Night Shift (SevenxDream)

[sevenpercentsolution]

Carousel Theatres had been open in Miami for nearly two decades; when it had first started, it had been the most up-to-date movie theatre in the city with the best lighting, the best screens, and a prime downtown location. However, the cinema had passed through the hands of several property owners and managers since its opening twenty years prior, and Miami had evolved and changed around it. Where the theatre had once been in a classy, sedate neighbourhood, it was now surrounded by broken down old buildings with chipping, pastel-hued facades, in an area that had become known for loud and illegal rave parties, where drug trafficking tended to take place.

In an effort to bring more attention to the theatre, the third property owner had used a large portion of the buildings finances to purchase new screens and to change the lighting fixtures, but had run out of money mid-way and abandoned it, leaving it a dusty, rundown cinema painted in the irritating shades of red and yellow that one would normally associate with a circus tent. The walls inside the place were covered in cracks, blemished with the half-hearted attempts at repair, and the floor - originally blue tiles - was now permanently stained with dirt and popcorn grease. Realizing it was a lost cause, the third owner had then passed it off to a disturbingly optimistic fourth owner, Pedro Mendez, a Miami native who saw potential in the rundown old cinema, and had every intention of restoring it to it's former glory - if only he could rake in a bit of cash.

With few coming into the place - given that there were cleaner and more up-to-date theatres all over Miami - Mendez had been forced to cut back, and had let go of five staff members, leaving only five for the afternoon shift, and two for the midnight shift, when only one or two customers came into the place. One of those night shift workers had formerly been on the day shift - she was good enough that Mendez felt compelled to keep her on his staff, in the hopes that one day, when the place picked up, he could give her back her original shift.

The other night shift worker was Peter Wexler - he had been working with Carousel Theatres for nearly fifteen years, so he had met every single property owner and manager that had passed through the place, and every one of them had relayed that Wexler was a reliable, fastidious and hard-working employee, not to mention that he was the only one who had never actually complained about working the midnight shift. Usually he worked by himself, but on the rare occasion in the past, some in-training employees had spent a shift with him, and while they all said he was a nice guy, there was a general consensus that there was something - off - about him.

Like how he never seemed to blink, for instance.

And Mendez couldn't disagree with them; Wexler had initially given him the willies with his twitchy, neurotic behaviour and his general appearance. Because of his astounding height of six-foot-six, Wexler tended to tower over everyone he met, and he had wide, lamplight blue eyes, long limbs, and dirty blonde hair that stuck out at wild angles; the over all effect was that he looked like a mildly retarded scarecrow. Not to mention the fact that Mendez couldn't figure out how old the guy actually was - in order to have worked there for fifteen years, he had to be at least thirty-three, but he didn't look a day over twenty. But eventually Wexler had grown on him, and he was too reliable to let go of just because he was a little eerie - so Mendez had kept him on, and had assured the new night-shift worker that, really, she just had to get to know Peter.

And so it was on a Sunday night when Carousel theatres was particularly quiet that the two had been assigned to start their first shift together. The entire building was silent except for the bass rhythm coming from one of the wild parties outside, and Wexler stood behind the convenience counter looking astounded by a box of Junior Mints that he was holding in his hand.

 

[Osheaga]

• From selling greasy, over-buttered popcorn to irate mothers and their bratty little children to working a night shift with an eerie, lanky floor-sweeper--that's where Jonta Romaine found herself. She was a patient woman, but after acquiring this shady occupation on her seventeenth birthday, her sweet patience was quick to wane then dwindle into nearly nothing. Nearly four years she had been working at this old cinema, now, witnessing minimal changes. Their current manager wasn't necessarily a stickler for cleanliness as she had noticed; many times twenty one year old woman created plans to make the theater a much better place, but that would mean she had some menial interest in the battered building. Not this philosophy major. She definitely didn't want to spend the rest of her life managing a meaningless building with lazy, irrelevant staff and candy dispensers that probably were infested with big, plump cockroaches.
  
  Unlike her scarecrow-like co-worker, she was much more filled out. Her height was unaverage for a woman, nearly five foot ten inches; her eyes were a brilliant shade of succulent milk chocolate, matched with insanely thick eyelashes and layers of creamy black eyeliner. Due to some distant mixture of Greek, Italian and Brazilian decent, her skin tone was a rich creamy coffee hue with a slight bronze highlight to it. She was a stunning young woman with dark, sullen features, but wasn't necessarily the type to over primp, let alone dress to the nines when coming to work. Especially since the work uniforms consisted of button-up polos and sleeveless dress vests. Jonta never could bring herself to adorn the polo; she garbed herself well in a tight black t-shirt, a burgundy shaded vest and a fitted article of pinstripe pants. The woman gazed forward, clearly unperturbed by the task on hand. It was always a thrill to work at the concession counter, especially since she had spent the majority of her evening cleaning a messy dorm-room.
  
