I could also see part of a tattoo on his shoulder, a blue and black depiction of something I couldn't quite make out. An anchor, maybe. And he had a hint of stubble on his chin and jaw, and a mole where his neck met his collarbone. His eyes were intent, though slightly sunken. His hair dark, short-cut, and unkempt.
As a whole, he was reasonably good-looking. He wasn't conventionally handsome like Mark had been, or quite so much of a rugged stereotype of manliness as Neil was, nor did he have the air of roguishness about him that Donny did. Instead, Danny seemed to embody... reliability. Something only compounded by how simply he was dressed: a long-sleeved, button-up work shirt over dark jeans and clean brown boots.
So no, he wouldn't fit in as a model for men's underwear. But... I could see the appeal there, all the same.
Danny's gaze shifted in my direction, and I jerked back around to my own drink. I didn't want him to think I was staring. But anyway, making friends. You can't do that without talking. And talking is something I can do. Probably.
Alright. Pick something safe, something easy, something to break the ice... Ah!
I looked at him. "So — "
"So — " Danny began.
We cut off at the same time. I fought to keep how mortified I was off my face. There was a long moment of silence, then Danny laughed.
After a moment, I gave a chuckle of my own.
"You go first," we said in unison.
Another moment of silence, and more mortification on my part. Danny laughed again, leaning over the bar and raising a hand to his face. It went on for a while. And it was infectious. It didn't take long for me to start laughing along with him — though it was still an awkward laughter.
After we finally calmed down, Danny wiped tears from his eyes and turned to me. "You were going to say?"
I blinked. "Oh, right," I said. "Uh, just small talk. That's what you're meant to do in this kind of situation, right?"
Danny chuckled and nodded. "If memory serves, yes," he said. "Alright. What should we start with?"
I made myself smile at him. "I was going to ask what work you do."
Danny turned on his stool to face me, moving so the bar was to his left, rather than directly in front of him. "I'm a representative for the Dockworker's Union," he said, looking back down at his drink and toying with the glass. "Mostly, I just talk to employers and try and get paying contracts for the union workers. It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but I like to think I make a difference. Help someone put food on the table."
He stopped talking for a long moment, and I was about to speak when he shook his head, gave a dry chuckle, and continued: "Though to tell you the truth, I'm not really sure what I'm doing. Not even one year ago I was filing papers and doing accounts in between manual labor. Then Barry died, and they offered me his job. I took it because the pay was good and the hours were lighter, and for a few other reasons, but..." He ran a hand over his face and sighed. "There's so much politics involved, and I'm no good with that."
He glanced at me. "How long have you lived in the Bay?"
I cast my mind back. "Almost fourteen years, now."
Danny nodded. "Well, I'm a Brocktonite, born and raised. I've only left the city maybe a half-dozen times, to visit family. When I was a kid, my dad had a stint as a delivery man. He took me with him sometimes, after school. I remember driving around in his truck, all over the city, just looking out the window. The Bay wasn't in a great state, even then, but... it was better. You know, they used to run a ferry; all the way from Downtown to the Boardwalk. The first time I rode it was in sixth grade — my mother took me — and I still remember the feeling I got when we cruised across the Bay.
"That ferry is the reason I joined the Union in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. They shut it down while I was in college — studying electrical engineering, if you can believe that — not long after my dad had his second heart attack. My mother moved to Cali to look after her mother, then Annette got pregnant and her family disowned her, and Taylor was born, and... well, I couldn't support them; not the way things were. So I dropped out and took whatever work I could get, and the Union was there. That was the second reason. But the first reason, why I didn't leave... that was the ferry. And the city.
"See, the ferry only started running in '83," Danny continued, growing more animated and tapping the bar with his fingers, sketching out imaginary diagrams on the wood. "And those days, from '83 to '95? Those were the best days, at least for Brockton Bay. Before the Endbringers appeared, or at least before we really knew about them. Before all these supervillains became dime a dozen. Back when the world was normal... well, for the most part.
