[Location: The Quik-Stop]

Blake is at the counter, trying to talk to the cashier through the 
plexiglass. From the look on her face, he probably just asked her out 
or something.

Rimmer walks in and looks around the store for a moment, taking 
everything in. His hands are actually in his coat pockets but then 
again perhaps it's due to the weather or something. After blinking a 
little at the guy talking to the lady behind the counter he takes his 
hands out of his pockets and goes rather aimlessly wandering around the 
aisles... stopping to look at things oddly or ponder over any odd thing 
he's found. Hey... it's a Corner market. They have weird stuff 
sometimes.

Amy Anderson doesn't know how on earth Mike could have milk in his 
refrigerator that was a week past the expiration date. Oh well, 
hopefully he wouldn't mind that she'd taken two dollars to go out and 
get another carton. She opens the door and walks in. She glances about 
the store, trying to find the refrigerated area so that she can pick up 
some milk.

Blake gives up on the cashier when she starts reading a 
tattoo/piercings magazine. He finally heads over to the canned goods 
aisle and pokes around with stuff like sardines, smoked salmon, 
anchovies--that sort of thing.

Rimmer has found the 'literary' section and is browsing through it 
though he KNOWS he really should just be getting something to eat. Then 
something catches his eye and he stares. It's a coloring book... all 
about... Persian Rugs? He blinks and pulls out the thing to look at it, 
seeing if it's for real. After one look at all of the glorious shapes 
and figures, some geometric and some not, he decides he HAS to have it. 
To heck with canned ham or sandwich slices of meat. Peanut butter will 
do if he has to.

Amy Anderson works her way back to the refrigeration area and quickly 
locates the milk. After checking for a satisfactory expiration date on 
a carton of 2% milk, she grabs her item and heads back toward the 
register, passing down the canned goods aisle. She begins to pass a man 
there, and utters a kind excuse me as she walks by. Suddenly it hits 
her. "Wait... we've met, haven't we? You're...." She couldn't remember 
Blake's name.

Blake looks round, a can of pickled herring in one hand. "Oh," he says, 
recognising her. "I'm glad to schee you...well. You went to Mike'sch 
plasche, didn't you?" He doesn't wait for an immediate answer, and 
spots the milk. "He'sch not making you do choresch, isch he?" Again, he 
doesn't wait for a reply. "You *are* okay, right? Er--I wasch juscht a 
little worried about you there, isch all."

Rimmer is walking along down the aisle when he realizes he hasn't 
anything to color WITH. So he starts examining the aisle beside him 
again. Sure enough, after a quickly scrutinizing search, he finds what 
he's looking for. Well technically. He noticies the price on colored 
pencils and markers and... opts for crayons. Heck, why not? It's not 
like he's going to be doing some great work of art or anything. 
Besides... markers die out and.... While he's busy rationalizing why he 
shouldn't feel silly he finds one of those tiny little hand-baskets 
that's been left on the floor and sets the things in there. With this 
done, it's time to grab something he can actually eat. Walking down the 
next aisle he finds bread. Good, good. He grabs the cheapest one and 
puts it in there, trying to decide what else would be tasty and a 
bargain. Besides junk food, that is.

Amy Anderson smiles. "Yes, Mike was in dire need of some milk. He had 
some, but.... Oh, actually, I'm happy that you were so concerned about 
me. It was really your concern that landed me a place to stay. Mike's 
not always the most desirable roommate, but he's got his strong points, 
and I just put up with the rest." She smiles.

Blake notices the can of herring is still in his hand and hastily 
shoves it back on the shelf. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "Schome of usch 
need a lot of putting up with. Are you--er, were you..." he frowns, 
trying to figure out what he wants to ask, exactly. "Are you a 
schtudent? I mean, you're not...in college, are you? Are you working? I 
mean, if you need a plasche to schtay...Did you leave home?" He seems 
to be confusing himself. "I *mean*, you're not in trouble, are you?" he 
manages at last.

Rimmer has grabbed some random stuff. Peanut butter. He figures he'll 
have to eat it. Not that that's a really bad thing but.... he grimaces 
and figures an apple or two couldn't hurt. He debates some other things 
and then debates cans. But he hasn't a can-opener. Will, eventually he 
must end up with a canned good. Better see if there's a can-opener on 
that side first. He walks into the aisle and blinks at some of the 
weird mascots on the tuna fish and pasta cans. "A narwhale and a hotdog 
with lips? Wait... ohh.. it's a Dachshund." He mutters these things to 
himself and actually seems to be contemplating this quite a bit.

