27 Jan 2010 : Spin & Win & Bitch
Spin & Win & Bitch
Summary: A Medic, a Foreigner, and a Preacher walk into a laundromat…
Date: 27 Jan 2010
Related Logs: None

Blue Earth, Main Street, Spin 'n Win
Wed Jan 27 18:48:11 2010

The "SPIN 'N' WIN" is much like any other laundromat in a small town. There's shoddy wood paneling and peeling paint (and just a smidge of rust). The front part of the store is full of rows of washers and their paired dryers side by side. Towards the back wall, there's a small counter where clothes can be folded. Next to that is a small desk area commonly ruled by the management which includes a small register where one can exchange bills for tokens. Said tokens can be used in the machines out front or in a small room behind a brown curtain in the back.

In a compact room, arcade games line the walls. Classics such as Pacman, a few pinball machines and a lone skee-ball lane seem to always be the popular attractions. Alone on the west wall of the smaller space stands a two player Resident Evil shooter.

It's a washed out, pea soup sort of evening in town. Late enough for the lights to be up on Main, but early enough that people like Rafael are still waiting for their laundry to finish. The dark-haired rancher is currently occupying two chairs by the magazine table, much like his truck is taking up two parking spaces outside. His cowboy booted feet are kicked up into the one opposite, and he's slumped down in his seat with his stetson covering his face like he's trying to keep the light out.

The dust isn't too bad today as Haven's cowboy boots kick across the street at a jog. Main Street isn't too busy, which is always good for jay walking with a duffle bag full of laundry. The door to the place creaks open, and there's a whew from the woman coming in. She glances to the truck as she passes the front window, then shakes her head slightly as she notes the rancher occupying a similar position in the back. There's the ziiiiip of the bag, a lift of a lid, and she unceremoniously dumps everything into the same washer with a whump. It's barely even a decent sized load of clothes. She hasn't been here long enough to have her stuff shipped. "Nice night." Thud. The washer lid drops closed.

There's a deep breath from the lounging man, his body shifting slightly and his hand closing around the brim of his hat. It's adjusted slightly, and he probably intends to doze back off again after a glance at his washer.. before spotting that familiar young woman emptying clothes into her machine. After a few seconds, the hat's slid off completely, and he eases back into an upright position in his chair. Thunk. Thunk. "Que acaba de conseguir mejor," he murmurs, voice rough like he'd been dozing for some time. His eyes follow Haven as she drops the lid and adjusts dials.

Haven tosses her duffle bag atop another washer, then digs around in her pocket for some change. Click, click, click-click go the quarters onto the metal surface of the washer. She loads up the push slot, then gives it a shove once everything's set. There's a pause before she leans in to rummage around in the pocket of her bag. She opens the washer as an afterthought, chucks in the soap, and glances over, dark eyes flicking over Vargas' body to note the change in position. She stares at him for a moment, gaze finding its way to his face after a subtle delay. "Mm. Claro que si." She dusts her hands off, eyes downcast for a moment, "There's always room for improvement."

Rafael's grin is, as always, an easy thing. Warm, like the Santa Ana they sometimes get closer to the coast. There's a low chuckle in his chest as well, and his hat's flipped around between his hands before being set aside atop the magazines. "I have something for you, chiquita." He moves to his feet, and shoves his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, a slip of paper slid out between two fingers as he advances upon the dark-haired paramedic.

The dark haired woman stands beside the washer for a moment more, waiting for it to kick in, to check the cycle's starting properly. The bane of the laundromat user is the machine that's been left mid cycle, so it eats your money and doesn't actually wash your clothes. She taps a nail against the surface, then pushes away from the dread machine as the ancient washer chugs to life, scratched and dented surface betraying its age. So long as it doesn't start smoking, clothes screaming for mercy, Haven should be safe to socialize, a wary eye on the beast. As Rafael speaks, however, her eyes return to him, and she pauses when he advances. She almost waits for him to come to her, then takes two steps around the washer, hard soled rapping as she moves, to lean against it with a hip. "Que es eso?" She reaches for the paper. Her nails are trimmed fairly short, and glossed with a shiny clear varnish. The hand, her left, waits for him to deliver the paper, rather than grabbing for it. She has a tiny tattoo at the thumb side edge of her wrist — a small blue star slightly smaller than a dime.

