He checks his watch. It's seven forty five. He figures he can probably draw this piece of pie out for another hour and fifteen minutes, and besides, where would he go if he left? Back home, for his father to interrogate him about the blind date? That's not going to happen. Wandering aimlessly doesn't appeal to him, either. He can settle in right here, with his barely eaten piece of pie and his coffee, and draw ad ideas on the napkins. So he just smiles at Ned. "I'll stay."
When Ned introduces himself, he realizes he hadn't even bothered to do so himself. Oh well. It didn't seem that Ned had taken offense, but he'll rectify the mistake now. Knowing each other's names is a good first step towards making friends, right? That's how it starts out. "I'm Michael Ginsberg. But just call me Ginsberg. I mean, if you call me Michael, I won't realize you're talking to me, and then I'll look like an idiot, so I just stick to Ginsberg."
He really should let Ned get back to his customers, he realizes, so that somewhat stumbling introduction out of the way, he determinedly takes another bite of pie, and lets Ned rush off to take care of the disgruntled patrons who obviously aren't getting their coffee refills quickly enough.
"Ginsberg," Ned confirms, with a little nod, "Like the poet. Got it."
At which point he returns his attention to his other customers, though as the minutes tick by, he finds himself always aware of Ginsberg's presence there. He makes sure he never runs out of coffee, looks with interest at the little things he's sketching on the napkins but doesn't ask questions. Ned uses the time wisely, cleaning the kitchen before closing and making everything neat and tidy so that he'll be able to leave at the earliest possible moment. A few minutes before nine, the last other customer leaves, and Ned gets rid of his apron, pauses a minute where he can't be seen in the kitchen to try to straighten his hair, his shirt sleeves, make sure he looks presentable.
"So you're, what, an artist?" he asks, nodding to the rather large pile of scrawled-on napkins.
"Copywriter, actually," he responds, setting his pen down on the table and looking up at Ned as soon as he shows up. The time's gone by pretty quickly, and he's eaten all of the pie that had been in front of him, and drawn on quite a towering stack of napkins. "For an ad agency. Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce-Cutler-Gleason-Chaough, and I only say the name of it so that you can appreciate how ridiculously long and unwieldy it is, and not as some kind of bizarre opportunity to brag about working for a prestigious agency. They're changing the name, though, thankfully. So that I don't have to gasp for air every time I tell someone where I work."
It's a chronic habit, this tendency to over-share information. Ned had only asked him what he did for a living, not asked him about where he worked or the whole history of the name, but as always, Ginsberg had offered up more information than was strictly necessary. He hopes Ned doesn't find that habit particularly irritating, because it's unlikely to go away anytime soon.
"I'd ask you what you do, but obviously you're the pie guy, so it'd be pretty stupid to ask."
Ned, for what it is worth, seems totally unfazed by the oversharing. In fact, he's glad for it. If Ginsberg had stopped at copywriter, he wouldn't have really known what that was. He's actually not all that sure still, but if it is for an ad agency, he assumes it has to do with advertisements.
"Funny," he says, hands in his pockets, heart beating a little faster than usual as he waits for Ginsberg to collect his napkins and things, opening the door for him and then locking it behind them, "I mean, you see ads all the time, but you never really think about the fact that there are people out there coming up with them. Or, uh. Well, I guess you think about it, obviously."
He pauses a moment on the sidewalk. Asking Ginsberg to join him for a drink hadn't extended as far as deciding where to take him. But it's cold, with a wind that bites into the skin, so he decides on the closest place he knows, starts in that direction.
"Is it a good job?" he asks, with simple curiosity.
Standing up from the table, he puts on his too-big plaid jacket and sticks his pen back in his pocket. Scooping up his napkins from the table, he takes a look at one or two of them, the ones that have really decent ideas on them, and then shrugs and shoves them all into the pockets of his coat. He'll sort them out later tonight, when he's all alone. For now, he's committed to actually having a conversation and a drink with Ned. Social interaction? Who'd've thought he was capable of it?
"Yeah, I think about it. I mean, I write the text for the ads. Slogans, scripts, commercials, that kind of thing. I don't do the art direction. I wouldn't know how. You might have seen or heard some of my stuff. I did some slogans for Jaguar, when we still had that account, and I've done a couple for airlines. Mine're usually the really provocative ones, the stuff the companies initially think is too shocking to print."
And, admittedly, a lot of his ideas never get past his creative directors, because they are too provocative. He figures there's no harm in pushing the envelope, though. That's what creativity is all about. Following Ned out the door, he frowns a little at Ned's question. That's a hard one to answer.
"I guess. It's all I've ever done. I didn't choose advertising, advertising chose me, as trite and job-interviewy as that sounds. It's what I'm good at."