  It seemed particularly quiet that evening; was it even right to come into work?
  
  If there was a large lack of patrons in the cinema, well, they used to cancel shifts. The idea varied between managers. It seemed this one wasn't so fond on clipping off employees. Quite lazily the woman approached the main foyer, examining the spacious, uncared for walls. And then... the tall lanky creature looming before her behind the stand. He wasn't excessively menacing. In fact, he was a fairly attractive man... he just had an eerie quality to him. It was an admirable quality to Jonta, in fact. She proceeded forward, gently tossing the lion's mane of black hair she had boasted over the smooth brunt of her well rounded shoulders. She had bound her hair back lazily (company policy) then advanced, quite bewildered with the spectacle before her. "Peter?" Her voice was quiet and smooth like all natural peanut-butter, though i had a vulpine ring. She raised a well manicured hand and swiped it past the man's brilliant blue eyes, parting her full lips once more. "Are you alright?"[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

It seemed as though Wexler was scarcely aware that Jonta had stepped into the building, and he was looking at the box of candies with a bizarre, wide-eyed focus, his hand so big that the box could barely be seen around his long fingers. Of course, that lasted up until Jonta waved a small, dark hand in front of him, and he made a small noise of surprise, and dropped the box onto the counter, where it landed with a dull thunk that seemed to echo through the otherwise empty building.

He didn't look down at the box, or even move his head; instead, it was more like the box had simply moved out of his line of vision, and now the lamplight blue eyes were on Jonta by default.

"I've been selling those things for years - did you know they don't seem to have any actual food in them?" he asked; the actual timbre of his voice was deep and smooth, but it was saturated by a bizarre accent that sounded vaguely like it had started out as Welsh, and had eventually been mutated by years in Miami, likely from speaking Spanish or Cuban.

"It's just sugar and oil." he added, "And this box 'ere is three years old and apparently not expired. It's like they've figured out how to mummify foodstuffs; at what point does it stop being food and start being an artifact? I think most of the things 'ere have been 'round long as I have and even the roaches don't seem to want them - except for the giant one that hisses at me every week. It eats anything."

He turned then, looking around himself as though to try and locate the enormous cockroach just to prove it, but came up with nothing.

 

[Osheaga]

• What an odd... response. He definitely seemed well endowed when it came to his work. The woman peered upward at the abnormally tall man with mildly uncertain eyes, the length of her fingers feathering over the half-crushed box of Junior Mints and collecting it. Next her chocolaty gaze thoroughly examined the boxes content while Wexler spoke, though she hadn't necessarily comprehended completely what he was talking about. Partially, but not completely.
  
  She wasn't quite particular to speaking. It was rare she did, but only if she wished to voice her opinion.
  
  And, that wasn't very frequent. "It's obvious how long some of this junk has been lying here," she commented wryly, still giving the tattered box a once over. Wexler may have been an odd-ball but he really didn't phase the woman in the lightest. "Yet people still purchase them. It's a whole part of the 'movie theater' experience." Her tone seemed very dry and sarcastic, though it was only a ginger vehemence directed to the assortment of the theater's patrons. Why would they eat food infested with cockroaches? And everyone knew that the cockroaches here in Miami were nearly as large as the ones in New York. Nonetheless, Jonta could care less; if they wanted to eat dry insect droppings then by all means. She had no say, her only job was to give them their concession with a feigned grin.
  
  Slowly she advanced behind the counter and regarded the floor--full of sticky cotton candy, popcorn, butter and small pastel colored candies. Jonta lifted her foot, a large wad of pink gum connected to the soul of her new sneakers and the sticky content of the floor. "Disgusting," she groaned half-heartedly, clearly revolted by the well done cleaning job of the previous workers. Firstly she reached for an old, cracked broom, bending fully downward to pluck it from its positioned as it was wedged between the popcorn machine and nacho-cheese dispenser. In the process she pricked her finger in a jagged piece of metal protruding from the spoiled popcorn machine, clearly angered in the process. "Fuck," she cursed, pulling her digit into her mouth, drawing the rich, sanguine fluid from the fairly large wound.
  
  "Do you know where... there are any band-aids?"[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Wexler couldn't disagree with her opinion of the floor, and he glanced down at it, frowning at the sight of the sticky flourescent candies and popcorn kernels clinging to his otherwise ridiculously clean, huge white and red sneakers. It had always amazed him that he would carefully scrub down the entire concession area on his shift, and the next night when he came in, it would be like nothing had changed - somehow nearly an entire candy store seemed to end up on the floor, and some days he suspected the day shift employees had candy fights.