Not too difficult to figure out what it is. He's still wearing a crooked version of the grin he first sported, dark eyes warm with something that could be mischief on another man, but is a touch more elusive on him. "Take it," he answers softly, relinquishing the folded slip of paper. On it is a telephone number. A land line, judging by the area code. Maybe something else, though it's a little difficult to say what. It's almost a physical sensation, a tingle in the fingers, rather than anything literally scrawled on the paper. He sidles in a bit closer once it's been accepted, and goes a step further: leaning his elbow against her machine. Spaniards have a slightly different idea of personal space, it seems. "You call me tomorrow night." He upnods to the paper in her hands. "Have you been up to the lake, yet? I will drive you. Es pacifico. Bello." His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners with that secretive mirth again.

Haven's fingers touch the paper, and the unfolds it to have a look at the numbers. There's a slide of it through her fingers, but she recovers and catches it, before folding it closed again. "Tomorrow." There's a soft intake of breath as he moves in closer, but she remains just where she is. Haven reaches back to slide the paper, with a light crinkle, into the back pocket of her jeans. She wipes her hand down her outer thigh, wrist coming to rest at her hip as if she were wiping something away, or dragging her skin over the material to scratch an itch from her fingers. She hesitates for a moment, then loses her battle with trying to resist returning a smile. "A guided tour, hm?" She reaches over to touch his shoulder with her right hand, a habitual, casual gesture that suggests some familiarity with this modus. She isn't at all taken aback by the proximity, as some Americans are. "Is it really called Drowned Man? I may rethink a swim." A swim? In this weather? She's probably kidding. Apropos of nothing, she jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "Do you always park like that?" The truck outside takes up two spaces.

The door opens with a creak, but there's no jingle as one fellow comes sauntering in. A green half rumpled bag held in one hand, and a small wad of ones in the other. If anything, despite the clear sign of priestly black one might take him to be some Sailor coming in for the first time, for a shore leave. One cigarette hangs from his lips, dangling precariously, as dark eyes find themselves looking back towards something. A scent easily gleaned from the beyond the smoke at the end of his mouth. Something heavier and earthen, mixed with…Well detergent and other variables.

Judah's eyes remain on Vargas' form before they slink over towards Haven. One dark brow piqued for a moment before it lowers. "What machine is free?" No, am I interrupting, just, which one can I use.

"A guided tour," Rafael concurs, his own hand sliding into his jeans pocket after Haven accepts the slip of paper. He, of course, doesn't protest the contact to his shoulder; but then, he kind of seems like he might be the touchy feely type. Once he's showered off the horse smell and the mud. "Yes." He begins to ease away from her washer, dark eyes flicking to Haven and then across to his own machine as he hikes on back to his chair. "Los esparitus estan inquietos para alla." Who knows why he isn't using the machine at home. Assuming he has one in that sprawling house of his. "I think there is the one in the corner," he tells the arriving.. priest? "Is noisy, but is working."

A roll of his his eyes for a moment, before he's nodding all the same. A hitch of his shoulders as he turns and starts down to simply lay the duffle bag on top, as a means of claims. Still there's eyes flicking back to the two of them. One, is a face that has been long since forgotten, the other seems to only live in the whole realm of rumors and gossip. Still there's a wary glance to both. A grunt and more smoke joins the otherwise normal scents of sterile and spilled soda. Judah then makes for a quick walk back to talk to Merle, and get some tokens.

Haven glances over her shoulder a few beats after the door opens, her hand coming off of the rancher's shoulder as she turns. Her lips part slightly, and she can't help but say, "None of them are free. I never thought I'd pay this much not to smell." She's only been in town a couple of weeks, and clearly hasn't adjusted to living out a duffle bag yet. There's a little pause before she hops up to sit on her washer, turned sideways, feet dangling off of it. You'd almost think something about the priest's collar puts her a little off of her game. "Gotta love small towns."

She's probably not the only person it puts off. Vargas' eyes travel from the man's face, to his shirt, and back again with the sort of laconic judgement that only townsfolk can manage. Amusement slants across his features in the form of a smile, and a brief flash of teeth. Could be he's being friendly. Could be something else. "Cuando se habla de espiritus inquietos," he murmurs, settling back into his chair and sliding a magazine out from under his stetson. Some outdated fashion rag. He flips it open and begins paging through it like he's genuinely interested in the contents.

Judah looks back towards Vargas for a moment, as spanish again flies about. "Really, it's cute an all. You all can flirt and shit. I really don't give a fuck-Thanks, Merle, God bless you." and with that he's moving with coins jingling in his hand. Some might be shocked to hear such words from a preacher, but apparently Merle doesn't seem too entirely phased. "Just do it in English. Or I'll start saying shit you both can't understand..I swear, you people are all the freaking same.."

