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Log Title: Garage Sales

Log setting: Along Gov. Nicholls street

Log Cast:
Glass
Jean-Batiste
Trace

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Glass comes walkiing along the street with his arm around Batiste, snuggling the fellow affectionately and generally making it difficult for the pair to get anywhere fast. The last garage sale is a bust, having had very little but cheap kitchen gadgets, old clothes, and stuffed toys. Still, the two probably had an amusing time poking through the stuff, thanks to Doug's rule of thumb. You remember, the one that says to smoke some pot before you do anything else. He shares a clove with Batiste as they walk, holding it to his friend's lips to allow him drags.

Jean-Batiste gives the receding garage sale one final look, stumble-leaning into Glass as he does. There was a flannel in one of the boxes of old clothes that caught his eye, but it smelled like a mildewy taxidermist studio, and so it got left behind. He leans his cheek into Glass's shoulder -- the unbruised cheek, of course -- then straightens up enough that he can drag off the clove. "Mmn," he murmurs, after exhaling and refilling his lungs with fresh air. "I wanted that shirt." Okay, so he's a little obsessed about the shirt. He giggles a couple times, near-silently, amused by this obsession.

One man's junk is another man's treasure. Take Caddy for instance. Treasures a waffle iron. Strange chick. Anyway, Trace is up ahead, walking very slowly backwards along the curb of the street, waving a thumb at passing cars without enthusiasm. The boy's skin is beaded with moisture, his dreds hanging limp and damp around his face. You know, a few hours ago he mighta been up for this, 'Hey cars! Hey! Come take me somewhere!' But now it's quite the monotanous chore, a bit more like, 'Stupid people in their stupid cars, passing me alla time. You fuckers.' But it's not really a totally bad mood, his only bitterness aimed at the vehicals wizzing by. For the most part it's just heat and thirst and boredom that's slouched his shoulders and dulled his expression.

Glass pokes Batiste in the ribs. "I'll get you a shirt that doesn't stink, ami," he promises. "Even if it would clean up, I don't want to carry that thing around." He transfers the cloved to his lips and pulls a page of newspaper out of his back pocket to peers at the little row of classifieds advertising garages sales. "This one is like, three blocks from here," he says, blinking at the smoke that's rising to his eyes and shaking the newspaper as if that will communicate what 'this one' is. "Come on." Doug pockets the paper again, rumpling it rudely so he can more quickly have a free hand to stop that evil clove from making his eyes water. He blinks the moisture from his eyes and offers the smoke to Batiste again, finally noticing the blue-haired boy ahead, and his appearantly unsuccessful hitching venture. The scene draws a little shrug from him and he looks to Batiste, then giggles for no readily visible reason.

Jean-Batiste sucks in his stomach when he's poked, then reaches for the offending hand, trying to snatch Glass's forefinger and gnaw it grinningly. Once he's finished his little gnawing fit, he comments, "I need some jeans, too, for cutoffs and stuff." His poor cutoff sweats were meant for pajama-ish wear, not street-wandering. "Maybe they'll have a beanbag chair, too." Though just -how- they'd carry one all the way back to Rorick is a question better left unasked. He leans forward to nab another lungful of smoke, glancing around to see what's made his companion giggle so. Trace is spotted, and he frowns briefly. Hitching a ride, in this part of town? Huh. The puzzlement fades to teasing, and he calls out, "Hey, good-lookin'. Want a ride?" He tries to leer, but if fails miserably -- he laughs instead, watching the bluecap with warm eyes. Hey, they're looking for a futon. Doug figured to pay for anything good but too big to carry, and go off to get his dog of a car to pick the stuff up later. "I don't know if I approve of you buying -pants-," he teases, "But a beanbag is a good idea." And then Batiste is calling out to Trace, so Doug returns his gaze to the hitch-hiker and smiles, lifting his cigarette-bearing hand in greeting. No silly lines, though. He just drags on the clove smiles pleasantly as they approach. Well, he doesn't smile pleasantly the whole way, because he stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, jarring himself a bit and causing him to say, "Shit!" in a tone of irritated suprise.

