((Continued from: Mi Familia))
How did I ever get talked into this?
The thought passed through the mind of Ricky Callahan as he wandered idly through "El Mercado", a Mexican supermarket that his mother often purchased a majority of their weekly groceries from. How she'd ever talked him into running to the store to pick up a few things was beyond him, and as he'd almost expected, "a few things" had turned into a basket-full. Throwing a bell pepper at random into the hand-held basket as he walked by, he didn't even bother to examine the other produce to see if there was a better one.
Ricky hated shopping of any kind, especially grocery shopping in this ghetto-looking supermarket. Self-proclaimed supermarket, anyway. It was hardly bigger than a convenience store, really. It was run by Alfonzo Lopez, who just happened to be a family friend of the Callahan's, and had been kind enough to allow his mother to set up a charge account at the store for whenever she sent one of the boys in after this or that random forget-me-not needed for dinner.
Turning the aisle to find two rather wide Hispanic women rambling on in Spanish and effectively blocking the entire aisle as they did so, Ricky sighed a bit. The women were turned where their baskets took up the entire length of the walkway, and to put icing on the cake, what could best be described as the herd of children that was divided amongst the two women ran aimlessly up and down the aisle, further blockading it. Glancing down at the list in his hand, he mentally crossed off sugar. Matt could eat his cheerios plain, 'cause there was no way Ricky was going down that aisle.
One of the women cast him a sidelong glance before continuing to chatter away to the other woman, never showing any intentions of stepping out of the way. Sighing forelornly, Ricky turned around and exited the aisle from the direction he had come. Looking over the list once more, as well as the items that had accumulated in the basket he currently toted around the store. He'd decided that the last item on his list was unattainable except by drastic measures, and quite frankly, Ricky wasn't willing to get verbally assaulted -- or eaten alive -- by the two fat women blockading the walkway for his brother's sugar.
Instead, Ricky meandered up to the counter where Alfonzo was standing. The Puerto Rican man lit up into a smile that seemed to overtake the entirety of his face as Ricky appeared. Alfonzo was a good guy. He was a hard worker, and he spent a lot of time down at the store now that he was once again a bachelor. Sad story, really. He and his wife had a nasty divorce. He got the house, she got the kids. And the car. And half his money. Poor guy really got the short end of that stick. Despite everything, Alfonzo seemed straight about the entire incident, as though it didn't bother him.
"Ricardo!" the mustached man greeted him with enthusiasm, "You find everything okay?"
No, there's two cows blocking the middle of your store.
"Always, sir."
Alfonzo virtually removed the basket from Ricky's hands and began checking out and sacking the items that had accumulated inside. Ricky smiled gratefully, though in all honesty, he just wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. He detested doing errands, especially errands like these.
"So when are you gonna come work for me?" Alfonzo inquired with a grin.
When I die.
"You know me, man. I'm jam-packed with school stuff right now. Maybe this summer or something? Baseball's taking up a lot of my time right now, I doubt you'd want me down here flubbing things up and not being able to show up for work, you know?"
Way to go, "Ricardo". Lie yourself out of another one. You have all sorts of free time, you just don't want to do it. Why don't you just tell the man that you don't want to work in this backwater Mexican marketplace? You're too damned nice for your own good.
"I hear ya, I hear ya," Alfonzo mused, before quickly adding in, "Your total's $21.87. Charge?"
"Yeah," Ricky mused, reaching for the piece of paper Alfonzo offered up and signing it, "Thanks man."
"Anytime," Alfonzo stated coyly.
Grabbing the sacks that the groceries had been placed in, Ricky bid the Puerto Rican cashier adieu before heading for the glass door of El Mercado and out into the beating sun of another day. He still had a lot to do, so needless to say, he was rather glad that none of the food he had purchased would perish anytime soon. Sighing a bit, he headed to the blue truck sitting in the parking lot of the shopping plaza and unlocked it long enough to toss the groceries inside.
Knowing he had chores to do, but desperately wishing to avoid them at all costs, Ricky found his attention lost on the random shops and bistros scattered throughout the shopping plaza. Once again locking the truck, Ricky meandered back toward the outdoor mall, walking idly down the sidewalk whilst looking inside the various shops. He wasn't ready to finish those errands yet, and besides, they didn't have to be done right this second. He could always stop for lunch or something, right? Something... anything to get away from these monotonous chores for a while. Ricky eyed the shops and restaurants, waiting for something of interest to jump out at him.
