tehilim127_1 | Inbox for Pumpkin Hollow

It is the afternoon of November 4th, and Town Hall is mostly quiet, when a man walks in looking like he has just had a good run, a good cry or a good fuck. His face is blotchy and red and his breath still comes in shaky huffs. He is very clearly not up for this, whatever this may be.

Instead of the plainclothes of a new arrival, he is in the sharp uniform of a Black Stag Casino dealer.

Zivia's been working the front desk here at Town Hall since Dahlia Leeds stopped coming to work, and she's made the executive decision to come in to work for the afternoon just in case anything's caught fire in everybody's absence. Of all the things she might have expected to see show up today, that uniform isn't among them.

The thought goes through her mind that this might be someone here to collect some unnamed debt, some hidden cost. But she's a professional, and she keeps her expression clear and her tone friendly-polite-neutral.

"Afternoon," she says, with enough smile to qualify. "Can I help you?"

The man seems to take a moment to work his way up to words, his hands working like he should be holding something. His fingers are wrong, too long and spidery-thin, jointed oddly and bending in improper ways for fingers.

"H...he-hello. I am new to this island. I was told to come to town hall."

He sounds a little like a grade schooler reciting a script in a class play, face almost as red.

"Well, you were told right." Just a touch of cheer -- not as much as she might usually, as this man seems even more uneasy than the usual new arrival. "This is where we can help you get set up with a place to stay and your living stipend, and answer any questions you have. Can you tell me your name, to start off?"

This question is clearly one that takes a moment of thought, as if he might be wrestling with the 'can you...' part for a moment.

"La Hire? Jack. Jack? Jack La Hire."

That still sounds shaky.

"Jack La Hire," she repeats, writing it down. "Welcome, pleased to meet you. I'm Zivia Birnbaum." A pause. "Do you need a moment to sit down? I know starting out here can be really stressful."

To say nothing of where one might have come from, and the potential stress of that.

"Sit? Sit down?" His wild uncertainty focuses fully on her for a moment, before he exhales slowly and heavily. "Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea. May I?"

Even though she offered, he still finds it necessary to confirm he has permission to sit.

"Please do." She nods at a handful of chairs nearby, in what passes for a waiting area. "You could bring one of those over here, if you want to keep talking while you're sitting."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jack seems to take this as an order (though a polite one), immediately going to get a chair and sit on the other side of her desk, like a troublemaker in the principal's office. He folds those daddy longlegs hands politely on his knee, seeming uncertain what he ought to be doing with them.

Zivia pauses, to see if he has any particular questions, before speaking again.

"So, what have you already been told about this place and our situation here? I can go over things again, if you like, but I'm also happy to move on from what you've already gathered."

"I will live on this island now. And try to live a good life." That last part sounds like so much abstraction, like if someone had told him to 'achieve self-actualization' or 'find inner peace' without, like, giving him an idea of what that means or looks like or how to try.

Which doesn't sound like Mortanne's usual spiel, does it?

No, it really doesn't.

"Okay," she says, carefully gentle. "It sounds like you got a different introduction from most of us, so I'm gonna give you a little more information, if that's all right. Stop me if I say anything you don't understand, okay? And I'll do my best to explain."

If he doesn't object, she's going to go into her own best approximation of -- not Mortanne's introduction, since she's finding herself in some doubt about whether it applies, but Mayor Poe's: the curse, the barrier, the hope of lifting both.

Jack listens. He doesn't stop her, but the speech gets very little response, his brows furrowing more and more over time.

"I do not know if I can be useful to you, with all this. With curses and the island's economy and undyingness. I was not shaped to this purpose."

"Well," she says, "it's okay if you can't be. Though even just living here is going to help the island's economy -- the population's still low, and having more people here is good on its own. But ... as far as the curse and so on, I don't think that's a purpose any of us were shaped to. We're gonna do what we can with it anyway."

A pause. "Do you want to be useful? Cause there's bound to be something you can do, but like I said, you don't have to."

"I was shaped for dealing cards. I am very good at it. But if no one wants to use me for that, I have no idea what else I should do."

He seems frustrated with himself here, as if he isn't sure he's coming across correctly.

