It's late afternoon or early evening -- somewhere in there, anyway. Who knows the exact time, anyway? Not the young man who's sitting at one of the tables in the cafe, that's for sure, since he is not paying much attention to anything that might tell him the time, but is instead engaged in what looks to be a pretty intense flash card session. He's got a cup of coffee and a half-eaten donut in front of him, too, but they both seem to have been mostly forgotten in favor of those bright yellow, pink, and blue color-coded cards he's flipping through. The rest of the cafe is pretty much like one might expect for a Friday; that is, there's people in it, though it's far enough after prime getting off work time that it's not //packed// or anything.
It's definitely early evening for Albert, the chubby, middle-aged white guy who rolls into the cafe wearing brown cargo shorts, a salmon Hawaiian shirt, and blue crocs. A Cub's hat atop his head and dark shades might imply trouble elsewhere in the city, but in the relatively peaceful, gentrified neighborhood the Sky Goddess Cafe is in, he's not sticking out like a sore thumb.
Falling into the short line, his accent is clearly that of a Chicago native, evident when he orders, "Pumpkin spice latte with extra whip cream blended in, a shot of caramel, and extra experessoooo!" He finger guns the bemused barista, declaring himself, "Albert, chicka." After the unnecessary addition of a wink, he pays by swiping his phone lazily at the scanner, walking off to find a seat while he waits for his drink. Full of energy and confidence, he's slapping his table beside Javi's like a drum, sort of interrupting the lazy, peaceful nighttime atmosphere the place had with a scratchy throated rendition of 'I'm Your Captain', by Grand Funk Railroad. He also keeps eyeing Javi curiously, wearing an amused grin, eyes hidden behind dark round shades.
Javi doesn't immediately notice the man who's just entered. He's //studying//, okay? It's //important//. Maybe. Who knows what he's doing, actually, but the look on face certainly implies it. It's the sort of expression that would inspire an old person to remark that they smell wood burning. //Aggressively// thoughtful.
However, the noise eventually has him looking up -- or perhaps just the presence of someone else in close-ish proximity. Or because he's being looked at. Who knows why about //that//, either, but whatever the case, he finally looks up just in time to catch the curious study. His eyebrows raise, and he looks from one side to the other like he's checking something, then back to Bertie. "Yo." There's a question in there somewhere that might be more like 'what the hell?,' but what he eventually asks is: "You wanna, like, help me out or something?" He lifts the cards for emphasis, and then he grins back, a bright, wide thing that lights him all the way up.
"Huhuhuh, fuck yeah, my boy." Albert chuckles huskily, shit-eating grin spreading on his lips as he rises from one chair to drop into the other with a grunt. Sliding his shades off, he sizes up Javi, then all the study aides. "Flash cards, huh? I used to do flash cards for Miss Weaver's class in fourth grade." He boldly scoops up part of the stack of flash cards and starts sifting through them, curious about the contents, trained eyes picking up subtle body movements around him without having to focus on them. Yet, he's wearing the goofy grin of someone high as fuck, and his bloodshot eyes and tiny pupils attest to the truth of that grin. "Never went to college. Fuck, I barely made it past High School, huhuhuhuh. 'What're ya in for'?" He phrases his inquiry as to the course of study like it's a prison sentence, demonstrating clearly his view of higher education.
The sizing up won't take too long, seeing as Javi isn't particularly big. Average height, slim build, and with the sort of purposefully careless look that's probably more of a style choice than that he doesn't care about his appearance. Jeans, sneakers, a tee with a graphic that might be a band, like that. While he's being studied, he takes a moment to do a little studying of his own, a //little// less frankly but not particularly stealthily, either.
Whatever he thinks about it makes him let out a little snort of amusement, but it shifts a moment later when Bertie scoops the cards right up to look through them. Maybe he wasn't expecting the man to actually do it. His hand starts to dart out like he's going to try to get them back, though he halts the movement mid-grab. The movement is quick, though -- nothing subtle about this one. "EMT course," he replies, a //bit// more warily, but he stays put for now. A beat; then, with the grin tilting a little crookedly: "Me, too. That's why I'm fucking studying." And indeed, the cards have things on them like 'Classifying injuries,' 'Patient ventilation,' 'What is an MCI?,' etc.