"Licorice jousting." he said out loud, and didn't seem to realize how random and ridiculous it sounded, and he picked up a discarded bit of cardboard from the counter and used it to try and knock a bit of peppermint candy from the sole of his shoe, but it stuck stubbornly, only moving millimetres at a time and sort of rolling along the sole instead of falling off. He was focused on this for a long few moments, apparently with intense concentration, up until the point he heard Jonta curse, and he looked up from his important mission, eyes instantly fixing on her bleeding finger as though he'd known what part she'd hurt before even looking.

He was completely silent for a long moment, still half bent with a bit of cardboard in his hand, one foot lifted, still poised as though attempting to knock away the candy, and after a little while, it seemed as though he might never reply, or as though he had died in that position and would fall over any minute. Finally, his brows furrowed as though he was forcing himself to think, and he finally nodded,

"Um, yeah," he said, and straightened up then, moving around her, but giving her a very wide berth as though he thought he was much wider than he actually was, or as though there was some radius around her that he wouldn't step into. He pulled a small red case from beneath the counter and removed a strip of bandages from it,

"Do you want Scooby-Doo or Batman? It's just that Mr. Mendez sent me to get the bandages a few months ago and the only convenience store around here doesn't stock up very often so - it's the scoobster or batsy." he said, offering out one of each.

 

[Osheaga]

• The woman seemed slightly disturbed by the small variety of bandages she was offered. "What..? No Hello-Kitty, no My Little Pony?" Her voice seemed so horribly monotonous that if had actually sounded as if she was serious. It was a no-brainer when it came to choosing a band-aid--Scooby Doo, of course. She had grown up watching that television program. She gingerly plucked the Scooby Doo band-aid from his long, lanky fingers, gingerly peeling away the adhesive protective wax paper and pampering her constantly stinging wound, if one were to call it a wound. Her brother would most likely call her that evening and ask her work went. She'd simply reply, "I got into a fight with the popcorn machine."
  
  Oh lord. I do believe I am regretting not choosing the Batman band-aid. A choice that will haunt me for the remainder of the evening.
  
  After her small cut was primped and set, she recollected the broom (which was missing tons of bristles) and began sweeping away at the floor, accumulating tufts of raspberry cotton candy and half-crushed jub-jubs. Most of them had stuck to the broom but Jonta paid no mind, grasping the dustpan on her trek behind the concession counter. After that job was done--and it didn't take too long--she grappled the dustpan and tossed the junk into the overflowing garbage can then regarded the still sticky floor. "This is ... debauchery," she uttered lucidly, dragging her feet over to a small closet beyond the counter where she collected a mop and a bottle of soap. "Um... Peter?" She glanced at the man with a chocolaty gaze, motioning towards the garbage can.
  
  "Could you empty that?" Her leer was redirected to the doors that opened in the main foyer, a group of teenagers--no older then sixteen--looming inward. They looked like little hooligans to Jonta, but then again, she wasn't genuinely the kind to stereotype. They were dressed casually, one of them boasting several facial piercings in unusual places. They did have a bit of a mischievous vibe to them, but Jonta paid no mind. "Oh, joy. Potential customers."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

"No, they were all out of My Little Pony," Wexler replied without missing a beat, watching as she stuck the bandage onto her finger, "I think they might have Dora the Explorer though. I can totally get some of those for you next time."

He looked down at the single Batman bandage in his hand and it struck him as unfair that the dark avenger should be crammed back into the first aid kit like so much unwanted garbage, so he wordlessly opened up the bandage and stuck it to his forehead, calmly stating:

"I'm Batman."

Before continuing the job he had been doing before Jonta had arrived, and continued stocking the candy counter - though, it didn't need a lot of effort. He made short work of it, and put the stock boxes back in their original place, and when he heard Jonta say his name, just half of his head appeared above the counter from where he was crouching, the big blue eyes fixing on her like a submarine periscope.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, rising then and lifting the garbage can in one hand, and giving it a frown when it began to drip brownish ooze from a crack in the bottom of it; he glanced over his shoulder at the small group of teenagers coming in - usually not a good sign in Miami - and noted that one of them seemed to be carrying a small weapons supply on his face.

"Be right back," Wexler added before making his way out the side door and around to the dumpster, leaving a trail of garabage water along the way and looking displeased with it; out at the side, he chucked the contents into the dumpster and did his best to ignore the smell - the things humans ate were pretty nasty sometimes.

And, inside, the group of teenagers all hesitated in the doorway, each of them looking around the place with varying expressions of amusement. A heavy-set white girl with an up-do on the side of her head was the first to speak,

"Yo, you work here?" she asked, "What's goin' on? This place is so ghetto."

The second to speak was the guy with a faceful of piercings; darker and wearing a sideways baseball cap,

"Nobody even in here. This place is a fuckin' mess." he said, eyeing the cracking walls and sticky floor before looking over at Jonta, and making a show of looking her up and down, "You workin' alone? You the only one here? Your boss around - or are you the boss?"

