Legerdemain, Chapter Four
Jun. 21st, 2010 03:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foolish_m0rtalGenre: Fantasy, Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG- some swears. Ladies cover your sensitive ears.
Summary: In 1800s London-Aldwych, stage magic always comes second to the scientific and engineering advancements that are quickly becoming the new marvel of the age. But Charles East (The Enchanting East, Monday-Saturday at 1:30PM, half-price on Sundays at 4PM) stumbles upon other magic that is practiced by an altogether other sort of Londonite. And sometimes when you pull a rabbit out of a hat, there is no place to put him back.
Notes: Started this over a lunch of miso soup and five cups of tea. Walked to the grocery store, jotted down pretty much the rest of the outline for the chapter over a dinner of miso soup, sesame dressed spinach, and fried skewered octopus. Had a completely different idea and got six more pages out of it over a can of milk tea and a Soyjoy bar. Oy... So er, sorry for the annoyingly long chapter?
Also note: I have GOT to come up with more distinctive names for characters. Early readers will notice I called Mrs. Taylor Mrs. Fletcher about FOUR times. *facepalmfacepam* Why do you guys let me get away with things like this?
Speaking of Charles's awesome goggles in this chapter, these goggles are AWESOME. And you can make them at home!
So of course the next day it bucketed rain, because Ruthie had been much too kind to them lately with bright clear skies and suspiciously temperate weather.
Charles woke to the plink plink plink of the drips in his roof falling into the rain-catcher he’d built and installed over the dubious patches in the ceiling. It was really just a mess of scrap metal parts welded together into a sort of pipe system that reconnected to the gutter outside his window so that any water that came in was funnelled directly back out again. It was far from a permanent solution, but Charles didn’t know how long he would be staying in the flat and didn’t much give a damn about whoever would be in after him.
He got up to make sure the catch over his bookshelf was working properly and was just contemplating going back to bed when the Merry George boomed five o’clock followed by the little melodic ditty it always played when it struck the hour. Henry was of the opinion that its rhythm perfectly matched the syllables of ‘get your arse out of bed’ and that the Merry George’s song was actually meant to have lyrics. However, when Charles had pointed out that its song in the afternoon had three extra beats that went along perfectly with ‘Henry Jones,’ it had been met with considerably less warmth and a great deal of punching.
Charles saw Mr. Church from two doors over was already awake and leaving shaving soap and bits of scraggly grey hair all over the basin in the common wash rooom. Charles considered being lazy and not shaving, but there was nothing else for him to do till tomorrow when he and Henry would test the Disassembler for the Wednesday show, so he went to go quickly fetch his shaving kit before someone else (someone else being Mrs. Spivey) took it over and holed up in there for hours.
He trooped down the stairs and found his landlady in the kitchen surrounded by plates of fruit and meat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” he said perfunctorily, eyeing the set up before scouring the crockery shelves for a cup. For once the tea was already made up on the stove, and he wondered why she was in such a good mood. She was even humming under her breath.
“Mr. East,” she said, smiling. “Good morning- and how are you?”
“Well enough, I suppose,” he said warily. “I er, had a show yesterday.”
“Wonderful,” she said.
“So I’ll have the money for rent under your door by the end of today.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’ll be gone for another show on Wednesday. But I’ll be back at a proper time before lock up.”
“Wonderful.”
He was still unnerved, but now a bit amused at the same time. He looked outside and saw it hadn’t stopped raining. What the hell- it wasn’t as if he had appointments to keep. “May I help?”
“Of course!” she said, energetically kneading dough in a large bowl and not paying him the slightest attention.
“Of course,” Charles muttered under his breath and rolled up his sleeves.
And although his landlady was less than impressed with his history of overdue payments, she liked him well enough (at least she did today), so she let him spend the morning helping her make the pies the lodgers would be having for dinner. She even brought out her scratched up melodograph into the kitchen so they could wind it up and have some music while they worked.
