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Log Title: Soul Food
Setting: It is Friday, August 3rd, 2001, and this starts in Walker's home.
Log Cast:
Ben
Walker
Jean-Batiste
Trace
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Jean-Batiste shakes his head at Walker and Ben, laughing softly. "I'd rather have wet feet than blisters..." he insists. "It'll be okay for one more day, promise. I'll ask Jason where he put my boots next time I see him. -Promise-. Okay?" He doesn't bring the puppy eyes out to play, per se, but he -does- look hopefully to the pair. As a compromise, he adds, "I'll bring my cough drops along." He discreetly pretends not to notice the kiss, and goes to retrieve the aforementioned losenges.
Walker returns the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he showed in his arrival at the door. Both arms wrap around Ben's neck, one hand waving in a quasi-shooing motion that could mean anything from 'okay' to 'catch you in ten years'.
The door bursts open rather abruptly, or tries to, but meets with Walkerly resistance. Hrm. Trace blushes and peeks around the door rather sheepishly. "Er... M'sorry. Y'okay? I.." He pulls it back a little, just a wee crack, but he can squeeze through. His hands are just covered with chalk smears, and he's got some blue and orange on his cheeks too. Even a dash of purple on his forhead. Busy lil' artist, or messy, anyway.
Benjamin hopefully does not get bit when Walker gets bumped. He's jarred out of an enthusiastic kiss and loosens his hold on poor Walker, suddenly breaking into giggles. Teenagers making out, got caught, that sort of sheepish expression. "Hey, Trace. You look pretty," he teases, one hundred percent good humor.
"Trace!" Batiste calls from around the corner, in the kitchen, at the sound of his friend's voice. It's a little slurred - as he rounds the corner, the reason can be seen. Not booze, but the losenge he's rolling around in his mouf. Er, mouth. He leans against the doorframe, smiling fondly at Trace as he murmurs, "The purple brings out your eyes." He grins. Walker does not bite, instead popping up from the kiss with a soft gasp as the door connects. Not painful, just a surprise. "S'okay," he grins at Trace. "No harm done. Ya look like ya been workin'... feel like gettin' somethin' ta eat?" He always gets hungry after he's been on the job.
"*What?*" Trace blinks wide a moment, glancing between the two, and then giggles. Oh, right. He's messy, and they're teasing. He reaches up and touches his chin embarrassedly when it finally sinks in what he interrupted. So now he's got a multicolored smudge on his chin. Walker gets a grin and he bobs his head, "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great..." Doesn't seem like he's going to have any problem with taking those filthy hands to the dinner table either, if left to his own devices, as he pipes, "I'm ready. Where we goin'?"
Not interrupting so much as... well, all right, interrupting. After one more brief squeeze Ben lets Walker go, awfully unwilling to relinquish him today. "The Soul Food Cafe," he responds promptly, and puts one hand on his hip, the other pointing to the downstairs bathroom. "Go wash up first, Beaver, you know the rules." Whoa! Hello, Ben. This is a positively humorous streak he's got running today.
"Soul food," Batiste murmurs, smiling almost wistfully. He reaches out to Trace and flips a couple braids around with his fingertips, smiling softly at his friend. "Feel like biscuits and gravy? Or cornbread and molasses?" His mouth starts water again. Soon, his belly will start a-grumbling and embarrass him.
"Biscuits and *Jelly*!" Trace corrects with a grin, "And molasses plain." Then looks to Ben. Well, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), 'Leave it to Beaver' was way before the boy's time, so he just gives the professor a fairly blank look that turns into a grin as he ducks his head obediently, but giggles and mumbles under his breath as he passes a preadolescent phrase that springs to mind, "Save a tree, eat a beaver.." He smiles innocently, fending off a blush as he races for the bathroom.
Walker nudges the door back open, slipping around the wedge of wood that bumped him earlier with a bright smile. "Hurry up, Trace...! I'm sta'vin'!" To kill the edge of rare appetite he pulls out a cigarette, hovering on the threshhold for the go-sign. When he gets it into his head he's going somewhere, waiting is always difficult.