Judging by the way the kid was talking and flinching, he'd already taken a deep dive into some cheap drugs, an easy thing to do in that area of Miami.

"'Cause, I can totally hook you up with some grade A dope, baby, if you wanna join me and my, uh," he glanced back at the quartet that was backing him up, consisting of two miserable-looking girls and two guys who looked roughly the same age, "Compadres."

 

[Osheaga]

• No, 'luv, I'm sure you don't even know what ghetto means.
  
  Jonta warily eyed the full-figured girl approaching her, though didn't seem to pay much attention. These teenagers weren't necessarily worth her time, though it wasn't as if she had believed they were beneath her. Equality and that nonsense. However, she felt as if she was being made a show of by the first young man, the one with the face full of titanium piercings. Jonta did indeed have a tongue piercing and a labret piercing (but that was when she was rebelling at age 14) though she was not allowed to wear them at work. Eventually she just stopped wearing the tongue stud altogether.
  
  Still, she was unperturbed by the teenagers. Most people her age were scared half to death of a pack of the hormonal, acne-ridden adolescences, but the was one of them at a previous point in her life. Why would she be scared of some math-failing pizza faces that relied on weed to get by? Suddenly a thought rushed back into her head. Batman? Wait, did he truly say that? Her thoughts were interrupted by another curt voice, seemingly struggling with voice cracks.
  
  I love when they pretend they can speak Spanish.
  
  She completely by-passed their wry comments, gazing at the leader of the pack square in his beady little eyes. "Tonight we have a special, two tickets for the price of one. Now, can how may I be of service?" She rested a well manicured hand upon the transparent class countertop, standing straight and tall. "I take it you're pretty hungry, too. So would you like the number four? Two large popcorns, two large drinks of your choice and a candybar. My personal favorite are the Wonderbars; nougat is always a pleasure to the pallet, but you can choose whatever you'd like."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The teens exchanged looks amongst themselves, though the pierced one kept his eyes on Jonta the entire time, clearly letting his hormones take the wheel; he tongued the corner of his mouth lewdly, and the movement showed another piercing. He shifted his mouth a little, and then looked back at his friends once more before approaching the counter, coming closer to Jonta now; he smelled like sweat and weed, and the skin around his nose was an angry red that indicated marijuana wasn't his only habit.

"I can tell you exactly how you can be of service," he said then, putting one of his hands on hers, and grabbing his crotch with the other to indicate what his drug-addled teenage brain was thinking, and the angry-looking blonde suddenly came up, laying a hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him away from Jonta as she recognized trouble was brewing.

"Hey, dude, no," she said, and looked at Jonta, "He's like, really high, he totally doesn't mean it."

"Fuck you," he snapped, closing his fingers around Jonta's wrist, and shrugging away his friend's gentle insistence, "Fuck off Marla, I know what I fuckin' mean, get your hand off me."

"Come on, Rich, seriously, this isn't cool," she said, trying again to tug him away, and he suddenly turned and backhanded her with enough strength to knock her back.

"I told you to fuck off you little bitch!" Rich shouted at the stunned girl, "You think you own me? Fuck you, you touch me again and I'll fucking kill you!"

And suddenly one of the other guys, latino, shorter and built broad, was in Rich's face, jabbing him in the chest with a short finger,

"What's wrong wit'chu man? Hitting girls, you need to chill, dawg!" he said, and Rich shoved him back.

 

[Osheaga]

• "Matters not to me, as long as I make a sale."
  
  She had the true tone of a hustler, or at least, a hard-working employee. When his hand jerked back she retracted her own, carefully smuggling it into the depths of her tight pants. It was always entertaining when friends tried to vouch for their friends, especially when they were clearly under the influence of some sort of narcotic or drug. She glanced spaciously at the quartet, clearly interested in their bout until she felt the intoxicated teenager clutch her wrist. Feather fingers over her hand was one thing... but having that sort of hardcore contact with her? No, no, Jonta would have none of that.
  
  Before she could even react, one of the more handsome boys of the group seemed to step up. Perhaps it was the best thing. Jonta was renown for her extremely nasty little temper from time to time. It was best this young Latino boy put his friend in check before she stepped out against her will and started crying with a vehement tone at the boy. Even as the two comrades were arguing, Jonta took an initiative to interfere. She stepped beyond the counter, in the center of the mess, purposely stepping in front of the young woman who was so clearly assaulted by a supposed friend.
  
  Peter, where are you? It doesn't take that long to empty the garbage. Unless you fell in the bin... or found a cockroach to play with.
  