He liked her like this, when she was cheerful and willing to come out of the seclusion of her room to mingle with the other lodgers. Usually he saw her half-drunk and angry that her husband hadn’t come home again after work, which usually happened at least twice a week. But they must have smoothed things over again for the thousandth time, because Charles saw she was wearing new earrings, and when he complimented her on them, she beamed, touched them reverently, and said wasn’t Thomas just the loveliest husband a woman could ask for? At least it explained why she had so generously decided all on her own to make pies for the guests.
So Charles put on his best face and listened to her chatter about business and her friends because he knew she would be back to snapping at them and banging doors before the week was out. He even did some magic tricks for her- vanishing bits of fruit and pulling spoons from her sleeves, and she clapped her floury hands delightedly. It wasn’t all just for her; Charles was no fool after all and knew to get into her good graces when he could. It was very much like insurance for bad days ahead.
At that moment, the melodograph made a horrible twanging whump sound and fell silent.
Mrs. Taylor made a sound that began as a gasp but ended with a little screech. “Oh, what happened?” She dried off her hands and rushed to the machine. She flicked on the rewind switch and the machine began winding up the long roll of pin-tape with a soft clicking sound. When she tried to play it again, the machine only emitted a few half-hearted clink clinks.
“Here, pop it out,” Charles said, coming over to inspect it. She dutifully rewound the entire tape and ejected it. It was quite a large roll of pin-tape, and he saw her store it in a canister marked ‘Best of the Aldwych Philharmonic.’ He doubted she had ever gone to a real show, but there were plenty of shops that sold canisters for people who couldn’t afford to go or preferred to listen at home.
“I just bought this one last week,” she began.
“It’s not the canister,” he interrupted. He switched off the automatic engage and turned the manual crank a few times, listening to the broken clink-clinks inside instead of the usual smooth whirring. “Something’s caught in the gear. Let me get my tools.”
He was very bored, he concluded as he ran up the stairs to fetch his kit. His kit wasn’t quite up to code, but for some reason he always forgot to mention that. It had started off as the kit he’d bought for the Mechanics Club in university, but along the way he’d lost some tools and replaced them, found some other specialized tools in second-hand shops, stolen one (he regarded it fondly. Birch still hadn’t found out or Charles would have received a carefully professional yet casually threatening letter from the company), and picked up a few that weren’t quite legal according to current London-Aldwych law.
He found the one he wanted and dug it out, tucking the toolbox under his arm and going back down the stairs. With the rise in popularity of many mechanics establishments, the repairs shops had become concerned that people had begun fixing their own problems instead of taking it to be repaired professionally. It was bad for business. They had complained. There had been politics. So many of the machines sold in London-Aldwych, melodographs included, now had a special clamp on them that only the repairs shops could open, along with a warning that any tampering with the clamp would result in a fine.
“Clear the table, please,” Charles said and put the toolbox in a chair. He found his goggles and put them on.
“What?” his landlady cried. “But Mr. East, this is a melodograph. You can’t open it.”
“Yes I can,” Charles said, measuring the base of the melodograph where the clamp was.
The problem with most would-be clamp-crackers, Charles thought as he adjusted his dubiously legal callipers, was that they mainly focused on the keyhole that was in the middle of the clamp. They thought that once they successfully picked the lock, they could break open the clamp and the rest would be simple. What they didn’t realise was they had to put both halves of the clamp back together at the end, and that was near impossible without a key from the repairs shop. However with a bit of clever thinking, they should have seen that all they had to do was jam the lock so it was almost open, put pressure on the bottom of the clamp where it was weakest, and the entire clamp slipped off with a bit of wiggling. To put it back, they just had to pull out the jamming mechanism, and the clamp would lock by itself. Of course, this was all easier said than done, which is why Charles had the callipers.
The callipers had been a secret project in the Mechanics Club the year Charles had joined; they had been in the design stage for a few semesters but had kept running into difficulties. His close friend Geoffrey Hall had persuaded him to join the club, and Charles had been allowed to see the design sketches once he’d been found trustworthy. (Most of this had been engineered by Hall, who was club captain and the evil mastermind behind the project) Charles had pointed out what he thought were glaring errors, and after initial and secondary testing passed beautifully, the club had taken him out and bought him a glass of very good whiskey. Somewhere during that night he became a member for life. It had involved a lot of hand-shaking and drinking and jumping into the public fountain. He didn't remember much of it, which was probably for the best.