"But the Bay always had an unusual level of crime, even in the sixties. My dad always told me that after the ferry started running, the gangs lost their hold over the city. The ferry connected Downtown with the Docks, see. And that simple connection brought jobs. But when they shut it down again, that work all dried up, and the gangs started to grow again.
"And I realised, there was a connection there. Crime rates didn't rise because of some nebulous energy infecting the city, they rose because the city was bad enough that crime became an easier method for people to support themselves. That whole `crime is a symptom' thing... I'd always heard that, but I never really understood it until I dropped out of college. And that old adage, that a locked door only keeps out honest folk? That applies here, I think — after a fashion. I mean, criminals will always exist. Some people are just... bad. But gangs aren't made up all of bad folk, that'd be unrealistic. It takes all types to make a world, and that applies to gangs, too.
"Good men join gangs. That's a sad fact of life in Brockton Bay. A good man will take even the lowest-paying, most degrading job he can get to keep his family afloat. But when there are no jobs, he still has to support his family somehow. And the gangs; the Empire, Galvanate's Army, that new group — the Merchants? They can provide that. It's not safe money. It's not even easy money, at least not all the time. But it is money, and that's what makes the world go `round.
"And that's been happening a lot to us, lately. Workers come to me and say they're quitting the Union. And while they don't usually say it outright, we both know they're going to sign up with the gangs. I try to get as many contracts as I can, to give these people — and they are good people — real options. But bureaucracy and politics and greed and profiteering and all that other corporate bullshit gets in my way every single time because outsourcing and bringing in people from other cities, other states, is fucking cheaper."
Danny coughed into his hand. "Anyway, as I was saying... When I first joined the Union, I saw what was happening to the city, and I saw people joining the gangs to support themselves because there wasn't enough work to go around. And I remembered what my dad had told me about the ferry, and how it had revitalised the Bay. So I wrote up plans for it. Budgets, schedules, contractors, the lot. And when Leviathan turned up and sunk Kyushu? When shipping slowed, and the gangs got bigger, and the boat graveyard filled up even more — I made plans to clean that up, too.
"And that's why I stayed. That's why I took the representative job, when it was offered to me. So I could make those plans a reality. So I could bring the ferry back, and help create new jobs and business opportunities for my guys, and make this city great again. Somewhere you could raise a daughter in. Before I took the job, I proposed my plans a dozen times, and I got rejected each time. I thought I'd be able to do more as a representative, but I've had three meetings with the mayor now, and two with the city council, and it's still being rejected."
"And honestly, now that Annette's gone, I'm not sure — " Danny stopped, then shook his head sharply. "What am I doing?" he sighed, then turned to me. "I'm sorry, Carol. I was ranting, there. I shouldn't have done that. I guess I'm just... out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing." His voice took a wry tone. "I don't have a big social life beyond work."
"No," I said, holding out my hands. "It's okay, I don't mind, I get it. I don't have a great social life myself. But I thought it was interesting." I gave a lopsided smile. "Besides, I did ask."
He stared at me for a moment, then chuckled. "Well, thank you," he said, a smile playing about his lips. "I'm glad I didn't bore you too badly. But still, that's enough about my life for the moment, I think. What about you? You work with Alan, you said? I take it you're a lawyer, then?"
I nodded. "Prosecution." I grinned at him. "I don't have as much to talk about there, I'm afraid."
Danny laughed heartily, and the awkwardness just... vanished. And that set the tone for the rest of the night.
We moved on to talk about our kids. He talked about his Taylor, and how proud he was of her, and how, with the help of Alan's daughter, she was starting to seem happy again. He started to mention how much she was starting to look like her mother, but stopped himself again, and that seemed to set a line in the sand, too. We danced around the topic of our spouses, rarely mentioning them by name, and rarely even referencing them too overtly — where possible, at least.
I wasn't opposed. I didn't want to talk about Mark; not here, not now, and not in detail. I was just starting to enjoy myself. The support group was meant for dealing with that loss. This wasn't. And I got the impression Danny felt the same way.