Distractions and Diversions*
Distractions and Diversions*
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When you're in the zone, you can do anything. You can jump off a bridge and survive. You can shove your way through a crowd without reprimand. You can play basketball beyond stupid free throw shots. And that was all because things just flowed. Writing, talking, and walking was easier with your fingers faster, your mouth softer, and your feet so much more skippy. Jean was hoping that by the time he had walked to the Shopping Plaza all the way from his home in Carrington Pointe that his muse, so to say, would return. The only thing he had obtained during his travels was a massive headache, mud splattered jeans, and a tear in the sole of his shoe.
His parents would probably kill him for that, even though the shoe thing hadn't exactly been his fault. The messy jeans were because he ran through a mud puddle in a fit of childhood nostalgia. The dirty water hit him right enough to give him an earthquake of a migraine. Needless to say, that naive walking idea had been uneffective. All it was doing was blocking him more than he had been at the start.
This was starting to become impossible. Maybe it was the dorky sweater vest that was getting Jean W. Firenze so down, or the way he had tweaked his hair so it could sweep to the side. The brown locks barely brushed the middle of his neck, making the whole hairstyle look nancy freako at best. If it weren't for the thick sideburns, Jean could be mistakened for a fugly, fat dyke. His puffy-cheeked face was on a long journey to slimdom, its quest enlogated by overindulgence in the form of chocolate. Blame it on his Dutch quarter, Jean had to have a bite atleast once a day. The weak acne gained from his frequent chocofests was hidden cleverly by his bangs. Through the sweater vest, you could see moobs forming from neglecting fitness excercises, ugh. He hid the worst of his body with a pair of jeans and black and orange nameless brand sneakers ("fag bobos" were what some witty Franklynians called them).
El Mercado, that Mexican shop, probably wasn't a good place to go for candy bars. Jean had never heard of a Mexican chocolate bar, after all, which made his search up and down the aisles rather mundane. The search wouldn't've wound up so badly if he had just looked in the appropiate treat section. Oi, empty handed, Jean Firenze went back outside. Now, what could be done in the Plaza with a measly fistful of ten one dollar bills? A straight $10 didn't amount to much, especially in the face of store windows displaying items priced at an upwards of thirty. Jean pressed his face up to a music shop window keeping him away from the glorious, rosewood electric guitar inside. Just looking at it made his mouth water, his fingers jolt, and his heart pound. What he'd do to get the seven thousand dollars needed to play that sweet baby.
Despite his feminine features and his fairy demeanor, he was into blasting out harsh metal riffs and was on his way to doing that overdone throaty scream thing. His ideal dream was to pull a Heafy and get picked up by a band during a talent show, or summat. It was pretty much impossible, though, and, sadly, Jean could admit that that couldn't be any more true. Senior year would be the last chance for that sort of thing, then he'd be shipped off to a New York City college. His hair would be chopped to buzz short, his guitar would be smashed, and he'd be growing up to be Jeanathan instead of little Jeannie boy.
He pulled his face away from the store window and caught a view of Rick Callahan across the street in the reflection. Jean recognized him from class, Mr. Duana's homeroom. He didn't know Rick all that well, beyond him being another one of those endless baseball jocks. Oh, well, Jean was willing to take the risk of ridicule just for a chance at conversation. It'd be...somewhat of a start of finally making friends in his classes. He had enough acquaintances, so it was time to improve his relationships and further develop his character.
"Hey!" Jean turned around and waved to Ricky from across the street. "Wait there, I'll come to you." He ran over trackstar style, pumping his arms for full on dramatization. Skidding to a stop, he smiled, "You're in Mr. Duana's homeroom, right? I'm Jean." He held out a hand, meaning for Ricky to shake it. "S'up, mate?" It must've been something weird to see. A fat kid in a sweater vest's attempt at getting a new buddy.
This'll be fun, don't you think?
His parents would probably kill him for that, even though the shoe thing hadn't exactly been his fault. The messy jeans were because he ran through a mud puddle in a fit of childhood nostalgia. The dirty water hit him right enough to give him an earthquake of a migraine. Needless to say, that naive walking idea had been uneffective. All it was doing was blocking him more than he had been at the start.
This was starting to become impossible. Maybe it was the dorky sweater vest that was getting Jean W. Firenze so down, or the way he had tweaked his hair so it could sweep to the side. The brown locks barely brushed the middle of his neck, making the whole hairstyle look nancy freako at best. If it weren't for the thick sideburns, Jean could be mistakened for a fugly, fat dyke. His puffy-cheeked face was on a long journey to slimdom, its quest enlogated by overindulgence in the form of chocolate. Blame it on his Dutch quarter, Jean had to have a bite atleast once a day. The weak acne gained from his frequent chocofests was hidden cleverly by his bangs. Through the sweater vest, you could see moobs forming from neglecting fitness excercises, ugh. He hid the worst of his body with a pair of jeans and black and orange nameless brand sneakers ("fag bobos" were what some witty Franklynians called them).