The Mechanics Club was a harsh taskmaster, especially when it had a project it wanted to finish. Charles remembered going to their lab to work in between classes and after he was supposed to go to bed, and even when he shut his eyes all he saw were sketches and tools and harsh brightness of welding torches. After months of work, they had finally presented the first pair of callipers to Hall at the end of spring semester as a graduation present. Hall might have cried, but Charles was under threats of bodily harm neither to confirm nor deny this.
The callipers had three handles- two on the side for the clamp and one static handle in the middle to control the tension wrench and jamming pick. Charles put the callipers tightly around the clamp and then used the dials on the middle handle to extend the tension wrench and jamming pick into the keyhole. He heard the pick stop and then carefully moved his fingers to the second set of dials. Charles had expected the locks to have changed a bit since he’d done this last, but it only took him a few extra minutes to raise the tumblers till they were almost in the housing. He was almost insulted- surely Ruthie’s finest thought him cleverer than that.
He fixed the pressure on the tension wrench, set the jamming pick, and wrenched up with the clamp handles.
“My poor melodograph!” Mrs. Taylor started to mourn, but then saw the clamp was in one piece on the ends of the callipers and there wasn’t a scratch on the wooden base of the machine. “Mr. East!”
“You didn’t see any of this,” Charles told her, still holding the callipers aloft.
“Of course not,” she replied indignantly. Smart woman. Or maybe she didn’t want to pay the repairs shop to fix the machine. He didn't much care either way as long as he wouldn’t get fined. She craned over as he unhooked the outer panels. “What’s wrong? Can you repair it?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said patiently. “I haven’t had a look yet.”
He hunted for the gears that connected to the manual crank, flipped up the number fifteen magnification lens on his goggles and replaced it with the twenty.
“What is that?” Mrs. Taylor asked, at once fascinated and horrified at the thought of what some of her boarders did for a living.
“Took it off a loupe, soldered them in,” Charles said distractedly. “Would you get the dynamo torch from my box? Over here, thank you.”
The torch went on and dimly lit up the inside of the melodograph; he saw a wire caught in the teeth of the gears. He gave them a half turn and reached in with a pair of tweezers to fish it out. “Hmm.”
Mrs. Taylor stopped cranking, and suddenly it went dark. “Yes?”
“Keep turning, please.” He inspected the ends of the wire and then peered back inside, using the tweezers to trace the wires down. “Ah, I see. You can stop now.”
Mrs. Taylor put the dynamo back, and he leaned back in his chair and pushed his goggles up, sweeping his hair out of his face. He inspected the wire again.
“Well?” Mrs. Taylor said, looking at the wire as if she could discern an answer from it.
“Your heat sink isn’t working.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded, looking alarmed.
“No no. Look.” He showed her the tip of the wire. She went cross-eyed trying to see what he was pointing at. “The wire’s melted through. That’s how it fell over and got caught in the gears. This thing isn’t dissipating heat properly.” She looked even more alarmed so he stopped and tried again. “It’s too hot inside. It’s melting the finer parts. Did you send this into the shop recently?”
She nodded. “To get the...er,” she gestured. “The little drum. The new feature.”
“The percussor?” Charles asked with mild curiosity and looked into the melodograph again. Mrs. Taylor snatched up the dynamo, but he waved her away. “Ah, I see. I think these melodographs have a pin fin sink, yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer and pointed to a place in the machine. “I would say here. They must have moved it out of the way to put in the percussor and forgotten to put the fin back.”
“They did what?” Mrs. Taylor said, understanding enough of what he was saying to be angry about it. “So it’s their fault my melodograph went buggy?”
Charles thought if Thomas Taylor gave his wife half the attention she paid her melodograph, they would have had quite a happy marriage indeed. “I believe so.” He put down the wire. “I can fix it. I just need a few parts. Replacement wire, a new pin fin sink.”
“Yes yes,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Only don’t go back to Gregory's on the corner, unless it’s to beat them over the head and ask for my money back.”