Benjamin giggles to himself as Trace dashes off, having forgotten that bit of sandbox wit. He turns, wandering around the small entryway restlessly while waiting. A quirked-eyebrow regard for Walker: does that mean he might eat an entire biscuit at breakfast? Or lunch, or whatever this meal is. Ahh, but Ben's pretty full on his wittiness quotient for today. He'll let that one slide.
Jean-Batiste thbts Trace goodnaturedly and insists, "Biscuits and -gravy-." He won't even argue molasses, because...well, the boy puts it on -sundaes-. There's just no understanding Trace's palate, that's for sure. Thoughts of pineapple cream cheese and molasses on ice cream can't hold up to soul food, though, and so he starts to crunch on his cough-drop, trying to stave off the belly grumbles.
The water flips on, and splashes of water hitting the tile floor might alarm some, but very quickly it shuts off again and a bright, shiny Trace emerges, mostly clean. Water dripping off his nose and chin, and a dark, damp circle all around the neck of his t-shirt and much down the front. So he wasn't too careful with the water in there, but he figures you all can blame walker for that. Tah-dah! Clean Trace spreads his arms. "Better, Ben? Kin we go now?"
"Yay! Trace's clean! Now can we gooo?" Walker doesn't wait for an answer, instead vanishing completely out onto the porch, then down to the sidewalk, despite the rain. "C'mon! Let's go!" He calls with a grin before splashing off to his car.
[ Fast forward to piling out of Walker's car after the drive to North Rampart and St. Louis in the Vieux Carre. ]
Benjamin is as eager as anyone to get to the food by this point, and so hops out of the car and up to the door to hold it open for the gaggle that follows.
The upper French Quarter. Sure it may look bad and there's a lot of bad things to be said about it, but... but.... Yeah. Walker parks the car and hops out, waiting till everyone's out to lock the doors.
Jean-Batiste piles out of Walker's car and moves aside a little before stretching towards the sky. In mid-stretch, his stomach decides to grumble, and he slouches down, laughing embarrassedly as he scratches his belly and heads for the door.
The Soul Food Cafe's glass front window occupies the first floor of a red brick building. Through the glass, the restaurant seems lively, and you can hear the jukebox faintly.
Trace scrambles out last, but with all the enthusiasm of the rest of his friends. He's just as eager to get some Soul Food too, though perhaps not in the order and combinations Batiste might prefer. He looks around with bright, observant eyes. Hmm, the old neighborhood. He nudges Bat and gestures towards the junkyard, murmuring, "Maybe oughta pick through there sometime together, see if there might be anything fer our place, y'know?" His gaze continues on down the street, catching on the Soul Food Cafe's sign.
A 10 foot tall wooden fence surrounds the Zulu Salvage Yard. A single wooden gate wide enough for a truck provides access.
Jean-Batiste looks towards the junkyard, bumping shoulders with Trace as he does. "Where? Oh, yeah. Hmm." He squints towards it, considering. "Yeah, we can check it out together, sometime. That'd be cool." Together being the important part. No need to tempt fate and rummage around a place like that on your lonesome. He bumps Trace's shoulder again, then ducks in the door.
Jean-Batiste goes into the Soul Food Cafe.
Scavenging near Metairie. Who'd've thought..? Walker grins and shakes his head, following Bat's lead inside.
Soul Food Cafe - St. Louis and N. Rampart
The Soul Food Cafe is a jumpin' jivin' happenin' joint that seems a
combination revival meeting and diner. Three booths each line the left
and right walls, six tables are present in the center of the restaurant,
and there is a counter in the back. The kitchen is accessable through a
gap in the middle in the counter. The decor is mid 70's plastic, in
shades of blue and orange, with matching vinyl booths. Several people
are present at various tables and the counter, but there is always space
available. A juke box stands by the door cranking out old R&B tunes. The
customers' conversations are audible but unintelligible above the music.