Amy Anderson smiles as Blake gibbers out his concern. "I do hope to go 
to the university soon, but I'm not really enrolled in anything yet. I 
don't think they'd be too likely to let a fourteen year old take 
courses." She pauses. "No, I don't work either. I don't think I'm 
allowed to. Maybe I should try getting a paper route." She suddenly 
brightens. Actually, that idea was perfect! No one'd ask a paper 
delivery girl for proof of citizenship. It was treated as an 'under the 
table' job. "At any rate, I did leave home, yes. Am I in trouble? Not 
yet, anyway." She giggles.

Blake shrugs at her. "Well, be careful," he says. "I come from a 
schmall town, and it kinda blew me away juscht how *much* trouble one 
can get in here. Anywaysch, you're lucky: when I got here I wasch 
living on the schtreet. Guessch Mike isch more uscheful that I 
thought." He smiles for a second, then glances at the floor. 
"Anywaysch. I'd better get what I came here for...isch that all you're 
getting?" he asks, nodding at the milk again.

Rimmer is just looking all over the place. So far there aren't any can 
openers in sight. He's hoping for one of the old, metal, hand-held 
kind. That'd be all he could afford anyhow, hopefully they don't cost 
too much. But it's probably going to be a future necessity. Even if he 
hasn't got a stove or anything then.... He sort of half-listens to the 
conversation going on but the only thing he picks up really is Mike. 
Shrugging it off, there's probably a LOT of Mike's in a town of this 
size, he nervously peers around your heads. Nope, not there. He wanders 
down a little farther, caught up completely in what he's doing.

Amy Anderson nods to Blake. "I only got what Mike really needed. That's 
probably the best, as I'm using his money to pay for it." She giggles.

Blake nods back. "Well, asch long asch he didn't need the money more, 
you're all schet...'Schcusche me." He turns and heads back towards the 
front of the store, on his way passing Rimmer, and glancing casually in 
his shopping basket. "Ooh, hey, I have that book," he comments, and 
looks again. "Oh--oh, no, no." He stops, and shakes his head at Rimmer. 
"That brand of crayonsch isch horrible. They're too hard. You schould 
usche markersch." And with that bit of wisdom, he starts back to the 
front of the store again.

Rimmer blinks at Blake very much when he passes him. Then looks down at 
this things. Oddly enough the first thing that comes to mind is, and he 
says it too, "Well, it's not -my- fault the cheap ones suck. That's how 
life is." He then turns down another aisle and finally finds a can 
opener next to some tortilla sauce and a bunch of diapers someone left 
in the wrong spot. He keeps walking and heads for the refridgerated 
area so he can get something to drink or at least consider it. The tap 
might just have to do. Then he'd need cups. He goes searching for paper 
cups after looking at the various sodas and bottled waters beside the 
milk for a whole minute. Took him long enough.

Amy Anderson just stares after Rimmer as he walks off. *Strange man.* 
She turns to Blake. "At any rate, I'd best be going. Mike will probably 
be home soon, and if I'm not there he'll probably worry." She smiles. 
"Nice to see you again, Blake."

Blake stops and turns. "Oh, hey, you know my name?" He considers that, 
trying to recall if Mike had told her. "Well, no fair, I don't know 
*yoursch*." He waits expectantly.

Rimmer gets paper cups, a box of plastic spoons, and then... after much 
consideration... a can of spaghetti. Yes.... he'll have cold spaghetti. 
That's if he's got no way to heat it up. Hrmmm... better than nothing. 
He stops by the aisle he found the crayons in and then re-examines the 
markers.... after much debate he pulls a crayon out of the box and 
tests it on the first page. Ick. He decides that guy was right and 
chooses the cheapest markers there. Pulling one out he tries it. Not 
bad. Better than those crayons at least. After his sticking his tongue 
out in annoyance at the magazines with cute girls on the covers, he 
heads for the counter.

Amy Anderson pays for the milk and the person behind the counter puts 
it into a bag. With that, she picks it up and heads out.

[She had an emergency in real life and had to go abruptly. She wasn't 
really that rude or anything. :^)

Blake approaches the counter once Amy had left it. The counterchick 
instantly buries her face in the magazine again. "Hey," complains 
Blake, "come on. I'm a paying cuschtomer." She ignores him.
Rimmer walks up behind Blake and gives the counterchick a once-over 
sort of inquisitive glance. She's probably not gorgous but he's just 
curious. And he's tall enough to see better over the counter.

Blake knocks on the plexiglass. "Hey," he says. "Come on. I wasch 
kidding before. Don't you have a schensche of humor? Gimme a break, 
here." The counterchick finally looks up, and notices Rimmer, standing 
behind Blake. "Can I help *you*, sir?" she asks, obviously speaking to 
Rimmer.