“I’ll have to go to the one near Seaton Street, then.”
“Well yes,” she said as if it weren’t raining houses outside.
Charles sighed. “I’ll make a list.” He snapped his fingers at his clamp callipers on the table. “And please, don’t touch that while I’m away.”
Thankfully, she was too concerned over her melodograph to give him her favourite lecture on disrespect which she always saved just for him.
He should have known the shop on Seaton would be crowded with people from Briggs’s workshop, because they were currently lingering in the middle of an extensive lull between productions, so the mech-techs were probably going mad from boredom. He had actually considered being a mech-tech for Eichmann instead of a magician; there was better job security in it, after all. But it seemed very monotonous and had none of the creativity and excitement of working on the machines for his shows. And too much walking on high scaffolding above the stage. He shuddered at the thought of that.
He pushed his way to the counter and saw they’d installed an automaton at the regular receptionist station, a big boxy thing with wide green glass eyes and a box of switches and dials on its belly. It had three large mechanical reels on its chest above the control box. The display was currently at 234.
“Good day, sir and or madam. Prob-lem?” it asked, its eyes spinning.
It actually looked quite useless; they’d probably just put it in to impress the customers. Charles was not impressed.
“I just need parts,” he said.
“Re-peat,” the automaton said.
He tried to say it louder and clearer. “I. Need. Parts.”
“Re-peat,” it said again.
“Oh for Ruthie’s sake.” He reached over to the control box on its front, opened the glass cover, and punched in an override sequence. "Filament! Wires! Heat! Sink!" For a moment, he thought it wouldn’t take.
Then its eyes spun again, but the mechanical reels counter went up to 235. “Num-ber two twen-ty eight of two thir-ty five. Thank you for your pat-ron-age to-day, and we hope-”
“Just give me the bloody receipt,” Charles growled and dialled in another sequence.
“Prin-ting,” the automaton said as it adjusted its little rubber stamps. “Prin-ting.” There was a dull punching sound, and then a receipt came sliding out of the slot in its face, where the store owners had thought it clever to make it look like a mouth. With the receipt, it looked like the automaton was sticking its tongue out at him. Charles was even less impressed than before but admitted it was something he probably would have worked into the design too, just to be a pissant. But he still would have beaten the stupid thing up with his umbrella given half the chance.
“Cor,” one of the mech-techs said behind him, sounding impressed. “Could you teach me how to do that?”
“No,” Charles said and went to the back to stand with some of the other customers. They looked angry, so he guessed they had been in the queue just before him.
Charles had just begun to nod off standing up when he heard his number called. Thankfully, this voice sounded human.
“You wanted parts,” the man said, looking down at the receipt. He looked a bit like an automaton himself with his round spectacles and short neat moustache. “Filament wires and heat sink?”
“Yes,” Charles said, consulting his list. “A set of filament connector wires- the fourteen gauge not the seventeen- and an aluminium pin fin heat sink. I’ll be extruding it. Standard size.”
He usually went to the second-hand shops for items because they were cheaper there though not necessarily reliable. Like oh, one time he’d found the most beautiful plug switchboard after hours of searching, by which time Margaret had decided to remain in the cafe they’d stopped at for lunch, and Henry had just flat out deserted him. But if Mrs. Taylor had sent him here, who was he to question orders? She would be paying for it in any case, after she got her money back from Gregory’s on the corner. Or she could take it out of his rent- yes, he liked the sound of that a great deal more.
The man noted all of it down and disappeared into the back of the store to fetch the parts.
“Good day, sir and or madam. Prob-lem?” the automaton asked someone else at the station beside him.
“Er, we need colour slides for a stage light.”
“Re-peat,” the automaton said, and Charles rolled his eyes.
“Er...” the chirrupy voice faltered.
“Parts,” a man’s voice said irritably, and Charles wheeled around.
Fletcher was waiting at the next counter with a rather scruffy-looking young girl that was dressed in mech-tech coveralls. Fletcher was dripping all over the floor and carrying two bags of what looked to be scrap parts.
“Now it will go into categories, see?” he said to her.