Haven's dark eyes follow the priest as he wanders back to find a washer, and she murmurs, "Verdad," under her breath. There's a flick of her gaze to the rancher, when he goes for a fashion man. Dark eyes flick back to the priest, and stay there, brows drawing slightly together, accompanying a very faint frown on her lips, just a slight downturn of the corners of her mouth. "Shove it up your ass, Padre. Our native-fuckin'-language is beautiful. Jesus christ. They let you wear a collar?" And, thusly, it becomes obvious Haven has spent a lot of time in a large city. A little Chicago comes out. "Que cabron."

Vargas, meanwhile, settles in quietly to enjoy the show. How much he understands of the pair's discourse is debateable, but tone of voice says plenty. The page is flipped in his magazine, and he sloooowly settles into his chair with a sound in his throat that's almost a contented grumble, like a large dog getting comfy under his master's chair.

"No it's not. It's a language of laziness, and oppression." Judah replies back, before he's raising his lid and tossing in a few presorted blacks. And then he's reaching in for a small packet that's being opened and emptied into the washing machine. A slight pause as eyes trail back to Vargas, more intent on keeping his eyes on him. Oddly enough. So when haven does bring it up, there's a glance to the young woman. "Funny. You know, my bishop thought the same thing before I was ordained." a shrug as one hand is coming up to undo the collar under his chin.

Haven's temper seems pretty quick to flare. It could have a little something to do with the moon phase. Or it could be something else entirely. She glances briefly to Vargas, as he remains silent, then glances out the window, a lengthy murmur in Spanish passing her lips.

The page in Rafael's magazine is flipped, calloused fingers catching on the glossy film, dark eyes scanning pictures of modelesque women in various 'fall fashions'. None of it the sort of thing you'd see walking around Blue Earth, but a man can fantasise, right? "Tiene razon," muses the rancher quietly, Judah's gaze never quite met, no matter the effort from the priest. "Do you know that the ejercito Espanol, they brought the disease with them. Millions of the aztecs, they are ill and die." His tongue darts across his lower lip, which is a little parched from being outside all day. "But they make the most beautiful art in this time. Is your history. You should remember it."

Judah raises a brow "Did you just say that because the aztecs got people sick.. I should care and remember art? Yeah fuck that." Judah says with a laugh. "I'm sorry, but I could get a rat's fuck about the aztecs, dead or alive." Perhaps he totally misheard the spaniard, but then it is entirely possible that the communication break down is more due to languages…and well other things withstanding.

There's a soft groan from Haven. She reaches up to run a hand over her face, brushing dark bangs from her eyes, and mussing her hair a bit before she pinches the bridge of her nose. Must remain calm. "Madre de dios." The murmur is soft, and Haven rolls her shoulders before she breathes in, breathes out, and drops her hand to the washer's edge. "How. Why would they saddle this town with this?"

Vargas gives a funny little smile, lifts his broad shoulders once in either acquiesence or nonchalance, and resumes perusing his magazine. It's like soft core porn, really. His dryer doesn't buzz, but it does abruptly stop spinning after a few more moments. Flipping the magazine closed, he tosses it aside and climbs back to his feet again. "Perdoneme," he murmurs as he steps past the priest, laundry basket kicked along as he moves.

"You shuffle." muttered towards Vargas as he passes, before he's looking right on back to Haven. A faint chuckle there, before he's shaking his head. "Trust me, lady. I am the least troublesome thing, this town has to worry about." Whatever that means. So leaning against his machine, he simply just rests, and smokes. Content to let the machine do it's work. Judah's kinda laid back that way. Kinda.

Haven's washer finishes a cycle, and starts into another. She slides off the side, boots clicking to the floor almost in unison. She walks around the bank of washers, headed toward the chairs Vargas just vacated, to scatter the magazines. She bends to shuffle through them, hands running along the pile. Maybe she's trying to find a really big one to go beat Judah with.

Vargas comments idly to the priest with his back turned to the man, while sorting clothes into his laundry basket, "Y necesitas un buen polvo, padre." 'Sorting', of course, is a bit disingenuous, since he's pretty much just hauling things out and tossing them in. He's almost certainly grinning a little as he says that.

Judah glances back towards Vargas, eyes almost to read as if he knows the man, or something about the man all together. A shift of his weight as he turns, not about to leave his back open to poor Rafael. There's a brief glance back towards the other as something is muttered out in a tongue that's usually kept closer to the mountain. Though what he said? Hard to say.

