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 Posted: Thu Dec 03, 2009 8:14 am
Charlie was a firm believer that everyone had a place, and everyone had a use, and that it was just a matter of figuring out what shape puzzle piece they were, fitting them into the greater image, and making it work. The only problem with this theory was the fact that some of those puzzle pieces were...obtuse. Strangely shaped. Sometimes they had a few too many dips and swells, or the jutting shape of a corner was hidden by a shadow --
And Jones was a bit of a problem, in that respect. Too jittery for a bouncer, too small, and untrained when it came to self-defense. No chance in hell Charlie'd let him near a register, so the bar was out of question, as was wait staff. The kitchen just about ran itself, and in any case, he didn't want to step on Leslie's toes when it came to hiring on more help. Janitor -- well, Janitor might be a possibility, but he wasn't willing to go that far. Not yet.
For now, it was the coat room. The door. Smiling as nice as he could manage at the customers, taking their coats or bags, checking them and offering up a ticket, and at the end of the night [Charlie stressed this eight or ten times], returning all their possessions, according to their ticket.
To be doublely sure, though, Charlie showed up at the coat room desk about twenty minutes before the heavy rush of tired people heading back toward their cars, toward home, toward the checked belongings they'd certainly want to collect. He cut in line, but usually people let him: the threat of an almost ten-foot wingspan could do that. He leaned on the counter. He smiled at Jones.
"Turn out your pockets for me, would you?" It was casual, but it also didn't apologize. There was no 'not that I don't trust you, but...' or 'sorry I have to do this.' Charlie was direct.
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Posted: Thu Dec 03, 2009 9:52 am
He wasn't bad as a coat-checker and or doorman. Jonesy was usually cheerful in an impersonal sort of way, and didn't mind meeting new people as long as it was briefly. It was pretty much perfect. He didn't even mind Charlie turning his pockets out every night, for a couple of reasons.
First, he got to see Charlie. That was a bonus, no matter how you sliced it. And he might or might not have had a serious lust for those oh-so-pretty wings. Jonesy would never tell which way it went, whether he coveted them for the feathers alone or just in general, but he definitely did. It meant he still brightened when Charlie cut through the line.
Second, it wasn't like he meant to pocket things. It was involuntary, honest to god, except that sometimes people needed to learn what not to wear. Like that one girl with the pretty thin wrists who wore those awful chunky plastic rhinestone bangles. Awful. Not that Jonesy was a fashionista -- he wasn't. But he did delude himself that he knew what jewelry was good for whom, and that was not good for her.
Today what ended up on the table was:
one teardrop shaped dangling earring, rhinestone or diamond, about the size of an adult's thumb
three chunky rhinestone bangles
two pens; one ballpoint, one felt tipped
one barrette, with cabochon stones, possibly natural
three hair pins, one of which had a slightly sharp edge, all three of which were tasteless
four of those little snappy barrettes, none of which were the same pattern as any of the others
six rings, of various sizes but mostly women's and mostly plastic
one tennis bracelet with more rocks than taste
two of those long, dangling necklaces with chunky pieces at the end
one tiara that looked like it had come off the head of a prom queen
Jonesy blinked at the pile of objects and offered Charlie a sheepish sort of grin. The markings on his face made it a bit more mischievous than sheepish, unfortunately, and his impulse to sing 'and a partridge in a pear tree' probably wasn't helping. "Ah. Oops?"
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Posted: Fri Dec 04, 2009 6:39 am
"Oops indeed." Charlie was sighing, though, gestured over the counter and down, pushing the assortment of glittery prizes into one corner. There was a fidget, a fluff, a flutter of feathers: it spoke of agitation, smothered annoyance that was reflected in the downward turn of his mouth. "Get the basket, Jones."
The problem, to Charlie's eyes, was the fact that today's load was absolutely not smaller than yesterday's. Or the day before. Or the day before that, all the way back to the first day when a girl who definitely wasn't as young as she look had made a stink at the coat check about a missing pair of glittery [and, yes, god awful] gloves from the pocket of her peacoat.
Now there was the lost-and-found basket. To all intents and purposes, it looked like a regular wicker basket, woven reeds painted black to better match the decor of the club around it. Yes, the top was a bit frayed, the insides a bit blacker than was entirely natural, but the real surprise came when you reached for something that didn't belong to you and the basket snapped down hard enough on the wrist to leave bruises.
Word had spread fast: if you were missing something, at Doors, it would be in the basket. And if you tried to take something that wasn't yours, you would be very, very sorry.
Unless you were Jones, of course, which was what turned the curve of Charlie's mouth downward as he gestured to the abyss-like black inside the basket. "Drop it all in. And I mean all of it."
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Posted: Fri Dec 04, 2009 11:33 am
Jones kind of liked the lost-and-found basket, to be honest. There were always a couple of things left over for him at the end of the night. It was sort of like feeding a pet that just happened to look like a wicker basket and maybe had teeth.
The only problem was that Jones thought he (the basket was definitely a 'he' to Jonesy's mind) needed eyes. And bushy movie villain eyebrows. One day, he was going to find a pair of those big muppet googly eyes and some fake fur and take care of that.