El Mercado, that Mexican shop, probably wasn't a good place to go for candy bars. Jean had never heard of a Mexican chocolate bar, after all, which made his search up and down the aisles rather mundane. The search wouldn't've wound up so badly if he had just looked in the appropiate treat section. Oi, empty handed, Jean Firenze went back outside. Now, what could be done in the Plaza with a measly fistful of ten one dollar bills? A straight $10 didn't amount to much, especially in the face of store windows displaying items priced at an upwards of thirty. Jean pressed his face up to a music shop window keeping him away from the glorious, rosewood electric guitar inside. Just looking at it made his mouth water, his fingers jolt, and his heart pound. What he'd do to get the seven thousand dollars needed to play that sweet baby.
Despite his feminine features and his fairy demeanor, he was into blasting out harsh metal riffs and was on his way to doing that overdone throaty scream thing. His ideal dream was to pull a Heafy and get picked up by a band during a talent show, or summat. It was pretty much impossible, though, and, sadly, Jean could admit that that couldn't be any more true. Senior year would be the last chance for that sort of thing, then he'd be shipped off to a New York City college. His hair would be chopped to buzz short, his guitar would be smashed, and he'd be growing up to be Jeanathan instead of little Jeannie boy.
He pulled his face away from the store window and caught a view of Rick Callahan across the street in the reflection. Jean recognized him from class, Mr. Duana's homeroom. He didn't know Rick all that well, beyond him being another one of those endless baseball jocks. Oh, well, Jean was willing to take the risk of ridicule just for a chance at conversation. It'd be...somewhat of a start of finally making friends in his classes. He had enough acquaintances, so it was time to improve his relationships and further develop his character.
"Hey!" Jean turned around and waved to Ricky from across the street. "Wait there, I'll come to you." He ran over trackstar style, pumping his arms for full on dramatization. Skidding to a stop, he smiled, "You're in Mr. Duana's homeroom, right? I'm Jean." He held out a hand, meaning for Ricky to shake it. "S'up, mate?" It must've been something weird to see. A fat kid in a sweater vest's attempt at getting a new buddy.
This'll be fun, don't you think?
Founder of SOTF - 2005.
I am an archival account used by staff to port old posts from handlers no longer active. If you are this handler, get in touch with staff and we can get your posts back for you! Sydney avatar by Kermit.
I am an archival account used by staff to port old posts from handlers no longer active. If you are this handler, get in touch with staff and we can get your posts back for you! Sydney avatar by Kermit.
Ricky'd been lost in his own little world as he'd meandered down the concrete sidewalk of the shopping plaza, barely noticing as he passed underneath the various awning adorning the windows of the many small businesses that inhabited the plaza and called their little niché in the wall their home. Absent-mindedly, the dark-headed boy cast a sidelong glance at the reflection of himself in the glass of one of the small shops. His hands were shoved into the pockets of the overly baggy cargo pants he adorned, and honestly, Ricky couldn't help but think that perhaps he looked a little thuggish, even if the black tanktop he'd thrown on this morning did wonders in showing off his athletic, if not a bit scrawny, physique.
He was quickly thrust from his silent reverie as a voice from across the street echoed out loudly. The simple word, "hey", had distracted Ricky, along with several of the other nameless pedestrians meandering their ways down the sidewalk, and Ricky couldn't help but cast a glance, followed by a bit of a smirk, toward the rather heavy-set individual across the street. Ricky was quickly taken aback, however, as he realized that the boy across the street had directed his outburst toward him.
Just as suddenly, the hefty boy took off in a full-on sprint across the narrow street and in Ricky's direction. Despite himself, Ricky continued to smirk at the kid's vain attempt at a run. He had decent enough form, it wasn't as if the kid was flailing his arms out in the air as he ran or anything, but Ricky couldn't help but silently contemplate that perhaps this individual had indulged in one too many chocolate bars. As the boy skidded to a hault in front of him, Ricky eyed him up and down, barely taking the time to acknowledge the fact that he'd been asked a question. As the boy, who introduced himself as Jean, inquired about Ricky's homeroom teacher, it clicked.
This boy had homeroom with him.
The smirk once again turned into a friendly smile, and Ricky couldn't help but shake his head and laugh in mild amusement. "I knew you looked familiar." He should've recognized that sweater-vest adorned by Jean Firenze anywhere, but the fact was, he sat a few seats away from Ricky and the majority of the other baseball boys, and Ricky was normally too distracted by Eric or Gregg to ever even attempt to acknowledge half of the students in the room. That and, well, he was still pretty new, and he wasn't exactly a social butterfly himself, so it was only natural for him to not completely recognize faces, right?