  She advanced closer to the man that so provocatively approached her; he was an inch or two taller, but height made no difference to her. "It's none of business what goes on within your circle of friends. But is my business if you're causing a scene in the middle of the theater, whether it's empty or not. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Rich had only just shoved his friend back, and looked ready to take a swing at him until Jonta stepped between them, and he hesitated, looking her over again with the same hormone-driven purpose, up until the point she told them they would have to leave, and then his studded teenage face twisted into an ugly expression of anger, his eyebrow piercing sticking out on a strange angle from the change in expression.

"You don't get to tell me what to do either, you fucking bitch," he snapped, and his right hand was clenching into a fist that went white at the knuckles, and he cocked his hand back, clearly just as prepared to strike Jonta despite his apparent interest in her. However, something bizarre happened then, because somehow, Wexler was standing right beside them without having made any noise, and without anyone having heard him come back in, and along the way, he had managed to grab hold of Rich's wrist. Rich looked down at the big hand on his arm, and then up at Wexler, clearly shocked by the man's sudden and silent appearance.

"Hey," Wexler said, and Rich's face twitched, and then Wexler stuck out a long finger and shook it at Rich, and spoke to him like he was talking to a dog that had just wet the carpet, "No. Bad."

And Rich made a move, digging into his pocket with his other hand, and he yanked out a butterfly knife, the blade springing out and glinting with sharp promise in the dim light, but before anything else had happened, Wexler's other hand shot forward like a striking snake and drew back again. It was unclear at first exactly what had happened, but Rich had dropped the knife onto the ground, and he was clutching his face in his hands.

And that was when Marla looked at Wexler's hand, and recognized something glinting between his fingers, and he promptly dropped it onto the ground, where it clattered to her feet.

"Oh that's so nasty." she gagged, and Rich's shorter buddy took a look.

"He ripped out his fucking piercing, dawg!" he said, and Wexler pointed in the direction of the door, which the teenagers followed as quickly as they could manage, yanking Rich along with them.

 

[Osheaga]

• "Hey, if you want to call fucking names don't get into my face--"
  
  A pause, followed by a lapse of silence. Jonta's face had went ghost white on account of Wexler just reappearing; materializing as if he had came from the thin air itself. Was he even tangible? She wanted to touch him just to make sure but clearly this wasn't the moment. All that had been going on afterward seemed like such a blur. She noticed the knife glimmering within the light of the fixtures hanging warily above.; Jonta's mind tended to twist things. She had believed it was maybe a deer-knife or one of the types her brother had carried around with him. However, it was not; she remained unphased though clearly upset with the situation.
  
  She watched Wexler intently, her chocolaty gaze giving him yet another once over; the young man, as well as her assailant, was clutching his lips, guarding them from the vampiric, lanky man standing before him. At first she was unsure. But when she had noticed the spare dollops of a thick, viscous, sanguine fluid stain the sullied floor, she knew just what hat happened. Her gazed reached up and she raised a finely curved eyebrow at the tall man, unsure if he had actually just ripped the boy's piercing from his lip. But, it was the truth, and he had indeed done it.
  
  After the throng of spooked teenagers fled off, Jonta was left to stand aside this man with serpentine reflexes. It was astonishing, actually. "Peter.. did you..." She swiftly grasped the man's large hands, struggling to pry his furled fist open. Though when she did, there it was--the silvery lip ring resting in a small smidgen of blood in the center of his gargantuan palm.[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

It was a little difficult to put it together, the idea of the lanky, doe-eyed movie theatre attendant doing something as disturbing as tearing a piercing out of someone's face - but there he stood, in his uniform and maroon vest, with a Batman bandage on his forehead, holding a piercing with a bit of someone else's blood on it.

"Maybe." Wexler said, in response to Jonta's stunned half-question, and then he looked down at the piercing in his hand, and corrected himself, "Yes. Definitely. I did. But to be fair, he had a knife and all I had was a dust bin."

He looked up at Jonta then, but didn't seem perturbed or even vaguely worried, and he frowned at the piercing as it sat in his palm, flexing his fingers around it and watching the bit of blood smear on his skin,

"What should I do with it?" he asked finally, as though there were multiple options - framing it, for instance, "You know what, I'm just gonna throw it out. And wash my hands."

And he proceeded to make his way back around the convenience counter where he threw out the lip piercing, and washed his hands in the sink with soap and hot water, watching as the blood turned pink from the water, and then ran slowly off his hand.

 

[Osheaga]

• I think I need a new job.
  
  She followed the man warily, insuring that he didn't have some sort of odd tick in his arm, or that there weren't any wires visibly protruding from his pale flesh. He was an odd man indeed but it was a breath of fresh air. She enjoyed his presence, believe it or not. It was an entertaining one. A colorful, otherworldly one. While he lathered his hands in the titanium sink, she took her own initiative and plucked the band-aid from his forehead, careful not to disturb any hairs there.
  
