And We're Back!

Tim licked the tips of his fingers and tried in vain to fix the cowlick that fixed itself in plain sight of the mirror. He was quickly losing his fight, and he was low on gel, meaning he’d be sporting the just-woke-my-ass-up look that night. He dusted the shoulders of his black tee, and checked his smile once again in the mirror, no broccoli, no poppy seeds, he was good to go.

“Buddha's Man Tits, Tim! We’re going to the VWA not the gorram club. I’m already old so what the hell are you doing taking so long preening yourself.” Jago called from the galley.

Tim checked his breath, then scrambled down to the galley. “We can’t all have that rugged…” he waved his hand dismissively towards the captain, letting the sentence hang. “If you change your mind, and want to go to the gorram club, I’m not opposed. I just need to change my shirt, maybe put on a tie.”

“That is a resound hell no but I ain’t opposed to the tie idea. Gives me something to grab in order to drag you out.” Jago said obliquely. “Is that perfume.” He asked with a sniff.

“Cologne, jeez, how old are you?” Tim asked, brushing him away. “And it’s only a spritz.”

“Old and that isn’t a spritz that smells like half the bottle.” Jago said leading the way.

“Not all of us want to smell like gun oil and yesterday’s dinner,” Tim complained.

“First, dinner was delicious, Second I do not smell like gun oil and thirdly now you can’t complain about never getting shore leave.” Jago listed as they wound through the streets, Tim leaving a trail a half dead bloodhound could follow.

“I can complain,” he corrected. “It just falls on deaf ears.” Tim replied.

“Yea well if the man passes out from the fumes you’re giving off I am not pulling you out.” Jago warned.

“You sure you want me tagging along to meet this ‘friend’ of yours?” Tim asked, before they reached the hall.

“Sure you’ll like him. He is loud and nice and you know … personable. Life of the party type. The total opposite of me. He’s also a hell of a mechanic, retired but I figure we can convince him the retirement is for really, *really* old people and join our merry band. You two will get along great.”

“I knew you were looking to run a party boat,” Tim decided, stepping in time to music only he could hear.

“I’m going to choose to ignore that.”

“You can’t deny what’s insi---- hey! Wait up!”

The pair turned another corner and headed down the street til they arrived at the entrance of the VWA hall. There was an activities roster tacked to a shabby looking bulletin board next to the door that hadn’t been changed in years.

Tim curled his lip. “Bingo, crazy sock night, potluck dinner… Seriously, Jago, I thought we were friends.”

“It’s a VWA Tim not a resort … and we're here to head hunt the man not join in on the macrame.” Jago said tartly. Not that there wasn’t anything WRONG with macrame …

All the same, Tim let Jago be the one to pull open the door. “Where’s my new drinking buddy?” He asked, scanning the bar quickly.

The inside of the hall looked less promising than the outside. A thin layer of stale smoke drew a line in the air about chest height and songs no younger than 30 years old echoed out of the jukebox tucked in the far corner, just barely loud enough to be heard from the entrance. A number of old men were dispersed throughout like a mothballed fleet of battleships. Some chatted at a booth, a couple played billiards and a few individuals sat slumped at the bar. Eddie ‘Patch’ Kowalski was one of them, a large broad chested man who sat hunched over his drink. The grey in his blonde hair betrayed that he was probably somewhere around the Captain’s age. The only bright spot was the gaudy tropical print shirt the big man wore that broke up the feeling of beige in the room. He looked mournfully into the glass as he lazily swirled it and downed the contents.

“I could have saved my cologne and wore eau de depression,” Tim said under his breath.

“What part of VWA did you not get.” Jago reminded Tim, looking for the loudest biggest guy in the room. The hall seemed full of well … old sad folks with nothing to do. “So much for crazy sock night ... “ His eye fell on the guy who fit most of the criteria. “Hey Patch old man is that you?” Jago said warmly, approaching the brightly colored man. There seemed no escaping it, Tim with his peacock preening and now Patch with the eye killing shirts.

A mix of shock, fear and embarrassment briefly overtook the big man’s expression as he was rudely shaken from his reverie by the old familiar voice. He quickly ran a hand through his hair in some half assed attempt at not looking so disheveled. He wheeled around and mustered his best impression of a ‘life of the party’ sort. A grin now stretched ear to ear framed by stubble that hadn’t seen a razor in days. The only hint of his previous mood being glint of embarrassment still lingering in his eyes. He threw his arms wide. “Ay! Look who it is!” Patch exclaimed, briefly shattering the melancholy of the room. “How come ya didn’t tell me you was comin’, Jago?”