“A-re-as,” the automaton said predictably. “Aer-foil, clocks, com-po-nents, com-press-ors-”
“Components,” Fletcher said, and then before the automaton could speak again, “Optical. Lens.”
The automaton clicked as it processed this.
“It has to bypass all of its pre-programmed sub-listings,” Fletcher said tiredly. “This may take a bit.”
“Huh,” Charles said wonderingly and then cursed himself because Fletcher turned and spotted him.
“Mr. East,” he said, and then his eyebrows shot up. “Nice goggles.”
“What?” Charles felt on top of his head and realised he was still wearing his lab goggles. “Oh hell.”
Fletcher looked like he was struggling not to smile. The girl looked at the goggles with interest. “Ooh, what are they for?”
“Len-ses,” the automaton said. “A-re-as-”
“Stage,” Fletcher said quickly.
“Magnification, mostly. Salvaged them off a jeweller’s loupe,” Charles told her. The machine was still clicking, so he gestured to the bags. “Second-hand district having a sale?”
“Stage,” the automaton pronounced. “Ar-e-as. Fres-nel. Fo-llow Light. Sub-ca-te-go-ries-”
“Fresnel,” Fletcher said. And then, “Yes. Fordham’s. No, Fresnel,” he said sharply as the machine’s eyes whirled in dismay.
“Ah,” Charles said conversationally. “I usually go to Lloyd’s, but I’ve heard good things about Fordham.”
“If only someone could have bothered to hold the umbrella,” the girl said pointedly. To be fair, even with her long-handled umbrella she didn’t look like she could have cleared the top of Fletcher’s head.
Fletcher shrugged, apparently unconcerned about the small growing puddle of water he was standing in. “I couldn’t hold the umbrella and the bags at the same time. Saves half the time to wash the dirt off all the parts, doesn’t it?”
“A-re-as-”
“Red,” Fletcher said slightly desperately. “Number two. Uncut. Three. And besides, Ms. Briggs,” he continued, “I found a compatible piece for the generator and a part I’d been looking for to replace the old rubber washers in my water pump at home.”
He looked terribly excited about it. Charles was oddly startled by that, because for some reason he'd never thought of Fletcher as the type to get easily excited about anything. And then he finally caught the end of the sentence. Briggs.
The reels on the automaton turned. “Num-ber two thir-ty nine of two four-ty three. Thank you for your pat-ron-”
“Hell with it,” Fletcher growled, echoing Charles’s sentiments. They both reached for the buttons on the control box at the same time.
Charles stopped and drew back his hand quickly. “Please.”
“Thank you very much,” Fletcher said politely and then viciously punched in the override.
“Prin-ting. Prin-ting.”
“What did you-” the girl began.
“Don't do that. Wait for it to finish its message and print a receipt,” Fletcher told her. I'm not the best example to follow.” And then he gave Charles a quick unrepentant grin as the machine’s stamps engaged. “But that was very satisfying.”
Charles stared and then looked away, because he hadn’t really realised till Margaret had pointed it out, but Fletcher was quite nice looking with his dark serious eyes and quiet smile-
He couldn't afford to think about that now. He resisted the urge to shake his head to clear it and turned his attention to the girl instead. “Sorry, are you Professor Briggs’s granddaughter, by any chance? I know him from college.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yes. I’m Amelia Briggs. Just started my apprenticeship today so Grandfather asked Mr. Fletcher to show me the store-”
“-Here is your wire,” the man with the moustache said, coming back. Charles sent up a little prayer of thanks, but it turned out to be pre-mature. “-But we don’t have any more standard size pin fins. Will two of the small ones do?”
“Then I’ll have to solder them in,” Charles said with careful patience. "Onto a surface built for extrusion."
The man blinked as if this had not occurred to him. “I’ll...er, see if we have a standard left then.”
“Please do,” Charles said and watched impatiently as he slowly made his way back into the storeroom, stopping to chat with people along the way. Well if that was how this shop operated...Charles’s eyes went to the automaton. It stared back blankly. He checked the door, but there were no more customers coming in at the moment.
He looked at Amelia conspiratorially. “Tell me when he comes back.”