The one waitress takes orders and shouts them back to the kitchen over
the din. A plastic menu board above the counter provides selections and
prices, as well as indicating today's specials. A bussboy clears a table
near you quickly, the thumping of the jukebox adding rythym to his movements.
Benjamin stands patiently, holding the door like a good boy, waiting for his silly friends to finish their dawdling and -get- to the -food- already. Goodness, you'd think growing boys would be more adamant about food first, junkyard later. He's pleased, though, when finally they're inside and he can move in behind them. The music brings up a smile, and he rocks just a little to the beat, waiting for someone to pick a seating preference.
"Booth okay?" Trace asserts with a grin, already striding towards one, trying to get there first and not get stuck with an isle seat, because there's just something lovely about being trapped in a full booth by three great friends.
Walker thinks that's more than fine and corners a booth before it can get away. Sliding in he settles himself near the wall, taking a peek at the menu from where he sits. Ick. Liver. Gross. Definitely something he'd never order in a million lifetimes. Worse than spinach.
Trapper Batiste follows Trace over to the booth, and moves to squeeze into his side and then squash him in just a couple inches more, smiling oh-so-sweetly all the time. "Yeah, looks great." -Such- a benevolent smile! He squashes Trace in just a little more. Not enough to actually hurt or anything, of course.You sit down at Booth #1.
That would leave Ben and Bat with the outside seats, one of which Bat takes with such relish. Smiling approvingly on that smushed-up arrangement, he settles in next to Walker and leans over to retrieve himself a menu. Single minded: where's the promised biscuits and gravy? And coffee. -And- orange juice. And maybe some eggs and bacon and... Ben's eyes get bigger than his stomach quickly.
Trace gives a little squawk as he gets squished. And then again! Bat is evil tonight, surely. He levels a glare the blonde's way, only to get another squashing, and this time giggles and fumbles to pick up a sticky container of syrup. "Don't make me use this on you, man!" he cries with mock-desperation.
Evil Trapper Batiste continues to grin far-too-sweetly at Trace until laughter steals the expression away. "I give, I give...!" he promises, and scoots over to give Trace a bit more room. Soon as he does, though, he starts playing with frazzled blue braids. He's rather giddy and puppyish, all of a sudden, dark eyes shining. At least for right now, everything is All Right. He grabs a menu as well, and starts flipping through it.
Walker giggles and pulls his cigarettes from his back pocket. "Syrup can be a dangerous weapon in th' right hands.." He waggles a lone brow at the youths acros from him, dumping the expression as it looks like Big Bertha's attention had been drawn by the commotion. He grins at the waitress. "Hey... Um. I want some-a them tigah schwimp ya got.. but go easy on th' sauce. An' a... glass-a watta I guess." He snuggles back into the booth to light his cigarette.
Benjamin rubs thoughtlessly at his goatee as he goes over the choices. Though he was hooked on breakfast a moment before, his resolve for that is shot through at the promise of the Best Chicken in the State. He looks up to order, and visibly shrinks from the quite intimidating woman that comes to take the order (I mean, anyone named Big Bertha has gotta be scary). "Ahh... fried chicken and a cup of coffee." Well, that was a lot less than he'd intended to order.
Trace sets down the syrup, immediately leaning closer to Bat when his braids get sudden attention. Mm, much better. He lifts a brow at Walker and then turns to the server immediately to insist, "Naw, he really wants a big jumbo milkshake. With whipped cream and sprinkles. Promise." His hazel eyes twinkle as he flits a glance to Walker. Then he reaches for a menu. Hmm. Time to see what's available...
Walker didn't realize he wanted one of those but since Trace insists, he must need one. He grins at the waitress, solidifying the order for the blue-braided artist.
Jean-Batiste smiles up shyly at Big Bertha and murmurs, "Biscuits and gravy and sausage, please? And a basket of cornbread? With butter and molasses." Try and order -that- when you were out on the coast, home-boy. He looks over at Trace, bumping shoulders yet again, and suggests, "The chicken wings?" Gloriously messy fun to eat, and all.
