1964-08-03 - Existential Breakfast
Summary: Theresa and Kwabena have breakfast and a existential conversation. Kwabena offers his spot as a crash pad.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
theresa kwabena 

Kwabena Odame has never been a heavy sleeper.

Around 3am, he stirred. There was a moment where he studied the woman in his bed for a long time. He's not one given to emotional torrents; his romantic life has been far from anything romantic at all. More… random hookups, the occasional broad, nothing lasting or significant. Then again, he's never shared a bed with another… powered person. Mutant. Alien. Whatever it is that they are.

Carefully, he snuck from beneath Theresa's head, adjusting the pillow so that she wouldn't be disturbed. A hip flask was produced, a pack of smokes snatched up from the counter, and out the door he crept. Something she mentioned to him had his brain spinning, to the point where sleep was simply not going to happen.

When the sun first carves its way in harsh angles through the window and toward the bed, it comes with the sound of sizzling from the kitchen. Whatever it is that Kwabena is cooking, it is not a typical American breakfast, and it smells damn good.

The sunlight itself doesn't seem to be enough to knock the sleep from her eyes, but when the smell of whatever is sizzling in the kitchen finally makes it's way to her nose her eyes snap open. There is a moment of confusion as she looks around, trying to remember where she is, and how she got there.

As soon as memory of the other night dawns she starts to sit up, hands moving to her face to give it a bit of a rub before she scoots out of the bed, getting to her feet to wander back out into the main room.

"Good mahning," Kwabena calls from the kitchen. He's wearing sweat pants and a black tank top, his feet bare. Steam rises from the stove, and a radio nearby is jabbering on and on with talk about Vietnam and Congress. It's white noise, really, barely audible above the sounds of culinary orchestra.

Kwabena glances across the one room apartment, smirking a bit as Theresa sits up. With a spatula in hand, he points her way. "Do you have any idea how loud you snore?"

He is, of course, joking; though the thought crosses his mind that, if she did snore, it might have woken the entire building.

"Snore?" Theresa shakes her head at him, "I do not snore." She protests, and is reasonably certain that she doesn't. Reasonably. She hastily combs her fingers through her hair, twisting it back from her face as she makes her way over, trying to see what it is he's cooking, "What is that?"

"Something you've nevah had befah," Kwabena answers. In one pan, he's boiling couscous. In the other, there are chopped plantain's cooking in bubbling oil, and in the third, grits. Sitting to the side is an assortment of fruit that's been chopped up. "Dis is what we eat for breakfast in Ghana," he tells her. It still feels funny to refer to his country by its new name.

"Fruit and…rice?" Theresa wonders, having no previous experience with couscous evidently. However, fruit is something she can at least get behind, and she reaches out to steal one of the chopped up pieces to pop into her mouth, "It smells good, though. Seems like a lot of work, though…do you eat this every mornin' still?"

"No," he answers, shaking his head while going through the motions of preparing the plates. "No, no. I would. But morning is good time for driving de taxi, so, sometimes it is de bagel. Dere is a good deli around de cornah. But, I do dis any time I can, yes? Is cheaper and much more friendly to dis stomach." He pauses to pat at his stomach.

First, the couscous. "Seems you slept well, den." The grits get slathered on one side. "I think towels ah clean…" The plantains go opposite the grits. "… if you need to clean yahself." He pauses then, frowning. "How to say it… freshen up?" Finally, the fruit is plopped right down in the middle, before he spins about to go to his fridge. "Not dat you need to, I do not smell anything bad."

He snatches up two hard boiled eggs from a bowl in the fridge, and brings them over to finish the breakfast dishes.

"Freshen up…" Theresa agrees, watching as he begins to assemble the meal with a bit of fascination, the sort born out of the unskilled. She probably would endlessly eat bagels and whatever else she could find if left on her own. "Thank you." She adds, glancing up with a laugh when he points out he doesn't smell her. "I slept fine though, thank you."

"Do not mention dis." That's probably Kwabena's bad-English way of saying, 'don't mention it.' He still struggles with American slang. "Go den, go on," he says, gesturing for the tiny washroom. "Don't take too long, is not as good cold! I will make tea. Coffee is good, but will ruin de breakfast."