He started punching in codes he vaguely remembered from long before when he and the Mechanics Club had pulled similar pranks on the automata at the college canteen.
“Ad-min-is-tra-tor,” the automaton said. “Voice Lis-ten-er. Re-cor-dings. Dic-tio-na-ry.”
“What are you-” Fletcher began.
Charles ignored him and stared at the control box fiercely so he wouldn’t forget the button sequence he had just entered. The new machines were much more difficult to break into than he remembered, and he couldn't concentrate if he knew Fletcher was staring at him. Damn Fletcher for coming into the shop at the same time and noticing him. And damn the man at the counter for taking ages, and damn Mrs. Taylor for wanting a percussor, and damn her bloody melodograph.
“Psst,” Amelia hissed right as Charles was finishing.
"You're in luck, sir. I wasn't told we had received another order of these today." Which was shop speak for he hadn't bothered to check for the standards in the first place.
Charles closed the box, straightened a half-second before the man came to the desk, and accepted the standard heat sink innocently, handing over payment with the other hand.
He ducked his head at Amelia and Fletcher. “Ms. Briggs. Mr. Fletcher.”
“Mr. East,” Fletcher replied bemusedly.
Charles collected his parts and hurried out of the shop before it could start raining again. “Thank you,” he said over his shoulder.
“Good day, my di-a-bol-ic-al mas-ter,” the automaton replied, spinning its eyes.
At the counter, Fletcher drew in a sharp breath and then burst out laughing delightedly.
Charles tried to hide a grin and let the door close behind him as the shop employee let out a horrified squawk.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 08:42 pm (UTC)I like Ms. Briggs. :3 And pretty much everything about this chapter.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 08:54 pm (UTC)So don't worry. My one computer science themed fanfic is freaking technical. But if this story were anything but alternate universe steampunk, I would be SO DEAD.
Ahaha, it's so weird how people end up liking minor characters in my stories that have like...NO important lines whatsoever. She wasn't even supposed to be in this chapter. ^_^;
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 09:30 pm (UTC)I wish I could write technical in anything, really. =.= I'm a jack of all trade, master of none, blah blah. ._.;;
It's because you write even the minor characters well. :P I don't have that problem - all of my minor characters wind up being major.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 10:14 pm (UTC)Well you know, different people are good at different things. I'm good at...lying about technical stuff? You're good at being a good honest person.
^_^ I had noticed that about your stories, but I like that, because usually with books or movies I always like the secondary characters much more.
Haha, insignificant spoiler here: if you like minor characters, you might like Geoffrey Hall in later chapters
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 10:19 pm (UTC)It's really difficult, and I admire people who can write in correct period language but many times it's not as...gripping. Or doesn't ring true. Again, there is a balance.
I think if I tried to write it 'correctly,' it would be totally weird. I take a page out of those American diary books or the Victorian anime/manga I enjoy. People don't freaking talk like that even in THOSE stories.
This makes me feel better.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-20 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-21 04:30 am (UTC):3 At least it's motivation to learn more things.
I've never liked the idea of making up characters for a single purpose and never using them again, it seems like such a waste. (Or I'm just justifying the fact that all of my secondary characters like to insist that they are Important and must have their own stories.)
:o ooh.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-21 02:00 pm (UTC)Oh yes. Before doing a story I do a lot of research about it. I know know a lot about the Victorian period, slowly learning about mechanics, and know how to pick locks. :P At the same time because of Steven Sweeney, I am able to sometimes freak the hell out of the Russian students living in my building with random things I know about Russian culture. XD It's hilarious.
Well in my mind, there is a difference between a throwaway character and a minor character, who perhaps just doesn't have as important of a role but is not just blatantly there to facilitate something the main character is doing.
Like say, Lyov from the Rogers Park chapter of Sweeney. You're probably not going to see him again, but he's far from a throwaway. I suppose a throwaway would have just quietly lead Sweeney to Khostov and left.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-21 02:01 pm (UTC)still Skuun the tard.
Date: 2010-06-22 01:06 am (UTC)(You are never living this down. Instead of being FM-san, you are henceforth the diabolical master who made an amazing mute girl that Rayyu would shake hands with. They'd geek out together liek woah.)