Trying to cover for yourself, Ricky? Fact is, you never gave the kid a second glance because you wouldn't dream of hanging out with a loser like him. Don't kid yourself.
Blowing off the thought, Ricky extended his hand and grasped Jean's in a firm handshake. No sense in being rude, right? Besides, the plaza was relatively empty at this time of day and, Ricky supposed, he could always be in worse company. At least this boy seemed friendly enough, and pretty outgoing. It was a change of pace from the so-called nerdy kids that littered the hallways of Franklyn. Most of them were backward and unsociable, and they just looked at you funny if you attempted to speak to them.
Kinda like you, huh?
"I got conned into running errands for my mother," Ricky mused with a chuckle at Jean's inquiry. The dark-headed boy shook his head a bit before looking back at his newly acquired companion, "What about you? What brings you out here?"
Of course, Ricky couldn't help but notice that the company in question's jeans were spattered with mud, and he couldn't help but wonder if a passing car hadn't splattered the messy substance all over him by accident. Or even on purpose. Some people were just cruel like that. Deciding that it wasn't a polite thing to ask, however, Ricky thought it best not to inquire about the dirty jeans Jean wore. For all he knew, the boy might not be able to afford anything better, and it might be a sensitive subject. Still smiling nonchalantly as he awaited a response, Ricky couldn't help but think that to the passers-by driving through the alley way, they must have looked like quite the oddball pairing.
He was quickly thrust from his silent reverie as a voice from across the street echoed out loudly. The simple word, "hey", had distracted Ricky, along with several of the other nameless pedestrians meandering their ways down the sidewalk, and Ricky couldn't help but cast a glance, followed by a bit of a smirk, toward the rather heavy-set individual across the street. Ricky was quickly taken aback, however, as he realized that the boy across the street had directed his outburst toward him.
Just as suddenly, the hefty boy took off in a full-on sprint across the narrow street and in Ricky's direction. Despite himself, Ricky continued to smirk at the kid's vain attempt at a run. He had decent enough form, it wasn't as if the kid was flailing his arms out in the air as he ran or anything, but Ricky couldn't help but silently contemplate that perhaps this individual had indulged in one too many chocolate bars. As the boy skidded to a hault in front of him, Ricky eyed him up and down, barely taking the time to acknowledge the fact that he'd been asked a question. As the boy, who introduced himself as Jean, inquired about Ricky's homeroom teacher, it clicked.
This boy had homeroom with him.
The smirk once again turned into a friendly smile, and Ricky couldn't help but shake his head and laugh in mild amusement. "I knew you looked familiar." He should've recognized that sweater-vest adorned by Jean Firenze anywhere, but the fact was, he sat a few seats away from Ricky and the majority of the other baseball boys, and Ricky was normally too distracted by Eric or Gregg to ever even attempt to acknowledge half of the students in the room. That and, well, he was still pretty new, and he wasn't exactly a social butterfly himself, so it was only natural for him to not completely recognize faces, right?
Trying to cover for yourself, Ricky? Fact is, you never gave the kid a second glance because you wouldn't dream of hanging out with a loser like him. Don't kid yourself.
Blowing off the thought, Ricky extended his hand and grasped Jean's in a firm handshake. No sense in being rude, right? Besides, the plaza was relatively empty at this time of day and, Ricky supposed, he could always be in worse company. At least this boy seemed friendly enough, and pretty outgoing. It was a change of pace from the so-called nerdy kids that littered the hallways of Franklyn. Most of them were backward and unsociable, and they just looked at you funny if you attempted to speak to them.
Kinda like you, huh?
"I got conned into running errands for my mother," Ricky mused with a chuckle at Jean's inquiry. The dark-headed boy shook his head a bit before looking back at his newly acquired companion, "What about you? What brings you out here?"
Of course, Ricky couldn't help but notice that the company in question's jeans were spattered with mud, and he couldn't help but wonder if a passing car hadn't splattered the messy substance all over him by accident. Or even on purpose. Some people were just cruel like that. Deciding that it wasn't a polite thing to ask, however, Ricky thought it best not to inquire about the dirty jeans Jean wore. For all he knew, the boy might not be able to afford anything better, and it might be a sensitive subject. Still smiling nonchalantly as he awaited a response, Ricky couldn't help but think that to the passers-by driving through the alley way, they must have looked like quite the oddball pairing.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Megami. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.