"I prefer tea anyways." Theresa replies with a quick smile before she turns towards the washroom, vanishing inside to freshen up. Which doesn't include much since she lacks a change of clothes, or much to do beyond wash her face and hands before she steps back out into the main room.

Fortunately, tea doesn't take long. There's a really small table, ultimately designed for one, so the plates are crammed in there. He's had to pull a chair from elsewhere, so they're mismatched; Theresa has the taller one so that he isn't just looming over her like some kind of cartoon.

"If you don't like it, is ahkay. I just won't let you crash here again." He smirks a bit, hoping she realizes its a joke.

"I'm famished…you could feed me a rock right now, and I'd love it." Theresa assures him as she moves towards the table, taking one of the chairs, waiting until some signal before she reaches for the food to start helping herself. Manners only seem to go so far before hunger rules the day.

"Funny," Kwabena quips. "Dat is de secret ingredient." He grabs a fork and stabs one of the eggs. "Smelly, old sock." He lifts the egg with a grin and bites it in half, a clear signal that they should start.

There's likely to be some silence; she's not the only one famished, after all. As with most meals, there's a bit of pigging out before much more conversation takes place.

There's a quick laugh at his joke regarding the secret ingredients, but she doesn't say much for the moment. It's not until she's consumed a good half her plate of food that she slows down, reaching for the tea, "It's really good."

"Yes, I learned it from fathah," answers Kwabena. "Reminds me of home."

He also reaches for his tea, but after drinking it, he studies Theresa for a moment. "You mentioned, last night, dat things have not always been dat easy. Some few bad decisions in de past, yes?"

"I don't know about bad decisions." Theresa shakes her head, taking another sip from her tea before she sets it down, picking her fork up, "More…" She pauses, trying to decide how to better word it. "My uncle, the man that raised me, right? He was into some bad things, and decided I'd be a very helpful companion to take on some of those jobs."

Kwabena takes a few more bites of breakfast while she answers, but he sets the fork down once she makes that confession. "I can get you jobs," he tells her. "If you want. Is why dat asshole tried to shoot me. I have not been taking jobs, and de peopah who used to pay me for dem? Dey aren't happy with my 'retiahment'. I drive taxi, honest living, but is not good money. Not de kind of money I used to make."

"What sort of jobs though?" Theresa wonders, looking both curious and a little uncertain about it at the same time. He's right, the money is terrible when going straight, but is the risk worth it? The inner turmoil is clear on her face.

"For me?" Kwabena replies. "Was mostly mob shit," he admits. "Stealing things, vandalizing dere cars or houses. Sometimes, to vandalize dere legs." He frowns a bit. "Is ugly dough, in dis city. I am black. You are Irish. Peopah assume things, if you undahstand, about who we are, what our connections are."

He goes back to his meal, stabbing at some fruit and taking a bite. There is a contemplative look to him; clearly, there's more going on in his head than might be expected.

"Mob?" Theresa looks momentarily baffled by that before she laughs, it finally clicking in her head before she pushes a plantain across her plate as she thinks about it, "I know a few folks, but I wouldn't say that I've got any connections. Not the sort I imagine you are saying people assume we have."

The truth is, Kwabena had asked around about Theresa, and he'd not come up with anything concrete. It's possible that these jobs she'd done were out of state, he wouldn't know unless he asked. Thing is, he's not asking. That would be rude.

"Yes, mob. Some Italian found out about… what I can do. I was youngah, pissed off at everything, so… I dove in." He shakes his head. "Slashing tires, stealing safes? Dat is one thing. Busting some pahson's legs just to send a message…" He grimaces. "I don't know."

As to discussion in their heritage, he nods his head. "Yes. Irish gangs sell drugs to peopah in New York. So, if you get into dat whole thing, peopah ah gonna assume dat is what you ah doing. Me? I'm probably… robbing from white peopah and raping dere wives." He shakes his head. "Dis is why I wear de sunglasses. I don't want peopah to see my eyes. Dey might try to find out just how hahd I am to kill."

