quicklog: tandy & travis @ the diner
[It hadn't been a good week. At the meetings that he went to in the Capital, they preached about how any day that he refrained from taking in drugs or alcohol was a day to be met with gratitude, but Travis was beginning to think that was a bunch of sanctimonious bullshit. His general well-being hinged on a whole hell of a lot more than just not popping pills. If his life was going to suck hard even with the golden laurels of some ninety-day chips fit onto a winner's crown, Travis wasn't sure that there was much of a point. The only reason that he hadn't told the meetings to go fuck themselves before swan diving into some debauched, beer-hiccuping sea of self-flagellating flames, the only reason was that Travis was just a little afraid of the possibility that as shitty as his life had become... it just might be able to get worse.
Case in point, last night there had been another masochistically inspired visit to his mom's for a Sunday dinner that started off generically depressing enough, but always ended in somebody throwing the tupperware of spaghetti out the window. When things started getting thrown, this was usually Travis' cue to get gone. He'd memorized the notes to such a familiar soundtrack. So he escaped out the side door while his mother's boyfriend threatened to put Travis' head through a wall and his mother wailed her woes into an entire box of wine. Travis would inevitably forget about this or just bargain away his reasoning before returning for another dysfunctional family dinner on some other Sunday, but right now, just a day later, he still bristled.
He didn't want to spend the whole day punching and kicking scrap metal around the yard. He flexed his hands, testing that knuckles were bruised and not broken before he fit those mitts into the dark gloves that'd become just another piece of armor in his wardrobe. Travis shot Tandy that message on the forum even as he settled into a corner booth at the diner. He looked like all kinds of bad news in his mangy leather jacket, the dark flop of his hair smelling like motor oil and cigarettes. The waitress, perhaps wisely, did not approach.]