Yep, Trace's blue head shining in the sunlight, it's such a beacon. You can spot him for miles. He should train hawks or sit in for a lighthouse or something. But Batiste's call snaps him out of his daze. "Tease!" he calls out, but it's a bright and grinning voice. His biggest gripe was the monotony and boredom, and leering, giggling Batistes an cheerfully stoned Dougs can surely break that up pretty quickly. Trace strides closer, one arm rubbing at the other upper arm and shoulder tenderly because it's slightly sore from holding it up too long. "Steady there, Doug," the boy giggles when the older boy stumbles. "So what'chyall up to? I was tryin ta get ta the mall coz I gotta git some nice clothes ta meet Cathy's houselady Jenny and maybe her dad if we feelin lucky an' I doan mind him maybe pullin a shotgun on my ass r'whatever.."

Jean-Batiste isn't giggling! He's...laughing. Rapidly. Okay, so he's giggling. He stops when Glass stumbles, though, and reaches out to snare him around the waist and steady him. "Careful," he mumbles into the older boy's shoulder, grin-nuzzling there as he follows along, nearly tripping over the same crack in the concrete. His eyes light up suddenly, and he twists in Glass's arm, pointing back at the crack. "Mal trottoir!" he exclaims: bad sidewalk! This is what happens when you give Batiste too much spare time, folks. He learns how to chastise concrete in French. He turns back around, giggling at his own outburst, then reaches out to tousle blue dreds as he listens to their owner's words. "Geez," he murmurs, eyes dramatically wide. A gentle little nudge given to Glass's side. "He's meeting her dad already. Wow, huh?"

Glass grins at Trace as he recovers from his stumble, and laughs, nuzzling Batiste's shoulder and then breaking into laughter at Batiste's use of the French. He takes that oppourtunity to stop and curse at the sidewalk with more proper French venom. There you go, Bat, that's how it's done. Once he's finished gesturing angryly at the sidewalk crack he looks up at Bat again. Blink. And then he looks to Trace, "What, are you having carnal relations with Cathy? That sounds pretty dangerous, really." Doug grins, then takes the final drag off the clove and drops it to the sidewalk.

"No!" Trace protests, brows lifting in surprise. "I mean. Well." Carnal relations? "Like sleeping with her? Naw. I mean. I doan think she's ready. Gotta wait til a girl's ready, else ya a jerk, ya know? I wanna do good by her." he scuffles, apparantly made bashful by the topic of his new girlfriend and the extreme unlikelihood that he's ever gonna get any from her. "I mean, I'm cool with it. She's really pretty, and she.. believes in me. We have a good time." And in the meantime, he'll just have to be resourceful about his, er, carnal desires. Okay, time for a subject change. "Where ya guys goin?"

Carnally-minded bluecaps. Batiste would scoff at their existence, but he got tackled by one just a few weeks back. He's a believer now, ayep. "We're going to a garage sale," he informs Trace, reaching for the folded-up newspaper in Glass's pocket to just wriggle it around a little in a teasing, pestering sort of way. "Looking for stuff." Because that's the whole point of garage sales. Stuff-looking. "I need a futon, and some jeans to make into cutoffs, and...well, whatever else we find." He grins over at Glass for a moment, then turns the smile on Trace. "You need to head to the mall right away? You could come along, maybe you'd find something, too." Garage sales aren't noted for their mall-quality clothing, but he just pretends not to notice that in order to invite Trace along. Sort of like Glass denying he brought that vanilla ice cream for Trace, the other night.

Glass blinks. "Oh, man," he says, and makes a vague and expansive gesture. He leaves it at that. No matter his opinions of Cathy or his stoned condition, he'll be wise enough to keep his mouth shut. If Trace wants to do good by her he probably doesn't want to hear what Doug might say about her. "Well, that's cool," he says absently. "I didn't know you were with anybody. It's good you're havin' fun." Batiste's wiggling of his paper makes Doug jump and then wiggle his behind playfully. "Yeah," he says to Trace, as if offering great wisdom. "You could come with us and maybe get lucky and find something good. And if we don't find what we want we could go to the maul, if you don't mind." Doug looks to Batiste again and scritches the blonde boy's ribs with the hand he's got around him. "I really wanna hammock, even if we have to pay too much for it."