"Which would be rather messy." Theresa agrees, setting the fork back down as she reaches for the tea, frowning just a little as she mulls it over. "I've never stolen a safe, but I've broken into one. It's rather easy when you can hear the tumblers click…" She lifts her free hand up, indicating her ear a moment, "But the one and only time I've been involved in anything in the States, it didn't end well. Different people here…"

Kwabena nods his head slowly. "You and I? We could do real damage. I don't think I know half of what you can do, and me, well." He shakes his head. "I can't control it some times, but I know dat I can't die. At least… not from a bullet, or a knife, or a very very long drop. It just doesn't work."

He looks across the table then, studying Theresa carefully. "Or… we could… help peopah."

"We should help people." Theresa twirls the mug of tea around in her fingers, looking thoughful at him, "I admit that the possible money from jobs would be…nice. I wouldn' worry about paying for the hotel rooms for a while, that is for sure. But…" She shrugs her shoulders, looking torn between the two potentials, "Helping people is good, right luv?"

"Yes," Kwabena agrees, now wholly disregarding his food and keeping his attention upon Theresa. "But, helping peopah is dangahrous, too. What if I piss someone off so much dat he becomes obsessed with finding a way to kill me?" He shrugs. "So many peopah hate powahed peopah like us, you know."

He leans forward then, gesturing toward Theresa with his left hand. "You know, I tried to help, recently. Save lives. Exposed myself, and den, a goddamned cop tracked me down. He wanted my help, but… what happens when de cop finds out I burned down an entire city block? Sure, we were stopping some kind of fucked up disease. It was in de blood, and de blood was everywhere, so I burned everything. But… it wasn't a pretty ending. You think de cop would be happy with dis outcome? Or would he put out a warrant and make my life miserabah?"

"It'd depend on the copper, that's sure." Theresa admits with a shake of her head, "It's a risk…both are risks. Life, for us, is a risk." She sets her mug down, getting to her feet to move towards his cabinets, starting to search around in them for…something. Which, might be easier if she'd just ask. "So are you suggestin' that we should simply help ourselves, and no one else?"

Curiously, Kwabena follows her with his eyes, though he doesn't just stand up quite yet. He does, however, fish out another cigarette and makes to light it, because smoking indoors is totally cool in 1964. "I do not know, Theresa," he answers. "Stupid to help oddahs without being cautious for yahself." He turns the chair aside and sticks up his feet, propping them upon the nearby end table that holds his record player. "What I do know is dat I'm not going to wear purple pantyhose undah my trousahs."

"Purple?" Theresa stops in her searching to twist around and look at him, then she shakes her head, "You'd look like a giant bruise…with…bruises." She decides, evidently in full agreement of not wearing purple pantyhose. She then keeps searching before she pauses, "Do you have any sugar? I'm sure that I'm staring right at it." She may very well be. "Now, why not do…both? Help, and be cautious."

Theresa's response draws a hearty bout of laughter from Kwabena. Between laughs, he spurts out some attempts at words. "You… she says… with bruises!" Evidently, he found it quite funny!

Once the laughter dies down, he ashes the cigarette, rests it in an ashtray, and pushes himself to his feet. It doesn't take long to close the distance. "Very cautious," he agrees, then pauses to consider just what that looks like.

"Purple pantyhose… on yah face."

Clearly, that is the answer, and he delivers the joke with dry wit. She is, in fact, looking right at the sugar. The cupboard is a bit of a jumbled mess; it's worth noting however that hidden up there he's got more than a few bottles of liquor in various stages of consumption. There's also an empty pack of smokes, and if she were to have looked hard enough, a little baggie with a fifth of marijuana just hanging out in there.

"It's right here," he tells her, though he's not pointing at the sugar either.

"You mean like a mask?" Theresa wonders, taking his joke with far too much serious as she turns back towards the cabinet, noting the bottles, the bag, and even the cigarettes. But she misses the sugar, and frowns a bit, "Where?" She pushes up onto her tip-toes, reaching into the cabinet to just start pulling things out of it.