Oh poor Mister East with his haxxor closetedness. (I just want to hug him, then have him fix Potato-kun...)
Gosh that automaton at the desk reminds me of every pre-recorded thing I've ever heard on a phone.
"Please re-peat."
I've gotten so good at mocking answering machines over the past five or six years... (So many peopel I call up think I AM one until i start going all awkward and "UHM...")
Re: still Skuun the tard.
Date: 2010-07-03 10:56 am (UTC)THANK YOU for noticing Margaret! She's my ironic response to the Victorian Period's 'women are seen and not heard' policy.
I also kind of hate how people who are quote quote 'disabled' in some way are many times used in stories to garner pity or admiration for their 'spirit' OR if they're a minor character, show the empathy of the main character.
Like how we were talking about before where once someone is gay, it because all they are. In both fiction AND real life. No wonder people don't come out around here.
Haha, East would probably poke Potato-kun and then try to take him apart.
If you're the prerecorded voice on the phone, how do you do that screechy tri-tone when we've dialled a wrong number that's not in service?
Re: still Skuun the tard.
Date: 2010-07-04 03:29 am (UTC)Also, the disabilities rant is preaching to the choir. *waves a little* Seeing as I'm the idiot with the thing for a guy in a wheelchair. You would not catch him calling hismelf disabled or helpless or whatnot. Certainly no minor empathy character, and certainly no pity wallower. If anything, he likes to mess with people who think they owe him something for being in a wheelchair. He makes me laugh so hard. What would most people say to a guy with basically no musculature left in his legs climbing on someone's roof and jumping into their pool? I ask you...
What you are, you work through, and use. Being "disabled" doesn't mean you give up and stop being a person.
And now I'm preaching to the choir...A person often seeks to encapsulate themselves in an identity because they think it tells them what they are. This goes for gays, "disabled" people, druggies, high school cliques, greek societies, etc. Even if a character tries to define themselves wholly by their sexuality, it's usually a sad thing they're doing to themselves. then again, you don't have to be flamboyantly out if you're gay, either.
Like any other part of your character--your hair or eye color, skin color, noticeable hobbies...sexuality shoudl be a part, not a whole. But you always get some epopel seeking to define themselves wholly by one trait.
The trouble is, literature or TV likes to do that, too, and they don't always realize.
(Actually? Something that did a good job of breaking that was Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Cordelia was 'popular" and shallow, but she had a lot of depth outside that too, and they were fair to her as a person underneath as well. she just threw her identity into her image, and subdued any other elements of her personality that she had out of a desire to fit in--even thought she was supposedly a "leader" of that clique.
Aaand, now i've made a T.V. reference. Oh God...)But...uhm...that aside...
As long as Mister East took Potato-kun apart then put him back together all fixed, i'd be happy.
Even if Potato-kun started talking and calling me names.XD I could hit the NOTES for that screechy tone, but I wouldn't be able to pull off really sounding like I was a machine in that case. but I'm very tempted to make a bilingual voicemail for my phone because I've run into that many spanish answering machines here...
Re: still Skuun the tard.
Date: 2010-07-04 09:35 am (UTC)So after a whole bunch of us being the preacher and being the choir (I was IN a choir. We were in a gig where a minister was preaching. I spent most of it trying not to roll my eyes, because then our manager would have murdered me. After HE stopped rolling HIS eyes...^__^ I adored that guy)
Oh no. Buffy references are always a positive addition to anything! (I actually thought you were going to go down the Willow path, but I was rather intrigued by the Cordelia path, myself)
Haha. East would probably be like, "Erm, I'm not sure...how to put it back together, actually. But...I cobbled together some of the parts and made you a space heater for your feet! It reads passages of the Principia Mathematica and follows you around when you switch rooms!" (A steampunked version of Rincewind's trunk?)
And I'll do mine in Japanese! It's a deal! And I'll delete the English one, just to be a bastard! Yeah! (sorry, I just got back from Shinjuku/Shibuya and am really hopped up on green tea milkshakes)