It is probably unlikely that Trace would find anything worthy at a garage sale, if he's trying to pass himself off as a decent good boy or whatever it is these people expect of him. Some may argue that Trace is in fact a decent good boy, but the point is looking it, and in the eyes of upper class parental types no less. In spite of this, Trace nods his agreement, smiling again. "Yeah... yeah, cool. I'll tag along with ya guys." After all, it sounds like fun, and what are his other options? Standing around in the sweltering heat for another few hours? "Never know what ya kin find at them things." So the garage sale idea is given Trace's big blue stamp of approval.

If Trace wasn't a decent good boy, he wouldn't be trying to dress up for his girl's parents, or being all chivalrous and noble in the face of sixteen year-old hormones. So figures Batiste, at least. "Awesome," he murmurs, giving the newpaper in Glass's pocket a final tug before patting it back into place about five times more than is necessarily. He's a cheeky one today -- pardon the pun. After a noisy kiss to Glass's cheek, he nods towards the end of the block and murmurs, "There's one with a cool add, three blocks down." Or at least Glass seemed to think it was cool. And a-strolling the three of you go, Batiste occasionally giggling about French sidewalks.

Cheeky is good. Doug's a sucker for displays of affection. He leans into Batiste just to show how much he appreciates the attention, and laughs. "Hey!" he objects, "I didn't say it was cool. I just said it was close. We'd be pretty dumb to go to them in the order they're printed. Gotta go by neighborhood, you know?" Doug pokes Batiste in the ribs to emphasize his words. Having made that clear, he goes a-strolling. And sure enough, up ahead you can see the tables set out on someone's lawn, and several clusters of bright yellow balloons tied to bricks down at the edge of the driveway.

Trace tromps along after the both of you, still drippy-sweaty, but now he's content. "There it is!" he points out, just in case you guys missed the balloons, parked cars, milling people, and the big sign on the mailbox proclaiming 'Garage Sale!' Even as he's approaching, he's already scanning the tables from a distance, treasure huntin'. "Know what I want?" he chats idly as he heads towards it. "A bike. R'like... I dunno, a skateboard r'something. I wanna be able to get around quicker. Well, not that skateboardin's that quick, and I don't even know how really, but ANYthin's better'n walkin everywhere. My shoes is new practically and look how fucked up they already got." One leg of his way-too-baggy jeans is tugged up enough to display the scuffed up black sneakers with ratty silver laces all snagged with bits of leaf and dulled with dirt. The jeans are allowed to fall back into place with a shrug.

Enter the cheeky, affectionate and -sneaky- Batiste. Yes, the semi-domesticated streetrat's mental gears have just started whirring. He looks up at Glass for a moment, appraisingly, then oh-so-casually offers out, "I used to roller-blade for a while. It's pretty awesome. Better than skateboarding by a long shot." Glance to Glass. Glance to Trace. "Either of you ever tried it?" He gives Glass a final full-arm squeeze, then draws away to twine fingers instead. Attention moves to the items laid out on the tables, and the people gathered. "We should check inside the garage, the big stuff'll be in there so they don't have to move it around too much," is his advice. Hither be Futonnes and Hammockes.

Now that's an idea. Doug looks at Trace and blinks a little, then smiles, "Shit, man. it's not hard to get a bike. What kinda bike do you want?" He looks down at the bluecap's shoes and shrugs, adding, "That's just the kind of shoe, man. Some of 'em just get fucked up really quick." He then lifts Batiste's finger twining hand so he can taste the fingers briefly before saying, "Nope. I never went roller-blading. Or skateboarding, really." He giggles a bit, "I just stole canoes, remember." Douglas Stevens, notorius canoe-thief, yes. The thought of canoes reminds him of another watercraft that he'd somehow forgotten in the upset of the last few days, and he grins at the sky, "I'm gonna get a boat."