"I guess," Kwabena answers. He actually considers the idea for a moment, too, before scoffing. "Jesus. A mask. Would be, how to say it, annoying?"

When she starts emptying his cabinet, Kwabena blinks. "No, no," he says, and reaches out to put a steadying hand on her back when she goes up on tip toes. "It's right dere." He points toward the sugar. "In de bag, I do not have sugah tray."

"In there?" Theresa reaches in, taking the bag when it's pointed to, and then she looks through the bottles before she selects one and turns back around to doctor her tea. "I don't think that a mask would be very nice, no. But it might help disguise some people." She then glances at him, looking amused. "Although neither of us truly blend in."

"Yes, it -" Kwabena cuts himself off when she comes back with sugar and booze. This he didn't expect. It's morning! She doesn't seem the type!

Of course, he is absolutely the type.

Following her back to the table, he gestures toward the bottle and says, "Hey, do mine too, yes?"

On blending in, he grins broadly at first, but it simmers down into a playful grin. He reaches forward and makes to twirl the bottom of one red lock for a moment, lest she stop him. "I think, if you dyed dis, I would have to crush someone's legs."

"I'd never dye it, luv, rest assured." Theresa replies with a laugh, scooping out an overly healthy amount of sugar, followed by an unhealthy amount of alcohol in each of the mugs. She screws the top back onto the bottle, setting it down on the table before she retakes her seat, "So, neither of us blend very well, I doubt that a mask would be helpful."

The amount of liquor draws a rueful grin. After all, his little refresh in the brown bag was lost last night when they went after that punk.

Reclaiming his seat, Kwabena props his legs again and reclaims his burning cigarette. In the other hand, he takes his spiked tea, and drinks from it. "What else, den?" he asks. "Will take too long to paint faces."

"Impractical, too. You'd sweat that paint right off." Theresa admits as she reaches for her tea, picking it up to take a sip off it, her eyes closing as she savors that sugary alcohol flavor. Then she sets it down, "So, masks would honestly be the easiest. Maybe with a hood, or a hat…"

The booze warms his belly, prompting Kwabena to relax further still. "Hard to see, dough," he counters. "I have nevah worn a mask, but dat makes sense, right? It would be hard to see."

"Depends on the mask, I imagine." Theresa shakes her head, laughing, "I mean, it'd not be as easy as not wearing a mask…but I'm almost certain that some have to be better than others. I'm just not sure how you'd get yourself one. You can't just walk into a store and order it."

"I don't know," Kwabena answers. "Dis is New Yahk. Dey have stores for everything." He takes a drag from the smoke, then sets the mug down and snaps his fingers. "Costume shop, 18th and Berry, Brooklyn."

He reaches for the mug again, grinning. "Don't ask me to sew anything, dough."

"Okay…so you could get a mask there, but would it still be functional?" Theresa wonders, shaking her head, "It's all well above my abilities, and I wont ask you to sew as long as you do not ask me to. Unless we're wanting sewn together fingertips. I could manage that on accident."

"Now you're starting to talk costumes," Kwabena points out. "Not just masks." He takes another drink, pausing to enjoy the delicious blend of flavors. "Like dat Spidah-Man. Yes?"

"That is at least a very good costume for not allowin' anyone to know who you are." Theresa points out after a little while, "With that get up on, no one would be able to follow you back home again."

"No kidding," Kwabena answers. "Of course, de first time I change to smoke, dat would be… awkward." This has of course been problematic for him before.

He ashes the cigarette again, simply enjoying this downtime during what would usually be a busy morning for him.

"The mask just would fall." Theresa agrees with a nod, then she points towards his eyes, "The same as your sunglasses did last night." She then picks up her mug, lifting it up to down the entire contents now that it's grown cooler. Then, she just refills it straight from the bottle, "So masks are out."

"Y," Kwabena starts to say, but then she's drinking like that. He tilts his head slightly, eyeing the mug. "Yes," he agrees. He's gonna let that whole thing slide for a moment, and sticks with drinking his tea at a normal pace. Normal for him is faster than most, but he hasn't gotten to shooters yet.