Getting comfortable, all too quickly, the coked up Albert turns the stack over, and lifts one, staring at Javi dead on as he asks, "What is an MCI?" Even clearly on a mind-altering substance, careful inspection of Albert will reveal a bulge in his shirt near the hip, which might explain the Hawaiian shirt. Off duty officers will often pick busy prints on their shirts to cover the unnecessary bulge of pistols or concealed weapons. The way his ears flex when others in the crowd are speaking might suggest this man's keeping up with multiple conversations on multiple fronts, eavesdropping all around. Why, if he wasn't studying Javi right now, it could seem like he was using the student as a prop to seem inconspicuous while spying on someone else. But he IS studying Javi, and little darting movements of his eyes and the small grin on his lips seems to telegraph that he's aware he's being studied right back. What's going on? Something's up with this stranger, and anyone with foresight would pick up on sudden potential danger. Who is this man? What does he want with Javi? And why is he here getting some extremely detailed coffee order?
"What..." Albert asks, "Is an M...C...I?" Yellowed, nicotine stained teeth are bared, and the stranger glances at the answer on the back of the card.
No one would ever accuse Javi of being difficult to read. As he's making //his// study, the grin tempers even further -- and then it fades, settling into something that's a lot more wary. There's a little shift of his body, and while it could be chalked up to settling in his seat, or just moving around (because he also doesn't seem to be the sort of person who prefers to be still), there's an unmistakable sense of //away// to it. He doesn't answer the question. Maybe he doesn't know? But no, he doesn't seem like he's even thinking about it. No, now he's considering something else entirely.
"You know what, man," he replies, "I'm actually good." He hesitates, before he reaches a hand out for his cards.
Instead of returning the cards, Albert begins shuffling them, and telling Javi a story. Talk about misreading social cues. "This one time, heh heh, my fucking roommate Brad was trying to fuck me over." He checks out one of the cards, considers it, then slips it back in. "He thought he was going to steal my stash, and got one of his little college friends to try and stakeout the house. That way, his butt buddy could rob it when I KNEW Brad was with me, leaving him squeaky fuckin' clean in my eyes." He lands on a card, nodding suddenly, "Oh, this is a good I think." He puts it on the top of the deck and looks Javi squarely in the eyes. Whatever he's got in his head, he seems convinced of it. "Only thing was, Brad didn't know I had trapped my shit. So when we both get home, we see some headless frat boy lying on the floor in front of my old army chest." He chuckles deeply, "Huhuh, Brad starts crying like a little bitch, and I'm just watching him trying to shake the fucker like the headless bastard would wake up." Albert shakes his head. He lifts the card, beginning to read, "Why.... are you following me?" He goes offscript, improvising the flash cards now apparently, and deals Javi the question that ultimately brought Albert to his table. Wearing a congenial smile, talking amiably if a little fast, he lifts his bushy brows, waiting for Javi's response.
"Yo, what the fuck?" There's no trace of a smile now. Javi's eyes are narrowed, his as of yet empty hand still hovering in the air and waiting for those cards he's clearly painstakingly made (as the handwriting has a distinct look of someone whose is usually messy but trying really hard to //not// be), but eventually it settles onto the table instead. He's pretty obviously creeped out by that story, and he doesn't actually seem to be trying to look like he's //not//, but despite that he straightens up a little bit, his mouth settling into a frown instead. The exact inverse of the smile of earlier, which is of course what a frown //is//, but on him it's like it sucks out some of the light around him, where before the smile had been projecting extra.
"I ain't following you, motherfucker," he continues, straightening up a little bit in his seat. "Like, why would I? Coming at random strangers high as fuck tryna start shit." The hand that had been reaching out for his cards instead just flips dismissively. "Keep 'em," he says as he stands up, turning toward the exit. He can make more, surely.
There's a distinct lack of understanding on Bertie's face as he takes these facts in, until recognition dawns on his face. He straightens up himself, glances from side to side in a renewed sense of self-awareness, and starts chuckling deeply, pushing all the painstakingly crafted flash cards across the small cafe table, "Aww, fuck. My bad man. You know how the coke jitters can get to you after a couple days, yeah? I thought you were with those Creed fuckers, tryin' ta creep in on my biz, again." If he could straighten everything up by arranging it like he's carefully stacking and tidying the flash cards, he would. Instead, he's interrupted by a call from the counter, 'Albert! Pumpkin spice Latte, extra expresso, whip cream blended in with a shot of caramel!"
Just like that, Albert's rising from Javi's table, telling the man amiably, "Hey dude, pop a squat if you wanna make some real motherfuckin' money." Yet, Bertie doesn't even check behind him to see if Javi considers the offer, already heading up to the counter to get his overpriced drink, crocs squeaking on the floor.
Javi may have turned away, but he whirls back almost as soon as Bertie puts the cards down, so fast he must have had them in the periphery. His arm //shoots// out quick as a striking snake to grab them again, then pulls back to shove them into his pocket hard enough that some of them probably get a little mangled at the corners. He can worry about it later.
"Uh huh," he says. "Good luck with that." There is no considering of the offer, seen or unseen. He just snorts, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath as he heads toward the door without a backward glance.
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