"Naw, ain't never done it really," the bluecap admits, "but it'd be cool, if I could rollerblade everywhere. Be lots faster, betchya." As Trace speaks, hazel eyes are on the table before him, scanning it for possible treasures. "It'd be great ta like... live on a boat," he murmurs as he reaches the first table. He's just floating along on this line of conversation languidly. "Y'could like have a new backyard every day, an' like... fish. And a bigass swimming pool jest outside. Well, if ya really wanna swim in the nasty river. Bay ain't so bad.." He looks up from a little box of mismatched earrings he was picking through without any real interest and asks, "Ya gonna float it inna river or the bay?"

Jean-Batiste shuffles his feet a little when his fingertips are nibbled on, then looks steadily at an older woman gawking at them until she looks away. Run, scream, hide bibles under your children's beds! The local deviants and wierdlings are here. Half a year ago, he would've snatched his hand away from Glass and turned pink -- now he just squirms with residual shyness, then nuzzles briefly into two-toned hair. "A bike would be cooler, yeah, but then you've got to worry about it getting stolen, and you can just hang rollerblades over your shoulder when you're not wearing them." He smiles at Glass when he mentions the boat, fingers re-weaving in the older boy's. "It's gonna be great. I can't wait until we start picking them out." He turns around, walking backwards towards the garage where racks of clothes, boxes, and bits of furniture away, tugging on Glass's hand and beckoning Trace with a nod of his head. C'mon. Garage-buried treasure. You know you wanna.

"I'm gonna float it in the bay," Doug replies, picking up a little croceted pink something-or-other-cosy with an expression of distaste. He drops it again, wondering why he picked it up in the first place. "And I'll stay on it sometimes, and live on it if Shay ever kicks me out of her mansion." He picks up a ceramic cream-pitcher in the shape of a cow, and stares at it head on, grinning. The cow gets set back down and Doug hurries a bit to avoid being pulled along by Bat. Wouldn't want to seem reluctant. Just to make sure, he steps up close to put his free arm over one of Bat's shoulders and his chin on the other. "Yeah, it'll be great. What is it that we're waiting for again?"

"I ain't waitin, m'jest lookin at stuff," Trace explains, misunderstanding. He has no need of futons or hammocks, of course, but he finally abandons the box of mis-matched earrings to follow and poke about inside the garage. The chalk artist squats down near a dart board leaning against one dusty shelf, but it doesn't seem to come with any darts, and what would he do with it, appealing as flinging sharp stuff may be? He stands again and moves this time picks up a strange oil lamp, squat and dark blue that fades to grey at the top, with the little wick poking out the top. Hmm... But while this he might find some use for, it has no oil, and he's not sure how to light it or fill it... It's set down as well. Ohh... an old fashioned popcorn machines. And a box of action figures, all scuffed with play and many vetrans with missing limbs and broken karate-chop levers. He rummages with enthusiasm.

Mmm. Occupied shoulders. Batiste likes this, and turns his head to sidelong-smile at Glass to show it. He nudges hips with the older boy, then looks over to Trace, watching the bluecap rummage through action figures for several seconds. He can't help it. He just seems prone to -watching- Trace -- not in any lecherous manner, but as if he had to watch and observe as much as he could, to store up for an upcoming drought. "We're waiting for Ben to be able to take time off work," he murmurs in answer to Glass, finally drawing his attention back from Trace. "Better be soon, though." He shuffle-steps in time with Glass towards the back of the garage, where armchairs and dressers and lamps with tacky shades await.

If Doug is concerned about Batiste watching Trace, he doesn't show it. He merely watches the bluecap himself, his chin on Bat's shoulder. "Oh, yeah," he murmurs. "I knew it was somebody's work." He just keeps forgettting whose, and having to ask. He keeps forgetting who all is supposed to be coming, too, but he remember's who is not and lets the subject die off, hoping that he caught his stoned brain's little faux pas before it has a chance to blossom into hurt feelings in Trace. "You want a real chair?" he asks of Batiste, leaning against his younger friend's back to look at them over the blonde's shoulder. "I think you oughtta have a chair and a bookshelf."