"Ohmigod, Moose Turd Pie!" Trace exclaims gleefully as his eyes widen. "I want that!!" Then he flickers a glance to first Ben then Batiste and bites his lip. Wait, he's not getting away with that, probably. "Er... I mean, fer dessert," he corrects himself, and looks over the actual entrees. Woah. This place is *weird*... how neat. "Uh. Hmm, chicken wings, eh?" he studies the description, then giggles a little. "I want neck bones an' punkin' soup!"
Bertha eyes the whole lot at the table, brows beetling a little even as she writes. She's seen some strange things in her time, though... ain't no one gonna truly shock her.
Oh my God, indeed. Ben gives Trace a look of pure horror when that outburst comes. Moose WHAT Pie? And people eat this? Though he tries, really he does, to keep from snorting, it's a losing battle. He drops his forehead into one hand and laughs embarassedly. Could've been worse. Could've been Moose Ball Pie, after all.
Jean-Batiste just shakes his head and grumbles with wordless affection at Trace's glee. Secretly, he wonders if he could make turnip greens sound weird enough to make his friend want to eat them. Ever trying to sneak nutrition into Trace, he is.
"Okaywaitno," Trace calls back his order, since he was joking. About the pumpkins, anyway. It'd be cool if it was all orange, but how good can it taste, being vegatable based and all? "Okay, chicken wings insteada soup." Apparantly the necks stay. With a giggle, he glances at Ben and points out, "S'jest chocolate 'n stuff really, with a cool name."
"And a milkshake for me!" Trace blurts as an afterthought. Otherwise he'd have to snitch Walker's off him, or stare longingly and grind his teeth as the man just sipped at it daintily.
Walker blinks as a plate of something-or-other is practically frisbee'd out of the kitchen. Whoah. Keep your heads down in this diner, to be sure. He pulls a drag from his cigarette, grinning at Ben's expression in reaction to teh moose turd pie. "It may be chocolate but I ain't evva eatin' it," he murmurs as Bertha sidles away to have their order slung out. "Anythin' with turd in it's bad news.."
Benjamin peeks up through his fingers at Trace. Just bring him the chicken and coffee and no one will get hurt. And someone try to force some parsley or something into Trace. "I'm with Walker on this one," he agrees with a heaved sigh. "If they're going to name it after excrement, I'm staying far, far away from it."
"Oh, it can't be -that- bad...it's just a name..." Batiste laughs softly. "It's...local colour." He gives Ben a teasing look, as he says that. "Like...butter beans and turnip greens." Okay, bad example - he grimaces a bit. Those are some of the uglier local colours. "You think it'll be shaped like turds?" he wonders with a soft giggle, looking to Trace. Benjamin chuckles at that, recalling his comment in front of the Cafe du Monde the other night as well. "And if you smear me with it, I'm going to spank you," he murmurs with a grin.
"What's in a name?" Walker nips at his grin. "A turd by any otha name...?" He lifts his eyes to the smoke trailing from his cigarette, nothing but innocence. His eyes suddenly lower, fixing on Ben with abject glee. "Why, Ben! Can I take pictchas?"
"An' kin I steal 'is biscuits and molasses from 'im while he's gettin' it?" Trace chimes in amusedly, plucking at the cardboard advertisement tucked into the metal rack holding the sugars, sugar substitutes, and little jelly containters with the peel-away foil lids. Hmm... maybe he shoulda ordered these porck chops after all. Damn restaurant ads. Not like the food ever looks like that *anyway*...
Benjamin lightly whaps Walker's forearm with the backs of his fingers, and looks properly schoolteacher-disapproving. "First, you blaspheme Shakespeare, and then you make Batiste blush." Because that's a given, he doesn't even need to look over to know that the young man's cheeks are going to get at least a little pink. "Now the latter I can forgive, but the former is a whippable offense," he informs the misbehaving pupil solemnly.
