(no subject)
The end of the day and the subway is filled with business men and women just looking to get home after a hard day's work. Nevaeh is not one of these business people. In fact, the only reason she's down here is because she decided to take a quick trip to the Life Cafe and arrange a few things for dinner in a couple of days, and this was the quickest way home. As her train arrives, Nevaeh moves to glide on board, only to be shoved out of the way by a large man who's obviously in some kind of hurry. The doors shut in her face as she reaches up to pound the window once in annoyance. "Oh great. That's real nice. Jerk!" She manages before the train pulls away.
For the dapper man seated on a nearby bench -- attired likewise for business, tawny hair sleek, hazel eyes grave and dreamy behind gold-rimmed glasses, briefcase nestled like a drowsing child in the prim lap -- the spectacle of Nevaeh's frustration is simply another scene in the subway's restless theater. "Tsk," he offers, clucking tongue to the roof of his mouth. Mild disapproval arches a baritone's cadenced Oxford accent. "How frightfully rude."
"Rude doesn't even begin to cover it sugar." Nevaeh states as her head cranes back in order to connect a face to the voice behind her. Her eyes can't be seen through dark lenses, though the brows tilted down leave little to the imagination in regards to the annoyance that might be shining in them currently. "New Yorkers." She scoffs, her own accent decidedly southern.
"A great city with resilient people," observes the businessman, parenthetically -- his voice, mellow and rich, drifts into a nostalgic sorrow -- "but, I'm afraid, so terribly urban. It is the nature of cities to encourage competition." Not his, to be sure: restful and tranquil even in the helter-skelter of transportation's great hub. He pats the his briefcase as though consoling it, manicured fingers light against the buttery leather.
Nevaeh snorts. The noise is both indignant and unlady-like but she doesn't seem to care as lean legs stride quickly back towards the wall of the subway. Once there she turns and falls against it, shoulders keeping her propped up as eyes drag down to the stuffy fellow speaking. "Last time I checked, competition is something both parties are aware of. If I'd known it was a race to get on the train.. I'd be on it." A healthy sense of competition in this one it seems.
Hazel eyes smile behind a flash of reflected white; gold glitters around the man's glance up, rimming the amusement in geometric lines. "I am told that city living means constant competition," he suggests meekly. "Rather than on again, off again. And to be sure, if one party is not competing, the other one wins by default. From a certain point of view."
Nevaeh crosses her arms over her stomach, either thumb slipping through available belt loops as she continues to gaze down towards Bach. "See? It's things like this they gotta put in the pamphlet for all of us out o' towners trying to fit in." She snarks and sighs, eyes shifting back towards the now empty tracks.
"Is there a pamphlet?" the businessman asks innocently. The pale brow, surely untouched by sun, wrinkles faintly in perplexity. "I fear I am unfamiliar with the local tourist board's offerings, although I'm sure my assistant would have /mentioned/---"
"Nah. Figure of speech." Nevaeh laughs, noting his confusion. "Should there be though. They can call it 'Survival of the Fittest' Or 'How Not To Get Royally Screwed'."
Ah. The man's face eases into faint humor; another pat comforts the briefcase, and he offers with mild apology, "I am told that cable television offers lessons on the former, though the latter may not, ah, be as acceptable for public consumption. That is to say, it would be such a voluminous reference manual." Behind the glasses, pale eyes blink: bland as buttermilk, innocent as water.
Nevaeh's lips twitch faintly in response as she just about breaks into a smile. "I'm afraid I don't watch much TV so I couldn't really tell you." More a theater goer by the looks of her. "Not so voluminous. It'd just need to be one page. All it'd have to say is New York - Don't move there. See? Easy."
The man mourns, gently. "Oh dear. I /like/ New York. --How terribly rude of me. I don't believe I've introduced myself, and here I go, babbling along. Ryan Bach." One of those exquisitely tended hands offers itself for shaking, paired with the crinkle of smile lines behind the glasses. "With Stagram & Wolf."
"Well I guess the Big Apple's made for some folks. I'm just not one of 'em. Though it's the only place with a stage big enough for me to stash all my dreams. So here I am." A hand reaches out (after only a second or two of a pause) to take his own. "Nevaeh Griffon. Pleasure." Eyes narrow behind the glasses. "Lawyer huh? You seem too nice to be one of them."
"Oh dear," says Ryan Bach again, reproachful. "What a terrible thing to say. I /am/ trying, I do assure you, madam. I would attempt to, er, rape, loot and pillage, but I am, after all, corporate law. Sadly, you look like neither a widow nor an orphan. One must have one's standards. -- Theater, Miss Griffon? My my. How terribly competitive, to be sure."
"I'm filled with terrible things to say sugar-pie, just you wait." Nevaeh states and pries herself off of the wall. Once the hand is tugged from his it's slipping into her pocket, a grin dancing over dark colored lips. "Standards are essential. Though it breaks my heart to know I just don't meet them." She'd wink but it'd be useless, he couldn't see it. "So true. But it's a competition that I'm aware of. Makes all the difference in the world."
Mr. Bach cants his head, drowning a blink in the widening of limpid eyes. "I see. But, after all, it is a ... a /networking/ profession, is it not? Do pardon me," he tangents with due humility, fingers folding neatly atop his lap's case. "I have so very little knowledge of your field."
"'Getting to know all about you..'" Nevaeh hums along, but only for the briefest of seconds before she looks into that anxious glance. "Old-fashioned is nice every now and again." She shrugs, a hand lifting to nudge the sunglasses up from her eyes to rest onto the top of her head. A sparkling blueish green shines out from behind an array of dark lashes. "And Shakespeare is far from pedestrian. He was a genius. Not my area of study, but I can respect the man's work all the same."
Nevaeh laughs softly as her chin dips down for a second and then back up. "It is. But I'm afraid that I only have a toe in the door, where many others start off with a whole foot." She shrugs. "But I do what I can. Which for the moment is mostly school plays. But it's enough to get attention. Networking only works when you know folks. Right now I'm doing the stuff that comes -before- the networking."
Mr. Bach is pleased enough by the validation, perhaps, if the small cluck of approval he makes is any indication. "What is your area of study, Miss Griffon? Or perhaps I should ask what your field of, er, theatrical specialty is. Do they overlap?"
"Ah," murmurs Mr. Bach, picking his delicate way through the minefield of new concepts. "You are in /school/, then. Of course. I should have realized when you mentioned 'school plays,' although -- I fear I was rather imagining that schools perhaps brought in ringers. Like so else in New York, competitive." Shoulders lift in the expensively tailored suit, drifting towards a gallic, deprecating shrug.
Nevaeh nods once as the squeal of an approaching train can be heard echoing through the station. "I am. Last year in before I get my degree in theater education." Going to be a drama teacher if her rise into stardom fails her. A quick glance over her shoulder as she checks the train number. "S'mine." She informs him and wiggles her fingers in a quick goodbye. "Thank for helping me keep my cool. Nice talking to you!" She states and turns to rush off towards the train. A man tries to dodge in front of her and stops when her heel 'accidentally' imbeds itself into his foot. While he's cursing and glaring she laughs and hurries onto the train, turning one last time to wave to Mr.Bach before disappearing from view. Someone's a fast learner.
Left behind, Mr. Bach inclines his head in courteous farewell -- no finger-waving for him -- and taps an idle message on his briefcase. Gold-rimmed glasses wink, and the lawyer settles back in his bench, waiting for whatever it is that such men wait for in such places, surrounded by the buzz and hum of busy humanity.