  "Boss-man will probably be upset if he sees you wearing that." She feigned a chocolaty chuckle and disdained the bandage in a nearby garbage bin that wasn't overflowed, then glanced at the positioned on the wall. It was an hour and quite some minutes behind, this much she was sure of. Though she had just truly met the man tonight (despite other odd bumping-into-tos and awkward greetings) she was already griping to ask... why as he just so large and lanky? Obviously it was a hereditary family trait, but to be more frank, she wanted to ask if anyone else ever commented on his size.
  
  "I hope he doesn't cry to his mother then report you," she uttered breathlessly.
  
  She sighed softly and stared up at the light fixture, already fatigued from the night's events. The foyer was empty, there was maybe one or two movies playing and there was not even any popcorn popping. She leaned her body, or more specifically her chest against the counter, leering away at the lobby's front doors. "I definitely need to get a new job."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

"I dunno, it seemed to be Kosher with Mr. Mendez when I dressed as Jason Voorhees for Halloween." Wexler said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug while he shut off the tap, "I don't think bandages will faze him after that."

It was true that not many of Carousel Theatres' employees really knew Peter Wexler - not just because of the difference in shifts, but also because he never showed up at staff meetings, not because he was unfriendly, but it seemed that he was always otherwise occupied during the day. Mr. Mendez had never bothered to ask what it was that Wexler did in his spare time because, frankly, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

"S'okay, I've got the totally snappy comeback that he was gonna stab me." Wexler added, and eyed the ground as a cockroach the size of a small dinner plate emerged from beneath the counter and stopped to give him a filthy look before scampering off again, possibly to eat some human children.

"You don't like it here?" he asked, as though it was a surprise to him that anyone would dislike the job, even just minutes after he had nearly been stabbed by a tweaking sixteen year old.

 

[Osheaga]

• "It's not really that I don't like it here it's just the..." She paused, motioning the cockroaches the scampered across the sticky floor, "environment." Most women would shudder at the sight of a cockroach, but Jonta was well-rounded and earthly. Something like that wouldn't even make her budge; insects never startled her.
  
  In fact, most arachnids, such as common butterfly spiders, were little 'friends' of hers. She knew that if she could have a pet iguana and handle feeding it, then insects wouldn't necessarily be a problem.
  
  "It's nice to get away from home and school, I suppose. This shift seems reasonably better then the day shift. It's always busy, little kid like to spill soda and overly buttered popcorn over you... it's not exactly joyful to have sticky thighs, especially when you have to go to class as soon as the shift is over."
  
  She raised a hand and combed it through her heft lion's man, brushing a few spare bangs from her dark toned eyes. "Men are always making sexual innuendos towards me... it's revolting."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

((ooc| Sorry for the shortness; it's quite late at this point - I'm off to bed now.))

For many men, the commentary regarding 'sticky thighs' and 'sexual innuendoes' would have been a set-up too good to resist, but apparently Wexler didn't conform to that standard, because he made no remark - in fact, his expression didn't change, though he regarded her with those wide blue eyes for a moment,

"They can be animals." he agreed finally after a considerable silence and looked down at his hands, and the floor, and then the convenience counter as though he was looking to distract himself from something - it was difficult to say what, but chances were, he wasn't being tortured by the fact he'd torn out a punk's lip piercing.

"What're you majoring in?" he asked finally, playing with the little swinging door of the popcorn machine, fingers toying with the handle on it until it suddenly popped off, and he had to juggle it between his hands for a moment before for getting a hold of it and stopping to screw it back into place.

 

[Osheaga]

• [ It's ok, shug! You go get some sleep :] ]
  
  The woman exhaled curtly then gazed upon the janitor's closet once more. Her shift wound end in maybe an hour or two, so, she believed it would be best to pass the time and mop of the sticky, candy-made mess. It was like someone had filled a vat with molten candy then poured it over the floor. Jonta was more then certain that they underlayer beneath the tile was completely destroyed, let alone the gray grout that was stained a mixture of odd colors.
  
  She tugged out the large bucket with the straining attachment then used the hose from the sink, filling it with piping hot water as well as some of the liquid soap from the shelf. After dipping the mop's head into the bucket she strained it. It hit the floor with a loud 'pop' sound then she persisted to swipe away at the sticky mess with the mop's floppy, thick, clothy tendrils. "Hm?" She paused fort a moment though her arms continued to work. She gazed in the lanky man's direction, taking a moment to think. "Oh... I'm a philosophy major," she replied undoubtedly, trying to scrape away a piece of gum stuck to the floor with the head of the broom.
  
  Her stomach growled, though she ignored her need for sustenance.
  
  "What about you? Do you go to school?"[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

"Philosophy," Wexler repeated dimly, looking blankly at her for a long moment, as though he was having trouble remembering what the term meant, "You must be pretty patient to major in it, I got through, like, a paragraph of Luhmann and my eyes crossed. I guess I don't get why it took him forty pages to say that society is like a machine."