No hurt feelings at all. Well, sure, they'd be there if he knew what you guys meant, but as is Trace is rather fully emerged in his action figures. He's seriously thinking about lugging these things back with him, inspite of the ribbings he'd probably take for it. "Step off, punk! This is Skelator territory, and we doan' let no Kiss dolls in our box.' 'You tellin me ta step off, you purple chest-spinnin freak? I'll kill you with my tongue! Blaaarh!" The two dolls get smacked together violently as Trace giggles and remains entirely oblivious to the odd looks he's receiving from fellow treasure-hunting hopefuls.

The armchair has Batiste's attention, yeah. It's upholstered in a pretty nasty brown-orange-gold pattern, but it -looks- comfortable, and it's only twenty-five bucks. "Yeah, I think I want this chair..." he murmurs, looking sidelong at Glass as he nods to him. "You think I should get a bookshelf instead of a dresser? I guess...hmm. I could put other stuff on bookshelves than just clothes, too. I think I saw a boom box over by the..." He doesn't finish, as Trace's voice pipes up and he can't help but laugh. Blarrrh! is right. Killed by a tongue. Batiste laughs, shaking his head at the bluecap until blond hair spills all around his face. "C'mon," he murmurs to Glass, sitting down in the chair and trying to tug the older boy down into his lap. "Help me test it. Don't want to buy it if it's not comfortable." He raises his voice, calling to Trace: "See anything you like? Gonna get some action figures?"

Glass nods as Batiste speaks, rubbing his chin against the other's shoulder in the process. He too glances over toward the sound of Trace's action-figure action. The sight makes him laugh brightly, and then he's being tugged to the ugly arm chair. He flops down onto Batiste's lap without cajoling, and grins at his friend, sitting up a but to slide his arms around the younger man's neck. "I don't know," he says. "It could be more comfortable. But it's pretty good." He raises his voice to call, "You should get a couple, Trace." How could you resist?

"What?" Trace blinks, shaken out of his fantasy by the calls from his friends, but then he immediately blooms a playful grin. Attention drops back down to the treasure trove of plastic wonders. "Naw man, what'r ya talking about? Action figures, pshh, them's fer babies, God." Even as he says it he's rummaging through the cardboard box for his picks of the litter. The Kiss doll and Skelator are both keepers, naturally. Captain Planet... no, he gets discarded, as he complains, "Man, fuck these tree-huggin hippy superheroes. Gimme something with a big, um. A big... nuclear lasar machine gun with, with an X-ray scope, and -- check it out, a Power Ranger! Haven't seen one'a them in years 'n years." He holds it up. No nuclear lasar bigass gun or anything. "S'the yellow one. She's one'a the chicks. The better one." The yellow Ranger gets tossed into the little pile he's got going, with a giggled explanation, "She kin be their bitch."

Glass giggles and whispers to Batiste.

Jean-Batiste senses Glass sounds so very amused, whispering, "Will you wear a yellow body-suit and be my bitch?"

"It's, mmn." Batiste wriggles around a little beneath Glass, shifting this way and that, trying to get comfortable. The armchair creaks and the springs make a few sounds of protest, but it doesn't collapse. No point in getting the chair if it wouldn't hold two, after all. "We'd need a footstool," he decides, tipping his head a little as he looks up at the older boy. "Then...I don't know. I think it's okay. I think it'd be comfortable, if I could keep my feet up and stay like this." He loops his arms 'round Glass's waist and shoulder-nuzzles a little, then looks to Trace and the pile of action figures heaping there. He muffles a laugh into Glass's shoulder when he hears the fate of the Yellow Ranger, then tips his head to hear the whisper. Whatever's said is earth-shatteringly shocking, apparently -- he just -gapes- at Glass for many seconds, jaw dropped a little, eyes wide, then turns a lovely raw pink and starts to laugh madly, hiding his face in Glass's shoulder again as he mumbles into the shirt.

Glass grins at Trace while the blushing Batiste hides his face against his shoulder. "We'll get a footstool," he assures, poking Bat in the ribs but looking at Trace. "If we can't find one we'll use a plastic crate or something. Unless you wanna hold out and hope we find a better chair." Then he looks down at Batiste, his expression affectionate, warm. "And that is a perfect lie, ami. You look good in any colour."

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