log - too tired for title whee - closed to B1 and A4, open to those likely to wander by

[conning]

Who: B1: Closed to Neal and residents; A4: open to B1 and those who wish to poke their heads in because socializing and open doors
When: Early September--on a Sunday and then the following Wednesday. Why the following Wednesday? Idk man I just picked something.
Where: B1 on Sunday, and A4 on Wednesday IG???
Summary: Meredith invited Neal to visit, and Neal suggested making it a mingle for both apartments. Then Malcolm invited Neal over and Neal decided to do a solo trial run or something like that.
Warnings: Not at the moment. except possibly meredith giving neal a shovel talk


B1 - SUNDAY

Okay, well, he meant to make it simple. But then he got carried away, because that's who he is as a person. So here is Neal managing two coolers, one slightly smaller than the other. He has to set one down in order to knock on the door.

The coolers themselves contain tiny servings of about a dozen different dishes, from tiny seasoned steak slices of varying doneness to little onigiri stuffed with lightly salted salmon. If it's stupidly elaborate, feel free to assume there is some dressed-down (read: locally available) version available in miniature.

The other cooler has small bottles of cheap wine and those little paper cups that barely hold a mouthful. He sets the wines with the foods that pair best.

Look this is who he is as a person, okay? At least he's dressed normally--turquoise sweater, close-cut jeans.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]


B1/A4/Passerby - FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY

Okay, so the tiny food was a bit much. Only God can judge him.

At least this time it's a plain old cook-out with a grill on the patio of A4. Yes, the grill items include salmon, chicken, and... tofu in several marinades including citrus-chipotle.

Only God can judge him.

There's also a spread of perfectly ordinary salad-shaped objects and tiny pickles et cetera inside on the kitchen counter.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]

Comments

wednesday

[cacophonish]

"Oh. Soy milk, yeah," he nods, as if he didn't just call it tofu milk. "They make it with beans, right? Like coffee. It's all just bean juice in the end."

Deep.

"So you're like, a chef or something?"

[conning]

Neal's lips give the slightest twitch, betraying his amusement to the extremely observant, but his tone stays exactly the same.

"Unless it's leaf juice, or crushed dry plant, or an animal biproduct. There are some options out there." He picks up a fork to sample his own wares, squinting critically for a moment and making mental notes to himself before answering Jeff's question. "I like cooking. I wouldn't call myself a chef."

[cacophonish]

He places a few different samplings of tofu onto his plate, before moving on to the other stuff. Veggies, pickles, whatever. There's a willingness to try everything.

"Yeah? I wouldn't call myself a chef, either," he admits. "Can't cook for shit. This is good, though, it's like, you could sell it at a restaurant or something."

[conning]

Neal grins a little. "I did work at a few restaurants, here and there. Mostly in Europe."

And during his inauspicious beginning as a dish washer as he made his way from St. Louis to New York City, but that's hardly the kind of thing he'd say to... well, anyone.

"I was a Chef de Partie at best, though. Station chef. They focus on a single area of preparation in restaurants--fish, other meats, sautéed components of a meal, vegetables. They're all divided up so they can produce as much food as well as possible as fast as possible."

[cacophonish]

"Europe, huh. Never been." He winces a little after he says it. Fuck, he sounds like some kind of fucking sheltered bumpkin. "My brother did the whole backpacking thing, though. Maybe he ate at one of your restaurants."

Doubtful, but hey, he's just trying to salvage his own lack of worldly experience by living vicariously through Mike.

"Chef de Party," he repeats, the overly American pronunciation deliberate. Party on, dude. "Sounds like someone would call you a chef, then."

[conning]

"Yeah? I was always a little too delicate for the backpacking thing." That comes with a self-depreciating grin. He's adjusting, tweaking what he says and how he says it, settling into the persona that will put Jeff more at ease. "And I guess I wouldn't call me a chef, then. Spend enough time at one station as a Chef de Party--" a momentary pause, a little good-natured amusement at the butchery "--and you start being able to grill vegetables in your sleep."

He gestures to Jeff. "But what about you? Conservationist dumpster-shopper, free spirit, clearly. I considered Bonnie's, but like I said."

Neal directs a grin at the ground. "A little too delicate."

[cacophonish]

The little adjustments seem to do the trick, and Jeff's already relaxing, just a bit. He pops a cube of tofu into his mouth, chewing as he stalls on answering just yet.

Oh, me? I'm a bard who's pretty much fueled by cocaine and bad decisions, and sometimes I like to break people's minds because it makes me feel tingly inside. Did I mention that I also enjoy hallucinations and being possessed by a demon? I might actually be insane. Who the fuck even knows anymore.

"Musician. I had a band back home." He shrugs. "And now I busk on street corners for cash." It may be a far cry from packed clubs and screaming crowds and exhilarating highs, but... he does enjoy it, and he doesn't feel any shame. At least he's still performing. He can't imagine a life without it. Jeff smirks. "So I guess I'm a professional beggar."

[conning]

Neal snorts. "You're providing a service and displaying a talent, not asking for spare change. I'd call that an alternative-styled job, not begging. What do you play?"

[cacophonish]

"So... you work in the PR Department, huh?" he remarks, a light, teasing note in his voice, before he gets to answering the question. "Guitar. And I sing, too. I'm, like, trying to get some momentum going, you know, get some real gigs here, but it's kind of hard. No band, and not much of a music scene, so it's not like anyone's hiring guitarists right now..." There's a dreamy quality to the smile on his face as he shrugs again. "But as long as I'm performing, like, at all, I'm happy."

[conning]

Neal grins. "No, but I'd be damn good at it."

His expression softens into an unguarded smile. "You could always set up in a corner of a coffee shop, pull out your guitar, and start playing. Either they kick you out or they let you stay, but either way you get some attention. Sometimes starting at the bottom means making your own opportunities, even if they don't pay at first. Besides, sounds like you'd enjoy it."

[cacophonish]

"Yeah... Yeah!" He lights up. Great idea, Neal! "I didn't think about that, the-- the coffee shop approach. I mean, like, the kind of music I've always played, it's not really for solo artists, you know? Without a drummer, or a bassist, it's all fucking--" He waves a hand, looking for a word. "Incomplete."

For as much as Jeff always commanded attention on the stage-- sometimes at the expense of his bandmates-- he's missing them now more than ever. He never would've been anything without the Nervous Tix-- well. Not that he was ever anything more than the prince of a very niche scene to begin with...

"I'm trying, though, to like, soften up my sound here, I guess? Go a little more folk, so I can do the singer-songwriter thing. Not Bob Dylan shit, I mean, but like, modern, you know, still alt--"

He stops himself, looking a little sheepish.

"Fuck. Sorry."

[conning]

Neal was getting progressively more interested as Jeff's passion came out, enough that he blinks in surprise and slight confusion at the apology.

"Sorry for what?"