Mike enters, head down, counting his change. Must be enough, please be 
enough...

Rimmer raises a brow at the counterchick and then looks at Blake. 
Considering he knows what it's like to be treated this way he actually, 
for once, decides to do something... way too nice, "That depends. Would 
you mind helping him first?" He could have added an insult or 
something, maybe gotten on the counterchick's good side... but what the 
hell would that matter? Even if he ever saw her again... and it's sort 
of tempting. He doesn't care about being on her good terms if she's 
just like 'everyone else he's ever met' before or worse. He tries to 
look as sweet and sincere as possible... and somehow he actually passes 
it off as looking quite congenial and... -hopefully- in charge of the 
'situation'.

The counterchick blinks at Rimmer some, and chews thoughtfully on her 
wad of gum. Finally she closes her magazing and puts it away. "Fine," 
she says simply. "Whaddya want?" she snaps at Blake. Blake pauses, 
unsure. "Um," he says. "Well, I *did* want a pack of unflitered, but--" 
"Here!" The chick shoves a pack through the window. Blake fumbles for 
his money and, not waiting for change, takes the pack and moves away 
from the window. "Er," he mumbles to Rimmer. "Thanksch." He hovers near 
the door while he puts the pack away in a pocket.

Mike looks up barely in time to avoid colliding with Blake. "Oh, hi," 
he says, looking vaguely guilty. Smoking's not a crime but if Amy knew 
about it - hoo boy.

Rimmer puts his basket up on the counter and pulls the items out. He 
looks a bit nervously at the counterchick and then blinks a bit at 
Blake. And then he sees Mike. He just watches the door from a few 
glances while he pulls out his wallet and waits.

The counterchick punches up the items and bags them. "Eleven seventy-
two," she drones.
Blake, meanwhile, looks up at Mike. "Now *you're* here too," he 
remarks. "I juscht schaw that girl who's schtaying with you. Sche 
muscht have been in a hurry, I wasch trying to get her to tell me her 
name but sche schot out of here. Scho, how've you been?" he changes the 
subject casually.

Mike blinks. "Amy was here?" He now looks yet more guilty. "Uh, her 
name's Amy Anderson, with an 'o'. I'm fine, I just need cigarettes." He 
looks towards the counter and blinks. "Oh, hey," he says to Blake, 
"it's Arnie. I hope he's okay."

Rimmer hands her the money and then sets the basket in the stack of 
them on his way to the door. He pauses a moment in mild confusion as 
what to do. He doesn't really want to just go right past them. 
Especially since it would be a bit rude. He doesn't really know what to 
say though. He barely knows one guy and hasn't really even come close 
to meeting the other. So he just stands there a bit nervously and, from 
the look on his face, is trying to work out Blake's lisp. He recalls 
the blue-haired girl and once it starts to slowly settle into place he 
blinks. The kid must have been about fourteen. Oh well. Then he looks 
over at Mike with some surprise when he hears his name and sort of 
scuffles over, slowly and somehow picking up his feet most of the way, 
to them.

Blake fidgets with his own pack of cigarettes. "Arnie? Why wouldn't he 
be okay?" But he falls silent upon Rimmer's approach.

Mike grins sunnily at Rimmer. "Hey, Arnie, how's it going? You look 
better today." He lowers his voice. "FBI not deported you yet?" He's 
kidding. No, really.

Rimmer gives Mike an odd sort of look but can guess from the look on 
his face that he doesn't mean it. He shakes his head a little, but it's 
more of a 'you're silly' shake than anything else, and he juggles the 
bag in his arms when he remembers, "I owe you a twenty..." He pulls one 
out and hands it to Mike with a simple, "Thank you." And then he looks 
at Blake. He's not sure -what- to think but he figures if he's a friend 
of Mike's ... well then again Mike's probably friends with everyone. 
Recalling the surly counterchick he asks in a lower tone, curiously, 
"What else were you going to ask?" He pauses a moment, glancing a 
little over his shoulder just barely, "And what's her problem?" Well... 
hey. The guy told him to get the markers and he was right. Isn't going 
to acknowledge it openly but there's got to be something to him if he 
has this coloring book and knows about 'supplies'...

Blake tries to look innocent. "I don't know what her problem isch," he 
insists. "*I* didn't do anything, anywaysch." He glances between Mike 
and Rimmer. "Well I *didn't*." He pauses. "Hey Mike," he says suddenly, 
"do you know *everybody* in thisch town, or what?"

Mike takes the twenty (yay, cigarette money!) and pockets it, nodding 
to Rimmer. He then grins at Blake. "Sometimes seems that way, doesn't 
it? Uh, Blake Sullivan - Arnold Rimmer. Blake's an artist," he tells 
Rimmer in a slightly awed tone.