He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck then, offering Jonta a sheepish smile before pulling out a spray bottle of cleaning solution and a cloth, beginning to clean off the counter, his eyes focusing intently on a small smudge,

"I used to go to school," he said, "But that was a while ago, just -"

He shifted a little, and shrugged at the counter,

"Stuff changed."

 

[Osheaga]

• Jonta heaved a slow sign of compliance, finally pushing the broom far enough across the floor that it was absolutely flawless. She could notice her reflection on the ripped, tattered tiles, the teeming glitter in her jewelery. "It's unfortunate that we are subject to change when it's unwanted." Her expression remained constant though there seemed to be a philosophical glint in her chocolaty toned optic orbs. After the floor had been cleansed as best it could, Jonta insured that the broom and mop were safely secured back in the supply closet. She closed it with a resounded 'bang', noticing the hinges creak and cringe as they threatened to completely snap.
  
  The woman then approached the soda-dispensing machine, collecting an oversized extra large theater cup and filling it to the brim with ice (which was partially melted from not being cared for) and then loaded it with regular and lime soda, plucking a twisty straw into the lid that was left topless. She wedged the straw between her lips and took a good, long sip, exhaling with sheer satisfactory while she noticed a few seemingly unhappy patrons flee from the movie theater's screening to the restroom. Convenient how an emergency exit was directly by it. The woman, however, seemed oddly spooked. Her purse was quick to flutter behind her in a tight grasp. She thought it would be best if she had actually went to make sure the bathrooms were properly tidied; why not see what was wrong with this woman in the process? It wasn't as if she was not authorized to be nosy. She did seem to be a little frustrated that their conversation had to end so abruptly, though.
  
  "I'm going to go clean the girl's bathroom."
  
  She glanced back at the lanky man then began her trek down the foyer into a smaller corridor, once again taking the broom and mop from the supply closet, as well as a few other cleaning supplies (like makeshift glass-cleaner made from vinegar and water). The girl's bathroom was a half-decent looking chamber, with a few stalls. Graffiti was scrawled over the inside of the stalls though the outsides seemed fairly well cared for. Jonta sighed when she entered, immediately looking for the woman that entered. She was standing in front of a mirror sobbing, small beads of fresh blood cascading from the center of her forehead, just near the auburn color of her widow's peak. "Is something wrong, miss?" Jonta clutched the broom within her manicured mitts, warily gazing into the mirror as if to try and get a better view from the angle she was standing at. The woman was clutching her pretty little visage in half-bloodied hands while she had left the tap running, leaking icy-cold water teem down the side of the marble counter. "Miss...?" Jonta's voice was soft and void of any extreme surprise.
  
  Just as she had stretched a hand out to address the woman, the light fixtures in the bathroom flickered. Jonta immediately knew of what was about to happen; she exhaled arduously and kept her eyes wide, noticing the lingering darkness. The fuses must have blown in the cellar room downstairs. It was connected to all of the bathrooms--male and female--on the right side of the theater, as well as the children's party room. "Fuck." Regardless of this woman or not, she cursed, feeling along the tiled walls whilst searching for a small metal panel. She found it and popped it open with relative ease, once again feeling for something of familiarity. She did indeed find a small portable light, one of the round ones you'd press in the middle, for a child's room. She raised the light to eye level and flashed it around the room, once again searching for the woman. "Miss?" Nothing. No woman, nothing but shadows cast from the stalls. All of the stall doors were empty... so... was Jonta merely hallucinating? A shiver found its way down her spine while she advanced towards the bathroom door, tugging on the handle. But the door didn't open. Not to mention that it could only be locked from the inside. She fuddled with the wretched attacthment but it did no luck. Jonta was not the type to panic but she grew impatiently quite swiftly.
  
  "Peter!"
  
  ( I'm sorry that took so long, sugar. I've been studying all day. )[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

((ooc| No problem. Hope your - exams? Go well.))

ic|

Just when it seemed they might actually be having a conversation, Jonta became distracted, and Wexler followed her line of vision to the woman who was hurriedly exiting the theatre and dissappearing into the women's bathroom; the woman was visibly upset, moving quickly as though trying to keep herself from being spotted. Wexler's eyes flicked to Jonta for a long moment then, and while his co-worker's immobile expression gave him no answers, her sudden urge to follow the woman told him that he hadn't been imagining things.

He simply nodded his head when Jonta headed for the bathroom, staring unblinkingly after her, even when she glanced back at him, and for a long moment he chewed on his bottom lip, almost irritably, before turning back to the exciting job of cleaning the counters, which he continued until he heard a loud snapping noise. Glancing up, he could see through the glass wall into the kid's party room - which hadn't had an actual party in it since Bush Jr. had first gotten into office - and saw that the light had gone out. Cleaning solution and sponge still in hand, Wexler approached the kids room, standing outside the glass looking in, and cocking his head at the fading Toy Story window decals that clung for dear life.