"It doesn't sound trite," Ned responds quietly, head ducked a little against the cold wind that is blowing towards them. It's clear just from hearing Ginsberg speak that he loves his job and is very passionate about it. This isn't polite small talk, explaining his career because it's the expected thing. It's different.
"I know how that feels. Not with advertising, but, uh, with pies." He's proud of what he does, but he's not sure it would seem all that impressive to a guy who does commercials for fancy foreign cars and airlines. It all sounds very glamorous, and Ned would be more intimidated if he had known about all that first, before he saw Ginsberg with pie all over his face.
"The most provocative ad I ever did, or the most provocative ad I ever got past my creative director? They're definitely two very different things. I mean, I'll try just about anything. You start really shocking, and then tone it down until they accept it. I did one for a kind of carpeting; the ad basically implied -- okay, it didn't imply, it kinda screamed out -- that these two people, you can imagine whoever they are, whoever you want, were so overcome by passion for their new carpet that they had sex right there and then. Right on the carpet. It went over pretty well. Between you and me, though, it was an ugly carpet. Not exactly an aphrodisiac."
He pulls his coat a little tighter around him, shivering slightly. His clothes are always too damn big, and that doesn't make for the most cozy of garments in weather like this. He'll be glad when they can get inside.
"Anyway. I'm glad I'm not the only one who has that feeling about something. Your pies are very good. I can tell you like making them."
Ned isn't sure what he was expecting, but the carpet ad doesn't sound all that shocking to him. Then again, maybe you had to see it to understand. There's something about the way Ginsberg speaks - so freely, with such conviction in his opinions, and a certain tone of taking one into his confidence - that Ned quite likes. Charisma, he thinks. That must be what it is. Makes sense, in someone who makes ads: he knows how to make people want to listen.
Well, maybe not his blind dates.
"What's not to like? Pie's the single easiest way to make people happy. When it's not being thrown in your face, that is." He smiles, and it's lopsided and just a touch shy, "You're probably better off, if she liked Nixon and ordered lemon meringue." There's a hint of scorn in his voice, and he explains, "You make enough pie and serve it to enough people, you start to see patterns in what sorts of people order what sorts of pie. Lemon meringue is always risky."
They round a corner and are at the bar Ned had in mind: it's a quiet place, tucked away, with low lighting and a TV set playing with the volume low, behind the counter. There aren't a lot of people around at the moment, and no one Ned recognizes.
"You psychoanalyze people through pie? Okay, I can see it. Makes about as much sense as any other way of doing it. What does it say about me that I ordered peach pie? Is that a good sign or a bad one? It must be an okay one, at least a neutral one, or you wouldn't be talking to me. Unless you have the habit of hanging around with terrible people. That's always possible."
He wonders if he should be noticing that he likes Ned's smile, and especially likes that it's not a mocking smile. He's been the recipient of enough mocking smiles in his life that he's learned to differentiate between genuine ones and teasing ones, and Ned's is definitely genuine. He likes that -- people are generally so damn disingenuous, he's never quite sure how to speak to them without offending them or making them uncomfortable.
He doesn't go to bars much, so he's never been to this one, but he's willing to follow Ned inside, looking around curiously. Of course, he immediately has to look at the TV and ascertain what program it's playing, and whether it'll be likely to be playing any of the ads he's had a part in. Wouldn't that be great, he thinks, if he could show Ned one of his ads on TV? That'd be impressive, right?
And why, exactly, does he want to impress this guy, anyway?
"It's my favorite," he admits, casually, picking a likely looking booth and heading over to take a seat. Ned notices that Ginsberg's attention flicks over to the TV, and he chooses the side that will allow him to continue looking at it, if he wants to. "That's, uh- why I invited you." Well, and other reasons.
Another wave of nervous, awkward energy sweeps over Ned. Maybe he's reading it wrong, but he gets the feeling that they might not be on the same page here. That maybe he should have been a little clearer from the get-go that he was inviting Ginsberg out on another date, since the first had gone so badly. Had he gotten that? He'd said that if it went badly he'd be two-for-two for the night, but still, something about his demeanor makes Ned think he's assuming this is merely a friendly gesture.
The question is, should he leave it that way, or do or say something that would clue him in? Stomach churning with indecision he asks, tightly, "Can I... get you something to drink? What are you having?"
"I don't really drink that much, so I don't know what people order. I mean, I know the basics, I've had alcohol before, I just don't know what's..."
What'll impress Ned as much as the choice of peach pie had, apparently. He trails off into indecisive silence for a moment, trying to figure out whether or not Ned's been flirting with him this whole time. It's kind of an egotistical assumption to make, and if he assumes that Ned's attempting to take him on a date and he's wrong about the assumption, well, to say that things would be awkward would be putting it mildly. That kind of wrong assumption could end up in something a lot worse than having pie thrown at him.