"...even the stuff that's mine?" Jonesy gave him sad eyes. It was a variation on the same conversation they'd been having every day since they'd started this, but Charlie probably wasn't looking on the bright side.
While the pile hadn't gotten smaller.... it hadn't gotten noticeably larger, either, and that was likely a better sign than he knew.
The only things that were 'his', or at least had been in his pocket for more than one day, were the pens and the earring-without-mate, which was probably somewhere in his room. Maybe. But while he waited for an answer, he obeyed with the rest of it. He didn't just dump it all in, either, but did it carefully enough that nothing would be damaged.
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Posted: Fri Dec 04, 2009 12:38 pm
"That depends on your definition of ownership." Charlie sighed, though, stepping carefully to the side as a bold club-goer approached the coat rack to reclaim her strawberry-red knee-length coat. Personally, he didn't think that coat was warm enough for the brisk tastes-like-snow weather, the breeze that gusted down from the door in the alley and left the coat room a touch colder than anywhere else in Doors, but he didn't comment, just smiled and stood strumming fingers against the counter.
"Anything that you've had for more than a week can stay out of the basket. Anything you paid for, the same. Everything else sits in there for a good solid week." Now, on the other hand, the way the girl was looking at him made Charlie nervous. It was the sideways flicker-glances of someone who was wondering if the wings were real, who was considering just a brief, possible accidental, brush of fingers. He twitched feathers pointedly out of the way, nodding at her, expression just a bit wilted now. "And get her her coat, would you?"
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Posted: Fri Dec 04, 2009 4:03 pm
He abandoned the feeding of the lost-and-found basket (perhaps he was a Fred?) to take the woman's ticket with a grin, and match it up to her coat before she could do something as silly as touch. Charlie needed one of those 'do not touch the exhibit' signs, the poor man. At least Jonesy was only spotted. "Have a nice night, miss!" It was a chirrupy sort of phrase out of him, and never failed to send people on and out.
He plucked out the things that qualified -- the pens, the earring, and the god-awful tiara -- and put them back in his pockets. No one ought to get a tiara. Tiaras were bad for people.
There wasn't quite room for Charlie behind the coat check desk, but Jonesy fed the not-yet-named lost-and-found basket the rest of the things before beckoning the next person. People needed to not-touch Charlie. Even he didn't touch Charlie, though he was thinking about those feathers.
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Posted: Sat Dec 05, 2009 4:30 pm
Charlie could take care of the danger the basket presented, at least; while Jones dealt with the patrons who were now starting their escape, collecting their belongings, beating it for the cold of the streets, he dug through a drawer and came up with a sheet of paper and a rather nice pen with the club's logo on it. He set to writing a warning, slowly and carefully, with an edge of concentration behind it that gave the impression Charlie didn't write a whole lot. He certainly wasn't good at it. Everything was spelled right, but his letters were shaky, his hand messy, the words inelegant and bunched. Not a lick of design behind the plaque: Quote: LOST AND FOUND Do Not Touch What Is Not Yours Or you will lose your hand!!! Charlie folded it in half and set it down in front of the basket. A funny joke. Haha. Maybe.
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Posted: Sat Dec 05, 2009 7:08 pm
By the time Charlie had finished the sign, the bulk of the current rush had come and gone. Jonesy was good here; he was comfortable, which took a little of the nervous edge off. He dispensed tags and coats and the occasional compliment on a piece of jewelry, but with Charlie right there, he didn't actually take anything off anyone.
That would be stupid.
He watched Charlie set the sign up, working the pen between his fingers in a thoughtful sort of way. "He needs eyebrows. And eyes. And a name. Does he have a name already?" It made Jonesy's eyebrows knit.
He felt that the lost-and-found basket had personality. Personality needed a name. Something fierce. "We could call him Bruce."
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Posted: Sun Dec 06, 2009 12:57 pm
He had picked the wrong person for this; Charlie looked up from his work, the sign set delicately out in front of the basket, swiping ink off of a couple of his fingers, and offered Jonesy a twitch of a frown. He had woefully little imagination, when it really boiled down to it. It was a basket. Baskets didn't get names.
"It's called "Lost and Found Basket." And that name was fierce enough, he thought. Both of his eyebrows went up. "If people look like they're thinking about reaching in, you're to warn them that the sign isn't a joke, and if it does take off their fingers, they're s**t out of luck, hm?"
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Posted: Sun Dec 13, 2009 5:46 pm
But it doesn't have any teeth went sailing across Jonesy's brain, but before it could reach his mouth he closed it. If Charlie didn't get Jones, well, sometimes Jones just didn't get Charlie, either. Pegs only fit certain holes. Hammering them in was just going to break peg or hole or both, and then you'd be pegless, holeless, or left looking really stupid with a hammer in your hand. Not that he was going say any of that out loud. Ever. So Jones nodded agreement. Sure. Totally their own fault if they lost their fingers. "Sure, boss." But it was Jones, so by the end of the night when everyone had left, the Lost and Found Basket had acquired two big googly eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a multi-colored mohawk that might have been pieces of fur once upon a time and had been sewn to one edge of the basket. There was a name tag, one of those plastic ones, with the name Me'Shell on it in careful sharpie. And the sign had been replaced. Quote: Lost Items
Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?
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