InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "that mod is insane."

Harley Jensen (harleyjensen) wrote in providence_rpg,
@ 2008-09-22 20:33:00

Who: Harley, and Open
What/Where/When: Monday Night at Eclectic Electric Tattoo & Piercing Parlor
Warnings: Harley has a foul mouth.

He'd holed himself up in his office, working on a design, during the down time. he could hear the bells chime at the front door if anyone came in, and stuck his head out to see. Mondays were usually fairly quiet, Thursday through Saturday where his busiest nights. His staff could manage the customers during the week. Harley trusted them to do their job, and leave him to do whatever he was doing. It was a perfect set up. He didn't bother them, they didn't bother him.

He swung his office door open just after 8, so he could keep an eye on the shop. One of his artists had called in sick, and there wasn't exactly a substitute list for people working in a tattoo parlor. Harley would have to fill in for him, if the need arose. He didn't mind the work, sometimes when he sat alone in his office, he missed working the floor, etching ink into tender flesh. It was a passion, and Harley had been neglecting it lately. He needed to get back on the floor, and for that reason he hoped someone would come in for him to work on.

The hardest part, and the main reason he'd cut back on his floor time, was because of the obliglitory conversation. Harley wasn't a big talker. He didn't do small talk. He didn't discuss the big things. He would be content to do his work in complete silence, which was the situation when he worked on his designs. He offered more originals than any other shop in the area. He offered personalised service, if a customer had an idea, or a picture they wanted turned into a tattoo.

He continued to work on his latest design, half listening and hoping the door would open out front.

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jaimeda
2008-09-22 08:30 pm UTC (link)

Jaime had originally been given orders to arrive no later than 5:00, but considering he'd only be leaving the bank at that time, the gruff voice on the other end of the line admitted that 5:15 was a much better option. It was no surprise that every minute of the journey from the bank to the tattoo shop had been agonizing. Between the traffic and stoplights (stale greens made him especially nervous), visions of tardiness clouded his mind, rendering him unable to focus on anything more.

He'd shown up nearly fifteen minutes late that first night, and it wasn't rare for it to happen once or twice a month since then. Jaime had learned to accept it, possibly even to occasionally expect it, but what he didn't do so much anymore was let it bother him... as often. He respected Harley's (never in his right mind would he address him in such an... informal manner, but) right to be exasperated; Hell, he'd be upset if his employees (not that he'd ever have employees of his own) were incapable of showing up on time. Truthfully, Harley was paying him to sit behind a desk, greet those who happened to wander in (which, let's face it, he wasn't all that great at), make appointments and stare at a phone that rang maybe twice an hour at best.

But showing up late hadn't been an issue that night -- it wouldn't have been any different with the rate at which everything seemed to move -- in fact, he sat at his desk and got right to work. Now, it didn't take him long to finish his basic routine, and it didn't take him long to come up with a list of additional tasks to complete... but once he'd finished everything he could label appropriate for the time being, the need to address his lack of productivity made itself present. Bothering Harley certainly wasn't in his list of priorities, but it wasn't right for him to be paid to sit and stare.

Conveniently enough, 8:00PM wasn't that far away; once Harley had opened his office door, it didn't take Jaime long to find a spot just behind the door-frame. He presented himself almost pathetically, refusing to make eye-contact and speaking in a tone just above a mumble. "I-is... there a-any..anything you ...need at the moment, Sir?"

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harleyjensen
2008-09-22 09:14 pm UTC (link)

Harley glanced at his watch, as if he didn't know what time it was. It was more of a tic, than an actual honest glance at the time. He rolled his head on his shoulders, making each side pop. He did the same with his fingers, linking the digits and thrusting his arms out forward, pulling his fingers back as he did so.

He stretched, making a display of the act. Such were his usual diversions. He hated small talk, and while he liked his employees to show him respect, with the receptionist before him, the boundaries were almost pushed out to something more. Submission, if Harley read the boy's posture right and he was fairly sure he did. Harley had an innate understanding of that body language.

"I need my floors waxed and my widows washed," he stated, referring to the chores at home. The shop was nearly immaculate. "I need my dinner cook and the dishes washed, all without raising a finger to do it myself. What of that, boy?" Harley asked, dark eyes glowering at Jaime.

Harley had no real opinion of Jaime. He did his work, what there was to do. Some nights there was little to do, at the reception desk. Harley couldn't control that, it was the nature of the business at times.

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jaimeda
2008-09-22 10:02 pm UTC (link)

At first, Jaime wasn't sure if what Harley had said was meant to be taken seriously -- a part of him knew that the man was virtually incapable of 'joking around' (or so it seemed), but another part wanted to consider everything possible as a valid personality trait. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, mostly near Harley's feet, as he struggled to maintain his own [silent] confusion once the other stopped speaking.

Waxing floors and washing windows were two things he hadn't recalled as part of the job description (cooking and cleaning made it four), but once he really thought about it, he wasn't in a position to refuse this guy. Was he? Most certainly not (it was always in his better interest to accept gratefully).

"..." he'd opened his mouth to speak, but found himself at a complete loss for words. Blushing furiously, he tilted his head just enough to meet the other's gaze, but it was temporary, if anything. "At your home, Sir?"

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harleyjensen
2008-09-24 07:33 pm UTC (link)

Harley's eyes seemed to dance as he looked Jaime over. The boy was meek and mild, quiet. Perfect for domestic work, really, and not suited to working the front desk of a shop, any shop, even a fairly quiet shop like the tattoo parlor.

"Do you see a kitchen here, boy?" Harley asked, in reference to Jaime's question that sounded like confusion. "No, you don't. There is no kitchen here. There is, however, a kitchen at my home."

He had shot off the first thing that came to mind. Spouting off about his floors and his dinner had been impulsive, but if the boy wanted to take him seriously, Harley was more than curious to see how it would play out.

He'd been meaning to call a maid service, after all. He hated the domestic chores of living alone.

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