"You know, dis man gave me a card." He snaps his fingers and leans over, pulling open a drawer and rummaging around until he comes up with a nondescript card. "I think he is with de Avengahs. Maybe has some few bright ideas?"

"On masks and costumes?" Theresa wonders, setting her mug back down when he returns with the card, leaning forward a bit curiously, "I don't know, why would someone like that talk to us about ideas?" She shakes her head, laughing a bit before leaning back in her chair, "I suppose, though, luv, if you think that this man has answers, that you could ask him. If anyone does, I imagine that he might. Right?"

"Dat is what I am saying," answers Kwabena, grinning as he sits back in his seat. "He probably has no idea, but he may know someone. I also met a mechanic. She says dere ah some people upstate, who work with… peopah like us." He shrugs. "I don't know. May be worth a shot. Or… I could just go back to driving taxi, and you could keep renting hotel room."

When he mentions someone upstate she frowns a bit, fussing with the fork for a moment before she nods, "I might have…heard about the people up state. Might do to start there, at least in part." She sets her fork down, reaching for the mug again but doesn't pick it up yet, "Going back to just driving a taxi seems like it might be a good idea, if it weren't for the fact that people were shootin' at you. Seems like that would be problematic after a while."

For a moment, Kwabena chews on his lip, conflicted. "I'm not usually one to ask for help," he points out. As for people shooting at him, he leans forward and takes the mug, downing it. This isn't exactly easy conversation.

"It's more… annoyance," he tells her, and reaches for the bottle. "Shot in head? Black out for a moment. Shot in hand? Fingahs get funny." He pours himself a portion. "Drive taxi, live here." He nods about with his head. "Is cozy, but is small, and will fight ovah blanket." At that one, he gives Theresa a wink.

"Very cozy…but, yes, small." Theresa agrees, smiling at the wink before she glances around again, that smile slipping just a bit before she sighs, shaking her head, "I'm not usually one for asking help, either." She then pauses before adding, "Being lost in the big city not counting. But, perhaps asking for help is what we both need to be doing."

This time she does pick up her mug, taking another swallow from it before she leans forward, settling her arms on the edge of the small table, "I remember the priest once said somethin' about pride goin' before the fall. Maybe this is what that meant, being too proud to ask for help, and you fail."

Kwabena takes a drink as well, feeling its numbing effects. "Priest will say many things that make no sense," he answers. "Pride also can keep us alive," he points out, not in debate but simply in an effort to bring a different perspective.

Another drink goes down, and he snuffs the cigarette's life away in the corner of his ash tray. "I could speak with mechanic. Find out where to go," he offers.

"Oh, I know they will. Doesn't always mean they are wrong, though." Theresa replies thoughtfully, one corner of her mouth turning up, "Or that you aren't right." She sighs, shaking her head just a fraction before she nods, "Best be askin', then. It can't hurt, at least."

Kwabena eyes the table for a moment; the leftovers, the ashtray, a stain left from something he can't remember. Then he reaches out to take one of Theresa's hands in his before looking back up to her.

"Hey. If it turns out to be some govahnment bullshit, to collect mutants or something? We can just fight our way out of it."

"Oh…I don't think that it is…" Theresa replies slowly, looking a bit startled by the idea, like she wasn't thinking along those lines, but might have been thinking down another line. She smiles after a moment, giving his hand a squeeze, "But you're right, if it is, we'll just fight our way out of it, yeah?"

"Sorry," Kwabena admits. "Can be, sometimes, what is de word? It is… paranoid."

Kwabena grins at the idea of fighting his way out of trouble with the Irish gal, and gives her hand a squeeze before downing the rest of his drink. "Listen. Why don't I get cab, you can get things, and stay here until we go upstate? I will make sure towels are clean. Should not waste yah money on expensive hotel room."

"No, luv, being paranoid is good…you thought of something I didn't even begin to think of." Theresa assures him, quick to make certain that he isn't too apologetic about being cautious. Especially since that is what got them to this point in the conversation, anyways. Masks.