“And ruin the surprise … and the mood. Which I am now glad we came to spoil.” Jago said, shaking the big man's hand. “Please tell me you have not settled well into retirement and this is your idea of a good time.”

“From the Service, yeah.” Patch confirmed his employment status. “As for the rest,” he paused and gave a shrug, “these guys ain’t so bad” he generously complimented. “How’s bout you? The easy life treatin’ ya good? Look like ya keepin’ the ol’ machine in tune!” he teased as he smacked Jago’s belly with the back of his hand.

“Working twice hard with half the effect.” Jago laughed. “You know me, I took the idea of retirement to mean something else apparently.” He said, glancing at the room of retirement nightmares.

“An’ ya friend?” the big man gave a welcoming nod towards Tim, the younger man’s cologne finally cutting through the smoky air and hitting the mechanic. “You might be the prettiest smellin’ thing in this place, kid!” the old man joked but looked genuinely impressed.

“It’s his talent, what can I say.” Jago shrugged.

“Someone at least has taste,” Tim quipped with a chuckle. “Tim Casey,” He offered his hand to the mechanic by way of greeting.

Shaking the mechanic’s hand was akin to shaking a catcher’s mitt as the big man pumped Tim’s arm enthusiastically. “Eddie Kowalski. But, as ya already figured, I usually go by Patch. So whaddya doin’ hangin’ around this knucklehead over here?” he joked, jerking his head towards Jago.

“That knucklehead is my boss,” Tim admitted. “Unless calling him that gets me fired, in which case, that knucklehead is my ex-boss!”

“That is the only time you get to call me knucklehead.”

“To ya face anyway.” Patch quipped.

“I assure the ship had very thin walls.” Jago reminded. “And I still have very big guns.”

“Ship?” Patch perked up. “You two workin’ on a ship together?”

“Yea, My ship, he's my pilot and I came here looking for a mechanic … unless macrame class at four is more appealing. I won’t judge. Much.” Jago said with a wry smile.

“Pssh! They ain’t run that class in months!” Patch said, genuinely annoyed. “But look at you! From knucklehead ta Captain in nothin’ flat, eh?” he teased Jago. “An’ I take it ya needed the best mechanic ya knew on board?” the mechanic added, puffing out his chest.

“Damn right.” Jago said getting right to the point.

“No luck findin’ em then, huh?” Patch joked.

“Nope. So you know, had to settle.” Jago snickered.

The old mechanic laughed and clapped the Captain on the shoulder. He motioned towards the bar. “You two wanna drink?”

“Sure! Just …” Jago paused looking around. “... not here.”

“Got half a stocked bar back on the ship,” Tim offered. “If that’s not promising - don’t know what is.”

“Sounds like the pot just got sweetened.” Patch scratched his stubbly chin as he considered. “Welp, if you got drinks handled, we can check out ya ship an’ discuss the particulars of the gig.” He suddenly realized he hadn’t even asked what type of ship the Captain was flying. Not that it mattered much. In his years, the old man had worked on just about every primary configuration the Verse’s major shipyards produced. Not that they changed all that much from year to year. “So, uh, whaddya runnin’?” he finally asked.

“Feel free to ignore Tim, i think he’s just trying to offload us for the clubs.” Jago snarked. “I think you’ll like her, Firefly class. Hard to kill, just like us old codgers.”

“Aww, place not ya speed, Timmy?” Patch needled the pilot who was clearly overdressed and underage for their current surroundings. “Club, huh? Ain’t been club hoppin’ in a dog’s age!” He looked down at his current apparel and then back up to Tim. “Think I can still get in?” he asked with a smirk.

“It depends on if my job depends on how I answer,” Tim replied, employing all the diplomacy he could muster. “I heard paisley print is all the rage. Angry rage, but rage, none the less.”

“Tropical don’t count for nuthin’?” the old mechanic implored.

“I can tell you two are going to get on my nerves real quick …” Jago laughed.

“Yeah, well...ya get what ya pay for.” Patch reasoned.