Jean-Batiste mumbles something incoherent and shoots Ben a mock-wounded look as he blushes and looks down at the tabletop. He pushes his fork around a little - has to be in the optimal, uh, forking position - and shakes his head a bit, grinning. "No molasses on the biscuits, they'll be covered with gravy. That'd be pretty gross." Then again, look at who he's trying to convince this of.
And sure enough, "Naw they wouldn't," Trace beams.
Whippable offense. One might think such a threat would immediately cause an errant mutilator of sacred Shakespeare to starighten up immediately. Not Walker. He favors Ben with a wicked grin, nipping at his thumbnail as he grinds out his cigarette. "Well, seein' as -I'm- th' one with th' whips, I'm thinkin' I'm pretty safe." He can't resist in that light, to add: "Alas, poor pork chop... I knew it."
Trace puts the ad back and settles back in his booth comfortably. Mmm, good food coming, and being all nestled in here, this is nice. Not to mention, "Hey, guess what?" He glances up and smiles a little. "Made almost thirty bucks today. This one lady gave me ten bucks for sketchin' her little girl." He puts his elbows on the table and props his chin up in his hands. "Cool, huh?"
Benjamin gives Walker another one of those reproving looks. There are kids at the table who might not want to hear about the whips, after all, hmm? Though there's a spark of mischief, a comment left unsaid, and probably for the better. And now that it's started, Ben can't resist muttering, "A fellow of excellent ham and infinite bacon," trailed off to smile suddenly at Trace's good news.
"Here hang these salty lips which Walker have kissed I know not how oft..?" Trace smiles sweetly.
Jean-Batiste stays mildly pink for a while, then peeks up tentatively after the whip comments to look at Trace. He seems to fret - Batiste, fret? Truly? - for a second, then grins and gives his friend an encouraging bump to the shoulder. "Hey, that's great," he murmurs. "I'm glad. Did you do any sidewalk..." He trails off at Trace's quote and glances away, chuckling, reaching quickly for his glass of water.
Since when did 'mixed company' stop Walker from speaking his mind? But he seems content to let that rest, nudging Ben playfully at his own blasphemy. Good news followed immediately by another mangling from Trace. And a good one, too! "I don' remembah kissin' salty lips, but.." He shrugs.
Benjamin glances heavenward for a reprieve, and yet it goes on. And how does Trace know Shakespeare anyway? His family never ceases to surprise him. Yet at the same time, he makes a mental note not to allow these brilliant wordsmiths any cracks at his beloved Donne or Byron. He leans back comfortably in the booth, and finishes for Walker, ".. but he can't honestly remember any -individual- lips that he might have kissed at any one time. They all just... blur."
"Sidewalk drawins'?" Trace prompts, and nods a little. "Yeah.. yeah, had the cup out most the day. Well, so it was a short day, I slept in again.." He shrugs a little. "Anyway, hundred an' somethin-er-other t'go." So the kid knows his literature pretty well, but that doesn't make him a math wiz. He looks up at Walker, then Ben, and just snickers. "Geez, guys, I was still 'talkin bout pork chops." So the metaphor wore a little thin, seeing as how pork chops don't have lips. Ah well.
Walker hrmphs, bumping Ben's shoulder. "Now -that's- an untruth if I evva heard one. I may not remembah some lips coz-a circumstances but I remembah most." Oo.... food's here. And just look at those shrimp (or - as Walker calls 'em - schwimp).
[Then Walker has to go home, so we cut the scene short and start a new one back at Walker's place, after the meal.]
The door bursts open and Trace sings out off-key, to the 'fishheads' tune, "Moose turds, moose turds, grimy slimy moose turds..." A dash, a leap, and *whump!* He vaults the couch's armrest and lands on the cushions, a move that knocks some of the breath out of him, but he grins back at the both of you anyway.
Benjamin brings up the rear as is his usual, grinning contentedly at Trace's enthusiasm. Batiste merits a glance over and a quirked brow as well. See? See how everything's all right? As he moves inside he claps a light hand on the blond boy's shoulder, patting him gently and wandering both toward the living room.