When he makes the offer of letting her stay there instead of paying for a hotel room she pauses, then nods, "Fine, but you'll let me give you something for your hospitality."

The moment she agrees, a big, toothy smile spreads along the Ghanaian's face. He's already standing and about to make work of cleaning up, when he stops and listens. He tilts his head with a sense of curiosity, his smile tempering a bit into something more like a smirk.

"Okay," he answers. "I will look forward to it, den."

"Okay." Theresa agrees, getting to her feet as well. Evidently the first order of repayment comes in the form of helping him to clean up, which might prove less helpful than intended due to the small kitchen.

Kwabena gathers up a few things, but, it's true. There isn't much room, and when he grabs the sprayer to begin spraying down the dishes, he accidentally bumps into her. His arm gets a bit tangled, and the sprayer ends up flipping around and spraying the both of them right in the face. "Agh!" he cries out and quickly shuts off the water!

Thankfully, she's not the sort that screams when splashed with water, although there is a startled sound that is quickly cut off before it ''does'' become a scream. Her hands shoot up, waving at the air like she could stop the water…then it does stop, and she laughs, at her own ridiculousness, "If you didn't want my help, you could have just said so. No need to go spritzing me like a bad cat."

Kwabena finds himself laughing heartily, from his belly; not only at the accident, but at Theresa's response. He grabs a nearby dish towel and is about to swing it her way, when her remark brings him pause. He grins mischievously, then sets the towel aside and makes a dash for the faucet, with every intention of spraying her again!

When he makes a dash for the faucet again her eyes widen in alarm, and instead of staying to try and wrestle the sprayer from him she retreats. Run away to live to fight another day, or something. Or at least maintain somewhat dry clothes.

"Oh, she evades!" he calls out, like a sportscaster. Then, with laughter, he replaced the spray nozzle and cuts off the water for good. Snatching the towel again, he tosses it across the distance, laughing all the while. "Here you go, I must find taxi keys."

Theresa catches the towel, "Of course! If I did not, then we'd be stuck here until my clothes dried." She points out with a laugh, using it to wipe off her face before she inspects her clothes, seeming satisfied they aren't too bad.

Kwabena laughs again, while scooping up his keys. "You serious?" he asks. "It is already hot August morning. You'd be dry in half an hour!" He then shoves his feet into some sandals, and walks for the door. "Promise, I am excellent taxi drivah."

"It is rather hot here.." Theresa agrees, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears before she moves to grab her shoes, tugging them on before she moves towards the door after him, "I'm certain that you are an excellent taxi driver. If not, don't expect a tip, luv."

Kwabena stops at the door, spinning about to snap his fingers in her direction. The booze, it's got him admittedly feeling a bit goofy. "I will get you dere quickly, and safely. But, cannot guarantee it will not be bumpy."

"I'm sure that I can survive a bumpy ride, luv, no worries there." Theresa replies, flashing a quick smile at him before she reaches for the door, fully prepared to make an exit until she realizes something, "Where is your taxi?"

"Downstairs!" Kwabena follows behind, locking up behind them. Once outside, he leads the way around the block, where a beat up taxi is parked. He slows, scratching his head uncomfortably for a moment. "Ah… dere it is. Last two were… well, one I blew up, de oddah one burned in de M-Town fire." A pause. "Which I caused."

"You certainly are a little rough on taxis." Theresa observes as she follows him around the block and to the taxi. She gives him a quick smile, "Try to not wreck this one for a little while?" She probably could not survive a car crash. She makes her way to the taxi, then waits by the passenger door, clearly opting to not be a fare.

"Well," Kwabena answers, forming a smirk. "Only when big mutated momstahs are involved."

No, he's clearly not joking.

He opens the passenger door for Theresa, then shuts it behind her once she's in. Moments later, he's popping open the driver side door, and firing the old piece of shit to life. "I promise not to blow up taxi," he assures her. "At least, not until aftah I've hit de ejection seat."

"You have an ejection seat?" Theresa looks, well, surprised. But then she frowns, eyes narrowing a bit before she starts to laugh, "You're pulling my leg, aren't you?" She shakes her head, turning her attention forward, looking bemused, "So my things are stashed in a locker at the bus station."