Haven pauses in her magazine shuffling, dark hair almost long enough to brush against the mags when she's leaned over. She picks one up with a crinkle, her eyes flicking briefly to Vargas. It could be she can't believe he just said that. Or maybe just amused. Either way, her mouth is just hidden by the angle of her shoulder. She drops into the seat, kicks her legs crossed, and agrees simply, "Verdad." But it's more of vER-dad. Emphasis. She draws out the word, and arches dark brows. Then the smirk becomes obvious. The magazine shakes a little as Haven does her best to contain the response that just. doesn't. want. to stop. There's a soft snort of laugher from behind the magazine.

Poor Rafael. Poor Rafael doesn't seem too bothered with having his back to old Judah. Old in the figurative sense, of course, since the rancher's got a good decade on the man of the cloth. The perceptive might notice however that his hackles are up. It's subtle, the tension between his shoudlerblades and in his lazy seeming stance. "Relax, father," he murmurs softly, still grinning a little. The door to the dryer's banged shut. To Haven, "I will go to buy the groceries, and I will come back to drive you home. Is good?" He flashes her a wink, but doesn't stop to wait for her reply; he's headed past the pinball machines and for the door, shoulder driving it open with a dull thump.

Judah shakes his head, snorting after the Spaniard leaves. "Monkey." Though he's heard that term used for other people..White and not totally white. Still Vargas is European, an invader, if he was to believe like his southern, and Eastern cousins..OH WAIT. A roll of his shoulders before he's looking back towards Haven. A raised brow as he stares. Really stares at the woman. "He's too old." said back with a grunt. "It'd be like fucking your grandfather."

"Muchas gracias, chico." Haven's reply comes on the heels of Rafael's words. The magazine lowers, just a touch, when Judah feels the need to offer his opinion on her ride home. The magazine pages slap closed. She balls it up into a roll and gestures after Vargas. "Mama always said, 'If a man treats you well, you like the look of him, and he makes you wet without touching, do not judge his age, monetary worth, or the state of his affairs. Unless he drives an El Camino.'" She sniffs slightly, and tosses the magazine over her shoulder, onto the stack. "Just so it doesn't go around town that I'm fuckin' the guy with a coma wife, we're not, thank you. My truck is broken down, and Rafael is being both exceedingly hot and neighborly. Don't judge me, jesus-boy." She crosses her arms. "If my grandfather had an ass like that, I'd probably fuck him."

Vargas is out the door probably before he can catch that last gem from Haven. Maybe probably. Never know with his sort. Almost certainly, he caught the rest of it, however. Including the part about his 'coma wife'. He hesitates a moment in the doorway, somewhat awkwardly, like he's stumbled in on someone fapping away to tentacle porn. Then finishes backing out onto the sidewalk, and lumbers back off to his truck. The door bangs shut noisily after him and obliterates the sound of his boots hitting gravel lot. If Haven's lucky, she might still get a ride home. If Judah's lucky, the tires on his own vehicle aren't slashed.

Thank God Judah walked today, as it stands, he's just staring and shaking his head as he looks back towards Haven. "You grandmother had a whorish mouth." like he's one to talk. Still he's back to smoking and leaning. Easiest part of the day here.

Though a staring contest with Judah would probably be satisfying, Haven's brain catches up with her mouth shortly after the grandfather fucking pops out of it. Dark eyes shift to check Vargas' progress, to judge better whether he might have heard that part. "I imagine my grandmother was very good in bed. Mama has many siblings. Many." She widens her eyes a little, nodding with the words. "Baby. Factory." She smiles, and glances back over to the priest. "He's right, you know. You could use a stiff fuck." That isn't strictly what Vargas said, but it's close enough.

"Drink Maybe, fuck no." Judah says with a snort. All the same he just shakes his head as the bear tears out or something. A glance to the window and there's a faint scent there. Something again underneath it all. "I dunno. I wouldn't trust him if I were you..Something's off." Like he's an oso, but that remains unsaid.

"I'm not going to give him my bank account numbers and ask him to be my one true…" Haven could come up with another word, but she just shrugs. "Thanks for the concern, Padre. It's touching after the earlier display of bottom shelf language. I never go anywhere without a weapon." Though she does briefly flash back to the axe Vargas keeps in his truck, she says nothing about it. How likely is it the man's a serial killer? Who's taking her out to a lake tomorrow… "I'll be… fine."

"Keep telling yourself that, pup.." Judah says with a faint chuckle, as he hears his machine ding. A look back, and he's moving to toss colours into the dryer and begin that whole fantastic part of his day. A look back towards Haven, as he jingles a few coins. "You don't seem to be the type to worry over language. Just saying.." a snicker there for a moment and with that he's moving back towards a pinball table. The metal is calling his name. "However if you are. I'm the wrong guy to be around."

(Scene faded here due to sleepiness.)

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