Rimmer notes the look on Blake's face and then the glances... He 
doesn't believe Blake one bit and you can tell from the look on his 
face. He also doesn't look like he cares about *her* so much as he's 
simply curious as to what Blake *did*. He then blinks at the last part 
and then Mike's reply and introduction. He just sort of nods, mostly 
since his hands are kind of full. The bag is for some reason a bit too 
akward to just stick under one arm. As for the artist part... he 
actually raises a brow at Mike's awe but says nothing. His 
'conditioning' on the subject of art is still with him and frankly the 
way Mike is reacting is leaving a bit of a bitter taste in his mouth. 
But he doesn't really care. Art is art is art. Or something. None of 
that stuff, particularly anything close to has past, is relevent. Or at 
least.... he suddenly feels inexplicably guilty for having the coloring 
book and markers.

Blake ums. Again. "Yeah, well, kinda," he says. He looks at Rimmer 
carefully. The guy is pensive, or something. He decides to apologize 
for something, that might help. "I didn't mean to schound schnotty or 
anything before, about the crayonsch. I juscht hate that brand. I'm not 
really an expert on crayonsch unlessch you count my 'muralsch' on the 
wallsch when I wasch a kid. Adultsch don't appreciate that schtuff, 
judging by how they reacted."

Mike blinks from Blake to Rimmer. There was an Argument? He stays quiet 
for now, then (a miracle!). Let em work it out.

Rimmer blinks a little in confusion and realizes he must have forgotten 
to say something what with trying to actually think. When Blake starts 
apologizing he just tilts his head a little and replies, "No, you were 
right. They were terrible crayons." He doesn't explain that he got the 
markers though. Some pride is sort of good. Though pride about WHAT he 
doesn't know. On the latter end he can sympathize though and makes a 
face, while adding, "They don't appreciate anything unless it's what 
they want." He looks a tad gloomier after that. Apparently he knows 
what Blake's talking about, on a more irritating level. This of course 
all took some time. He's still not quite used to working out that lisp 
exactly.

Blake nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "That'sch the only way I can get work 
thesche daysch, isch if I agree to do what they want. Nevermind my own 
opinionsch..." He trails off upon realising he's still holding the pack 
of cigarettes. "Oh, Mike, you...you were gonna buy schomething?" He 
shoves the cigarettes in an inside jacket pocket. "I guessch I schould 
go...you can get arreschted for loitering in thisch town. I schould 
know."

Mike blinks. "Oh, yeah, I was." He's a little unhappy - his friends 
aren't getting along very well. "Uh - don't go anywhere, you guys. I'll 
be right back." He jogs up to the counter and dumps a pile of nickels 
and dimes.

Rimmer just nods a bit more at having to do what people want to get 
work. And then blinks at that last bit. He seems to be catching up on 
Blake's mode of speech, "Loitering? They'll arrest you for loitering?" 
He looks a little nervous now. He does NOT want to get arrested. That's 
a ticket right back to England, there. He calms down though when he 
notices Mike going over to the counter and then figures they can't 
REALLY be arrested for only a few minutes. During shop hours. Still.... 
He looks back at Blake and realizes he's just standing there with him 
so he decides to add, a little conspiratoraly(sp??) even, "I *did* get 
the markers." And then a pause, "What did you actually do to her?" Yes, 
he's prying. But he can't think of anything else. And quite frankly, 
getting a counter clerk that mad.... that just really makes him wonder.

Blake hangs near the door when Mike asks them both not to go anywhere--
he *was* about to leave. "Huh?" he says when Rimmer speaks to him 
again. "Er--well, nothing, really. I mean, I...*complimented* her, and 
sche took it the wrong way, I guessch." He coughs. "Schome people are 
juscht paranoid, I think."

Mike obtains his cigarettes (hurray) and heads back to the other two. 
"C'mon," he says, "you gonna loiter here all day? You can get arrested 
for that, y'know."

Rimmer nods a bit, he knows how that can go. He's had enough bad 
experiences, particularly with women. He looks up when Mike comes back 
and shrugs, "No, I don't." He looks out the door and adds almost 
tentatively, "Where are we going, though?" He seems quite ready to 
leave the place for anywhere, even if it's simply back 'home' and by 
himself. However, the way Mike said it sounded like they might at least 
be walking together for a little while.

Blake shrugs. "Well, I wasch going to go home but I forgot to buy a 
bribe for my schecurity schyschtem scho I dunno if he'll let me in...Oh 
well," he says. "I can go home tomorrow."

Mike hasn't actually waited, figuring they'd come with him anyway. He 
holds the door open. "C'mon, you two, we're letting the heat out."