Kwabena bears a mirthful smirk as he pulls out into traffic, but when she laughs, he joins in. "Would be expensive, and I am not Sean Connery!"

He quickly proves just what kind of a taxi driver he is; the ride is bumpy, but he's got a real talent for driving. He's also being on his best behavior, choosing to rely on the language of New York Taxi horn beeps, rather than the usual vulgarity he spits at other, clearly less skilled drivers. At her admission, he looks over toward her and nods. "Well, let's get dem out of dere," he says, and starts heading that way.

"There isn't much to get." Theresa admits with a shake of her head, leaning towards the window, her nose bumping against it as she starts to look at the passing city. She wasn't kidding about being a tourist, and what better way to see the city than to watch it passing by from the safety of a taxi?

For most of the ride, Kwabena remains silent. He's seen that look before, and there is truly nothing like taking in the Big Apple from the window of a car.

Eventually, they run into some traffic not far from the bus station. He looks toward Theresa, and poses a question in a more subdued tone. "You left home in a hurry, did you?"

"Home? No." Theresa replies with a laugh, shaking her head, "We were only supposed to be gone for a little while, though, just a simple job." She glances away from the city, she's seen this part already. "But when the job went belly up, I decided that it might be beneficial to myself to explore for a little while instead of headin' back home."

Kwabena nods his head in understanding. "And you picked New York," he answers, with respect in his tone. "I left home. Mom was… hooked on de smack. Got involved with bad peopah. So I left home, and…" He smirks in a manner that acknowledges the irony of his choices. "Got involved with bad peopah."

"It's easier to be involved with bad people than good ones." Theresa reaches out a hand to give his shoulder a pat, "They are surprisingly more likely to accept you, and then if you survive, they decide you are useful. Right?"

"Right," Kwabena answers. "But only if you survive." Anything else he might have said is interrupted when a lane opens, and he quickly jerks the taxi over and drives it to park at a cab stand. "I have to stay with taxi, but is best pahking space. Will not leave you, okay?"

"Right." Theresa agrees, then nods, "I wont be long…and if you see me getting escorted out by men in dark glasses, run." She winks, probably teasing as she gets out of the car to head in and retrieve her things.

"Run taxi into dem?" Kwabena clarifies, smirking. "Any time."

He steps out after her, so that he might light another cigarette to pass the time.

It really doesn't take her long, and when she returns she's got a duffle bag that looks like it might have been to the war, and sunglasses and a floppy hat on her head. She heads back towards the taxi, lifting her free hand to wave at him, "I told you it wouldn't take long."

When he sees her again, Kwabena smiles and waves back. He of course is also wearing his sunglasses, so as not to draw attention to his weird, silver eyes. "Olympic record," he answers. "Or, at de very least, a silvah metal." He opens the door for her again, opting to take the bag from her so that he can shove it into the back seat.

Theresa hands the bag over without complaint, "Silver? Gold…certainly." She protests, sliding back into the car, a hand lifting up to catch her hat to make certain that she doesn't knock it off as she gets into the car.

"True, gold is much more yah style," Kwabena answers.

It isn't long before they are back at his apartment. Once inside, he helps to get the rucksack inside, at which point he rustles around for a spare key. "Listen, I will go and find de mechanic. See if I can set up some kind of meeting, or, whatevah it will look like. Make yah self at home, and if you leave?" He hands her the spare key. "Lock."

"Lock." Theresa agrees, taking the key and tucking it into a pocket, "I probably won't leave, though. I may not find my way back…" She gives him a quick smile, then moves to search through her bag to pull out a wad of bills, nothing large, but maybe a hundred dollars, which she offers him, "For food and things. Gas?"

"Put dat away," Kwabena tells her earnestly. "You ah crashing here, not paying rent. Yes? Besides, in dis town? De rent is too damn high." He offers the gal a lopsided grin, before turning and heading out.

"Exactly." Theresa points out, but she waits until he's left to stash the money in the freezer. People do that, right?

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