"I'll have vodka and cranberry juice, I guess. Is that something that only girls drink? Like I said, I don't know anything about alcohol. Are you a homosexual?"
He hadn't meant to blurt out that last part. Dammit. Looks like he's sitting at another table he wants to slide right under and hide.
Ned had every intention of getting up to get him that vodka and cranberry juice, but Ginsberg's subsequent question freezes him in place. He doesn't see any art behind it: it really seems as if it were a slip of the tongue. All the same, it's a hell of a thing to be asked in such a blunt way. Confrontational, even. Ned's not good with confrontational. He doesn't like either option. He could try lying, but he knows he's terrible at that, and it would really eliminate any possibility of this being a proper date. But he can't just say yes either, can he?
He looks around, surreptitiously, seeing if their conversation has caught anyone's attention. No one seems to have heard, or be looking in their direction. All the same, every bit of Ned's body language screams discomfort. Not the kind of discomfort that a straight man feels when being asked about his sexuality, either. He's certain that for anyone mildly clever, his reaction is answer enough.
There's an edge of fear to his voice when he asks, quietly, "Should I go?"
Ginsberg may be socially obtuse, to put it mildly, but even he can't miss a reaction like that one. It might as well be an answer of affirmation, even if nothing actually comes out of Ned's mouth. He recognizes that his own question had been a little blunt, completely artless, completely without any forethought, but he hadn't intend to scare Ned. It had just been a question. He immediately feels guilty for having given Ned that reaction, for Ned even having to ask that question.
He shakes his head. "No, no, I was trying to... I mean, I was just wondering because I wouldn't have a problem if you were. Because this..."
At least he has the good sense to lean a little closer, so that they won't be overheard, although nobody's paying attention to them anyway. "This kind of feels like a date. Not that I know a lot about dates, either. But this is what I imagine they're like, when they actually work out, and I don't get things thrown at me. But I wanted to make sure."
"I don't know a lot about them either, but... that was the intention. Since your last one didn't turn out so well."
Ned gives a hesitant, small smile, relaxing ever so slightly, from frozen terror back to his normal level of mild discomfort and tension. Because... Ginsberg said he didn't have a problem with that. Not just in an abstract, we-can-still-talk-civilly way, either. But after that initial confusion, Ned wants to be absolutely sure.
"So you're okay with, um. With this?" Ginsberg had been at the pie shop with a girl, after all. And something about the way he asked makes Ned wonder, "I should've been clearer when I asked you, but, y'know, a guy's got to be careful about this kind of thing."
"I'm okay with this. I mean, I didn't expect this. I didn't go on a blind date thinking that it'd turn out this way. But I'm definitely okay with it. Somehow I have a hard time believing you don't know a lot about dates, though."
Shit. Did that sound way over the top in terms of flirtation? Now he has to figure out how to navigate that, too, and if casual chatter is hard enough, intentional flirtation is completely beyond him. The last time he'd tried to flirt with someone, well, they hadn't thrown pie at him, but they hadn't exactly reciprocated, either.
"All I mean is that it seems like you know what you're doing. That's a good thing, if you're wondering. Even if it's not true and you just know what you're doing as compared to me, because I have no idea."
"Lotta couples come into the Pie Hole. I've had plenty of opportunity to take notes." Which is true, in one way, but it's also not the whole truth. Now that the whole date foundation has been established, Ned feels as if a weight has been taken off his shoulders. He admits, "I've had girlfriends, now and then, but... it never really worked out." He smiles again, bright and shy and lopsided.
"I'll go get that drink," he says, because he needs a moment to get a grip of himself, to get over that flustered feeling. Ned goes to the bar, thinks he can feel Ginsberg watching him as he goes, but he doesn't look over his shoulder to check. A few quick words to the bartender and he's coming back with two identical glasses of dark red liquid.
"Sounded good," he says, giving Ginsberg his and resuming his seat. There's a faint blush on his cheeks that doesn't seem to want to go away, but he resolutely ignores it, asks, "So who set up the blind date?"
"Yeah, it never worked out for me, either. Except that I haven't really had girlfriends so much as a progression of increasingly awful first dates."
He's definitely watching when Ned walks away. Maybe a little too intently. Maybe he should stop staring at the back of Ned's head, because if Ned turns around and notices him, that's going to be kind of weird, no matter if this is a date or not. He's pretty sure you aren't supposed to stare at the back of your date's head, even if they have pretty nice looking hair.
As soon as Ned comes back, he takes his drink, mostly to have something to do with his hands. He's not actually sure what vodka and cranberry tastes like, but he gives it an experimental sip and finds it pleasant enough. It's a lot better than some of the stuff the guys around the office drink. He can't understand how they can tolerate alcohol that strong, but then, they like a lot of things he'll never understand.