They had been calling for bad weather that night, and Miami was known for some intense tropical storms, so it wasn't unlikely that the wind or even a lightning strike could have blown the fuse. With that and mind, he shuffled a few feet to peer into the men's bathroom, noting that it was also in complete darkness - which meant the women's was as well.

And then he heard Jonta call his name, and approached the women's bathroom as though it might try to eat him if he came too close,

"Sup?" he replied, putting a palm flat against the door, speaking to her through it, "Are you like, mopping in the dark? Seems kinda, I don't know - superfluous, doesn't it?"

 

[Osheaga]

• ( Yup, exams. Which means my post might be a little choppy until this following Wednesday D; )
  
  "Just open the door."
  
  Her voice emitted as a slightly angered sneer though she was swift to tone it down. No need to be so hostile. But Wexler seemed to always be in his own little world. She controlled her breathing, placing her hands on either of her sides while redirecting the light back to the mirror. Still, no woman. I'm not hallucinating. She decided against informing Wexler right away. As spaced-out was that man was now, there was no way he'd believe her.
  
  "Now would be nice, Peter." Eventually she sighed, deciding it would be best to give in. Since he wasn't keen on opening the door for her, she'd explain herself. "That woman that went off into this bathroom... well, she was sobbing for some odd reason; I think she was bleeding. As I addressed her, the lights went out, and... she was gone." Jonta anxiously tapped against the door, fidgeting in her spot. "And, I'm not easily disturbed, but it's slightly creepy in here, so would you mind letting me out?" She gaze the man an angered leer through the fibers of the windowless door though she knew that he could not see it; maybe, perhaps, he feel it.
  
  "It don't know if she's still in here or not."[/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Peter frowned at the door for a moment then,

"What, it locked on you?" he asked, and coming from anyone else, it might have seemed like they were teasing Jonta, but from Wexler, it sounded like he was just oblivious to the actual eeriness of it all, "And that lady just vanished into, like, thin air? That's kinda weird, huh?"

And then from Jonta's side, there would be the sound of the door creaking against the frame, apparently straining, followed by a sudden tug and the door wrenched open, even splintering away bits of wood from it, and Peter stood on the other side with his eyebrows raised high, and he was looking at her through the darkness,

"You okay?" he asked, cocking his head at her, "I mean, I don't wanna judge or anything, but usually when people vanish it means there's something wrong with your brain."

It might have been a joke; it was hard to tell.

"I'm gonna go to the cellar and get the lights back on," he added.

 

[Osheaga]

• "Fuck you, Peter."
  
  Of course, Jonta didn't completely mean it. It was more an expression of her anger towards him. Something wrong with her brain? If anyone's brain was experiencing technical difficulties, it was definitely his. She reached outward to dust off her arms and pant legs after the wooden shards from the door had skittered and broken off. She exhaled curtly and nodded. "I'll go... find something to do."
  
  When Peter peeled off to deal with the lights, Jonta thought it would be best to relieve her anger. Along a certain part of the lobby was an old arcade. There were a few old games that used to give tickets but ever since the staff count had dwindled, they disabled the mechanism that had given tickets. She dug into her pockets and managed to find and old quarter, then slid it into the machine. It was an old Resident Evil sort of game, the one when you had to destroy all of the zombies on an old estate. Oh, Jonta adored those sorts of games.
  
  When the machine whirred, she clutched the red, plastic gun in her hand and aimed at the screen, prepared to, in her words, 'kick some zombie ass.'
  
  [ I'm so sorry that took so long. I was a little busier this weekend then I thought! I haven't forgotten about you, darling! ][/list:u]

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

((ooc| No problem, life happens.))

ic|

Peter stood there for a long moment after her curse, staring straight ahead, mouth slightly open, eyebrows knitted as though processing the two words was taking a terribly long time,

"Okay. It's cool." he said finally, his usual laid back demeanor taking over as he forgave her before she was even sorry for it, and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug before heading off to the cellar. He had to go to the back of the theatre to get there, and the entrance was through an old, splintering wooden door that had been painted in a frightening shade of bile yellow, and he had to open a large padlock to get in.

Getting to the basement meant going down a long, dark flight of stairs that matched the door, and each step creaked with his movements. Halfway down the stairs, his forehead struck a low-hanging water pipe due to his height,

"Ow." he said simply, and kept walking, rubbing at his head; there was no fumbling around in the dark for him - he headed right for the breaker box and pulled it open, blinking into the absolute darkness and easily finding the switch, clicking it on where it had shorted out, and the lights flashed back on upstairs.

And seemingly within seconds of dissappearing, he appeared behind Jonta again,

"One behind you." he said.