. And when he did, it wasn't in English, Japanese, or Italian; but Greek.
[[Greek, spoken in Italics.]]
"Having a little trouble with your lights, sir?"

There was a long and dangerous pause. A silence among the whistling through the trees and the old Greek man slowly turned and looked at Ryan. Those sunken green eyes tore through him in a moment's time; looking him up and down without his eyes ever leaving Knox's. He glanced at the pub; then back to Knox and from beyond that short white beard, he smiled. He had one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced, or seemed to face, the whole external world for an instant and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.

"Just a little. Getting too old to climb up and down this old ladder. This may be my last year for christmas lights on the house."
"Well how about you let me get up on the roof and string them up?"

After a short discussion, Knox was on the roof with a staplegun in one hand, and a string of lights coiled up in the other. Feet firm on the slippery surface, he leaned down and stapled lights to the underside of the gutter's wooden support - a place you wouldn't see the staple's holes. It took a little over an hour but the two of them [Ryan on the roof stringing, the old man supplying cords and staples] for the lights to come to a close. Knox then suggested, with the leftovers, they wrap around the porch and down the driveway. Another forty-five minutes later, the front of the house was glowing with Christmas Cheer, and Ryan was sniffling, rubbing his nose raw and his fingertips together for warmth; reddened with churning blood circulation. It came together quick. When asked if he wanted to take a break, Ryan cordially refused and asked what else they had to set up. Before long there were wreaths, plastic reindeer, oversized bows hanging from the pillars on the porch, and a light-up snowman. It was done, and the two of them admired it from the road. They had traded smalltalk back and forth while working together; when they were in Greece, the weather; but nothing substantial. When Ryan looked up at the Sun straight over-head, he put out his hand for the old man and smiled, his nose beat-red.

"Well, it's been fun. But I have to go. I'm going to be late."
The old man laughed, slowly. If he tacked on another fifty pounds, he could pass for Santa. "Oh? Somewhere pressing to be?"
"Community Soup Kitchen."
"Ah, that's nice. You volunteer there?"
"....No. Not exactly..."

There was another laugh; and the old man patted Ryan on the back once before insisting he come inside. It would be a thank you for a job well done. And Knox agreed.

For the next three hours the two men talked. The old man, who's name turned out to be Theodore, told parts of his life story. Born and raised in Greece. Simple life. Armed services. Retired, met a nice Japanese girl, moved, and she passed, just a few years back; but he liked the place, so he decided to stay. He made Ryan some hot tea and pastitsio; and the two ate at the quaint table. The entire home was small, delicate, and had the feeling of stories he would never hear. Very clean, orderly; everything had it's place. He asked Knox about his own life; and he divulged. Travels, the occasional adventure story thrown in. Life in Alaska, Greece, Italy. Stories of planes and boats, all leading up to the story of how he got to Japan. He left it purposefully opaque; just that he had arrived. He didn't divulge his problems, but he didn't have to. The old man just eyed him, slowly; a twinkle in his eyes.
"How long have you been squatting at the pub, Ryan?"
Knox stammered. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't brought it up, but the old man knew; and in the silence awaiting it, Theodore spoke again. There was a playfulness to his tone.
"Relax. I don't mind. You have to do what you have to do. I've been there; I've done it. We all have good times, and bad. Here's something I've learned; Keep the good times in your pockets. Let the bad ones make you strong. Your situation may be unappealing, after what you've been through; but you'll come out a better person."
"Yeah...I hope so."
"Have you found a mattress yet?"

Knox laughed, unamused. "No."
Theodore smirked. Without a word, he motioned Ryan follow him upstairs. Something about a spare-room he hadn't used in years, and opened the door. Inside was a twin bed. Pillows, sheets. Box-spring, and a small frame made of wood. Knox turned to Theodore, who just smiled. He told Ryan to take it; that he didn't need it, and Ryan hesitated. He explained that he was grateful, appreciative, but that he couldn't. Theodore retorted with a line Ryan had used to many times in the past...
"I wasn't askin'. I was tellin'. Take the bed."

An hour later, Knox was smoothing out sheets in the apartment upstairs, looking out the window towards Theodore's house. It was getting late, and the lights were dim. He turned back, looked at the bed he'd been given, and smiled. Something concrete; something of his own; a gift. Christmas come early.
And for the first night in Two years, Ryan C. Knox slept in his own bed, in his own place, through the night.
Cat was there, too.

Total Earnings; 4,000¥ [~$47.00].
Jobs; Collected & returned bottles. Cleaned neighborhood gutters. Extracted canine excrement from topsoil. Lots of door-knocking; lots of smiles. Moved furniture. Taken out garbage for elderly. Helped Neighbor with Christmas decorations.
Total Expenses; 3,500¥ [~$41.00]
Expense List; Panel of Sheetrock - ~$8. Box of screws, $6. Two-dozen bricks [Found, no expense], 50lb concrete mix bag, $10. New broom, $10. Grocery cart for carrying supplies to/from pub - Stolen from grocery store [Free]. New utility knife - $7. Bed [Mattress, box-spring, headrest, bedrails, sheets, pillows, etc] - Free. Gift from Neighbor, Theodore.

To-Do; Patch Walls, replace bricks, sweep, wipe down appliances, uncover all windows, change locks, fix back window, get mattress, turn power back on, find Renato, meet the neighbor.
Operation, Wake Up.
Phase One, Complete.

Greatness, from Small Beginnings.
Edited by North, Dec 12 2010, 04:59 PM.
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