"How is it okay, to not be useful? We are here. There is work, we should be doing it. We were brought here. We are kept here." Or...maybe there's a capital letter in there--we are Kept here. It's hard to tell what's emphasis and what's just him being flustered.

"All right, this is two different conversations we're trying to have at the same time. Let's hold off for now on not having to work, and talk about what you could do, okay?" Her tone's both brisk and gentle, meant to both steady and soothe him; she hopes it'll work.

"You're very good at dealing cards, that means ... manual dexterity for sure, probably some mental math and analytic skills, definitely customer service skills. Other things I'm not thinking of yet. None of those are only good for dealing cards; you could apply them to other kinds of work."

"I could. Is that what you want me to do?" She speaks with authority, and he folds like wet cardboard, assuming she is issuing him orders. Telling him what's expected. Aster delegated personal supervision of him to Claunthe. Dahlia sent him to Town Hall. It's all the same, right?

~~It will be easier, once he knows the rules, the expectations.~~

A pause.

"Can I ask you a weird question? Little bit personal?"

“Of course you can.”

He’s visibly startled at her doing a consent check. Not upset, but confused that anyone would check before asking him a question.

Oh, that's ... that's probably not good. And suggests she's right to ask this.

"What were the, ah, conditions of your employment at the Black Stag? And the circumstances under which you came to work there?"

He stares at her desk rather than making eye contact as he gathers his words.

"I was under contract with a Fae Lord at his casino, the Golden Wheel for...I do not even know how long, but there were over three hundred years left of my debt when he sold or traded my contract to Aster. Unlike my previous owner, Aster did not allow for gambling to attempt to earn my freedom." The house always wins, though. How much more debt was accrued that way? He doesn't like to think of it.

It's a good thing he isn't quite looking at her; she needs a moment to get her expression back under control before she speaks again.

"I see. Again, sorry to ask, I don't know the context -- are you of the fae yourself?"

"I was not, when I entered the service of the Golden Wheel. But I was...changed...along the way. I am not the man I used to be. But I have no better way to explain myself now. What I have become."

He shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

"Is this a problem?"

"Not a problem," she says at once, gently firm. "It's a thing that could be good to know. In trying to figure out what would be your best options in living here."

Pause.

"Would I be right if I guessed that you haven't had much opportunity to choose your own course? Either at the Black Stag or at the Golden Wheel?"

"You would be completely correct."

It shows, doesn't it? And here he is, asking for marching orders, unable to comprehend being allowed to rest.

"All right. Well." She folds her hands and taps her thumbs together, thinking. "For the most part, they want people to do that, here. Choose their own course. But that can be hard if you don't have much experience doing it. Does it sound like something you'd want to do?"

"I have no idea what I would want to do. I have been told to go and live a good life. But what does that even look like?" He is not quite pleading for a tidy answer, but the question is significantly less flip than it might be from some people.

"Hmm. Maybe that's the first step, then, figure those things out. What I'd suggest -- and I want to stress, this is a suggestion, not an instruction, definitely not your only option -- what I'd suggest is take a little time to get accustomed to the town, and observe. See what kinds of work other people are doing, maybe ask them questions about it if they aren't too busy. And while you're observing, think about whether any of those jobs look like something you could do, or learn to do."

A pause. "And maybe while you're at it, you could ask other people what they think a good life looks like. But don't stop at the first answer. You're probably going to get a lot of different ones."

"It is permitted, to take time?" The wibbly look of uncertainty and confusion (and hope?) on his face probably confirms just how much he needs this.

"Absolutely," she says firmly. "As much as you need. Maybe start with ... let's say, two months? You'll get room and board and a basic living stipend during that time, and if you need longer, you'll have it for longer."

"Okay. That sounds...like something to start with. A starting point. Everything else can follow."

It's a relief, visibly so, not to push himself to Make Big Decisions right now.

"Exactly. And if you've got any questions during that time, or just want to talk over things as you figure them out, you can always come back here. Or you can write me a letter, or call me on the sending stones -- I can't guarantee I'll always be available to talk, but I can get back to you when I am."

He seems not convinced by her offer to talk things over if he needs help, but there's a small nod.

"I will remember this. Thank you, ma'am."

"Anytime." She smiles. "And -- I wish you well here."

(Given the circumstances he came from, it seems like a better thing to say than best of luck.)

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