But the longer we talked, the more I found myself beginning to feel comfortable around him, even sharing things with him I probably wouldn't normally share. I told him about Victoria and Amy. How Victoria was taking the older sister role seriously — even though they were only a few months apart — protecting Amy from bullies at school, even to the point of physical violence. How Amy crawled into my bed or Victoria's a few times a week, and got excited by the most simple of things, like watching me make her lunches.
And in a burst of openness that surprised even me, I told him about Amy's adoption. Though not the full details, of course, and with a few white lies to cover up the holes. I told him how we'd adopted her two years ago, which was true, and that it had been at Mark's behest, which was not. I told him how I'd found it difficult to care for her properly, to see past the fact that she was someone else's child and not mine, to love her the way she deserved to be loved, which was all true, just... not completely honest.
I was a bumbling ball of nerves as I talked, but Danny just sat there and listened; not judging me or making comments, just letting me speak, even when I detailed my... neglectful parenting. How I'd supplied her material needs, but ignored her emotional ones. Treated her like a temporary guest rather than a daughter, for almost two years.
Then I told him how I'd changed my tune after Mark's death. How I'd realised — admittedly, with the help of my sister — that Amy had actually thought of him as her father, just as she thought of me as her mother, and that I needed to live up to that. And how I was now trying as best I could to do right by her.
When I was done, Danny gave me his sympathies. Silly, heartfelt-but-generic things like "That sounds tough," and "You're a better person than you think you are."
And oddly... I didn't mind them. I wasn't sure why.
I also wasn't sure why I was feeling so open, now, though I at least had theories for that topic. It could have been because he'd been so open with me, even without being asked. There was a desire to reciprocate that I was not at all accustomed to.
Or it could have been because he was a stranger. Which was an odd thought to consider, as that had been one of my primary arguments against the support group, because I'd thought talking to strangers couldn't possibly help me.
But weirdly, the lack of any kind of existing relationship seemed to make it easier to share those more intimate, personal details, like my poor treatment of Amy. Or perhaps not so weirdly; after all, I didn't really care what Danny thought of me.
Only, for some reason, I did. So it was weird.
Argh!
I finished off by confiding that I was worried I'd somehow... damaged Amy. Scarred her. Affected her psyche in such a way that she didn't feel wanted, even now. And the thought of that terrified me, especially after I'd remembered how often I'd felt that way in the past, and how that had broken me — which I knew was true, even if I didn't like to admit it.
But of course, I didn't tell him any of that. Just that I was concerned.
Danny's response? He reminded me that kids are flexible. At her age, Amy was likely to just forget how distant I'd been in her early years with me, so long as I remedied the situation — which I was doing. She'd move past it.
That was something I knew already, on an instinctive level if not an intellectual one — I just hadn't quite recognised it yet. And it was something I think I needed to hear. That I hadn't irrevocably ruined her life; that I still had a chance to be a proper mother to her.
I was thankful. And I told him so. And the conversation lulled — equal parts resurged awkwardness and the comfortable silence of good company.
Then we came to the mutual and inexplicably simultaneous decision to have some fun, and we played a game of pool. We shared stories as we played; mostly inane, innocuous ones, like how Danny's father had taught him to play when he was five — though he didn't tell me that until after he'd won.
It was close, though! If I hadn't sunk his nine by accident, I might've taken the trophy myself.
After our game, we sat down and ordered dinner: two plates of char-grilled steak with fries on the side and a copious amount of salt. Not the healthiest meal I've ever had, but there was nothing wrong with that, surely. The girls weren't around, after all — I didn't need to set a good example here.
We talked some more as we ate. I soon found a smile — small though it was — had grown on my lips, and it didn't seem to be going anywhere.
* * *
I excused myself after our game of darts — which I did win fair and square; don't let anyone tell you otherwise — to visit the bathroom. I entered the ladies' toilets, stepping sideways as another woman passed, and pushed into a cubicle to do my business.
On my way out, a box on the wall by the entrance caught my eye; metal all around with a coin slot on one side and a dispenser at the bottom.