Yes, everything is still All Right. Nothing like good ol' soul food to help make a good mood even better. Batiste smiles back at Ben for a moment, a quiet and fond expression, then suddenly bolts for the couch as well, leaping for the unoccupied spot, or the half occupied by Trace's legs. "Banzai!" he laughs as he leaps.
Trace's laughter rings out to meet Batiste's as his legs get pinned by the boy, and he wiggles free and sits up to tug at some blonde braids affectionately. Then he looks back at Ben and needlessly points out with cheer, "And ya don't even gotta get home, coz home's right here! Are you gonna take yer school stuff over here and books and things soon too?" A little hopeful at that last part of the question.
Benjamin watches over the impending puppy-pile just as fondly, a soft sigh barely audible. This is good, this is going to be home. A real home, with real people who don't care if you wash up before dinner or which fork you start your meal with. Ben himself stakes out the armchair that isn't Walker's living room throne and drapes himself comfortably into it. A slow nod for Trace as he settles right in. "It's not quite home yet. I still have responsibilities at work for the next couple of weeks. And I have to pack." He glances around the living room, then up the stairs, mentally judging the size of the upper floor. "I don't know how many of my books and things will -fit-, honestly."
Jean-Batiste shakes his head at Trace, fiercely batting his friend's hands with blond braids. He tries to worm around until he's laying as all devoted guard-dogs should - his head against Trace's leg, looking quite happy and serene. It's hard to think about anything bad happening ever happening at all right now, with his belly all pleased and full. "There will be room for the books, Walker will make room, I know it," he murmurs. Getting rid of books is heresy, after all. "One of those big tall bookshelves like old fancy houses have. He'll just have to take a couple posters down, or move them around, that's all." Cohabitation, and all.
"Yeah. Yeah, a big shelf fer the books," Trace agrees wholeheartedly. He grins down at Batiste and starts gently running a hand through the coarse blonde ropes, quite pleased to be guarded by the BatPuppy. "Hey Ben?" he smiles and murmurs softly, not looking up from his petting. "How old are the kids ya teach, mostly..? Like beginning college kids, 'r the older mostly grown ones, r'what?"
For a moment or two, Ben doesn't look particularly sure that spatial compromises will be made. There were no compromises the other night, when the decision was made, after all. But he forges ahead with a little smile and nod, praying he never has to explain -that- conversation to either of you. "The books are all I care about, really. I can get rid of all my other things." What needs he of a couch or kitchen table when Walker can already provide? That content smile falters again with Trace's question. He just isn't used to the idea of leaving all that, not yet. "Freshmen and sophomores," he replies after a quiet moment. "Eighteen and nineteen, mostly. The younger ones. Why?"
Happy BatPuppy. He smiles up at Trace for a while, turning his face into the petting, then closes his eyes and lets out a contented sigh that seems to come all the way from his toes. "Mmmn," is his contribution to the conversation. He's listening - oh, most definately - but he can't think of anything to add, just yet.
"Well, I was jest' wondering..." Trace murmurs, concentrating on petting Batiste's braids. It takes so much attention, you know, to do it right. So Ben's giving up teaching for some reason or other? Well, Trace doesn't know anything about this so he continues obliviously. "I jest'... I thought, um. Since ya'd be livin' here and all, if maybe some classes ya might, uh." He looks down, and feels foolish. Street kids aren't supposed to want things like this; maybe he'll be teased for it. With chagrin he asks, "Um, maybe ya'd show me some of the stuff ya teach 'em sometime, like.. jest t'see. If I'm bored or somethin'. Y'know, whatever."
Benjamin actually brightens up a great deal at that. Walker may not realize it (and now Ben would never let it show for fear of plaguing the man with guilt), but teaching is in Ben's heart and soul, and he loves it. Giving it up entirely is going to be awfully painful, but perhaps Trace is offering a sort of transition, unwittingly. "I'd like that," he replies, quietly, his smile returning somewhat. "I've often wondered what your take.. both of you.. would be on several of the poems and stories I've taught."