"One of my coworkers set it up. I'm pretty sure he was playing a trick on me, now that I think of it. It's like he picked the perfectly wrong person. That can't just be a coincidence. Or I'm paranoid about the intentions of my coworkers and he actually meant well. Either way, I'm glad it's over with, and I'm glad I'm here instead."
"Yeah, me too," Ned murmurs, grinning against his glass as he takes a sip. The stuff only tastes okay to him, but he's hoping it will loosen him up a little - not too much, but enough that he isn't doing his habitual routine of overanalyzing everything he says and does, wondering what kind of impression he'll give.
"So..." he begins, searching for a topic that will ease them back into the flow of conversation before things got a but peculiar, "You said you did an ad for that carpet even though it was ugly - does that sort of thing happen often? You have to do an ad for something you think is actually terrible? Wouldn't that make it harder?"
"Yeah, there're a lot of things I have to do ads for that I don't like. I mean, whether it's aesthetically objectionable, morally objectionable, or just plain stupid, I can't turn down a campaign my bosses tell me to do unless there's a really good reason not to do it. I argue about some of them, but it doesn't make much of a difference. Don't you ever make pies with flavors you don't like? It's kind of the same thing. You do the best you can to present something you're proud of, even if the finished product isn't something you'd ever dignify with your own consumption."
He doesn't know why he keeps insisting on saying so much. Surely Ned's going to get sick of hearing his voice eventually and decide that this was all a terrible idea. That he's stuck it out for so long is impressive, but there's no way he'll stick it out much longer, right? Is it too much to hope that maybe he doesn't actually find Ginsberg a hideous irritation?
"I don't think it's quite the same. For one thing, I don't have any bosses, which is... a nice change. And for another, there aren't any flavors of pie I don't like."
He pauses after saying that, a little curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, leans in as he amends, "Actually, I'm not wild about pumpkin, but that doesn't really matter. The fact that it's not to my taste isn't quite the same as it being... aesthetically and morally objectionable"
Ned keeps sipping at the drink; to tell the truth, he likes that Ginsberg is so talkative. His face is remarkably animated, and the rapidity of his words seems to Ned somehow more passionate than when he goes on one of his own rambles. Those are often out of nerves and sheer awkwardness, rather than... enthusiasm, and eloquence.
"Well, pumpkin pie's pretty questionable, anyway. I've never understood why everyone's so crazy about it. I guess there's nothing morally objectionable about it, but I can see why you're not wild about it."
Is he drinking this drink too fast? He's pretty sure he is. To be fair, it tastes good, and he's taking a sip every time he pauses for breath, which is pretty frequently -- that's the thing about talking fast, he's found: it can really wear you out. And how strong are these drinks, anyway? Will he know when this one's starting to affect him? Is it starting to already? Better drink some more and find out.
"What's it like, being your own boss? I can imagine it being really fun, because you can do whatever you want, and nobody can yell at you, but I can also imagine it being really frustrating, because you don't have anyone to blame except yourself if bad decisions get made. I mean, if something gets screwed up around my office, I can always blame it on the powers that be, by which I mean the entire executive team, and believe me, they screw things up regularly. Being your own executive team puts a lot of responsibility on you. You must be stressed out a lot."
At least, he'd be stressed out, if he had to run a pie shop, but then, pie is, apparently, Ned's passion, so maybe he's not.
"Not unduly," he says, and thinks to himself that Ginsberg seems like the kind of guy who is often stressed about one thing or another. Ned knows he is the same, but for the most part it has nothing to do with his career. His sources of stress are entirely different, and entirely off-limits for conversation. "Things were a bit hard when I first opened up, but after a few months everything fell into place. Not a whole lot of decisions that need to be made, running a pie shop. Besides, when I'm stressed, I deal with it by baking pies, so it's a win-win situation."
Ned notices with a faint moment of alarm that Ginsberg's nearly finished his drink, and he's barely sipped his. He ought to try to catch up, drinks a few gulps before he goes on, "I like it. I've never been great at working with other people, so it's ideal. It's not like I do everything on my own. I tried to do the budget and the taxes at first and that was a complete disaster, so I got an accountant. And there's a waitress - she wasn't in today, but she's there most of the time, and that makes things easier."
When he sees that Ginsberg's glass is empty he - with a moment of hesitation and a questioning raise of his eyebrows, takes it and his own and heads up the bar to get another of the same. He returns with them and a question at the ready. "So from what you tell me, your job consists of... writing slogans for products, sometimes morally questionable, getting sent on blind dates by coworkers with questionable intentions, and getting yelled at by, what, ten bosses?"
"When I'm stressed, I deal with it by writing. Not always ads, but mostly. So I know what you mean. It's nice to be able to do what you're good at. It'd be nicer if it paid more, but that's probably everyone's complaint, even the guys who make big bucks."
If he could get out of his father's apartment, for one thing. Sure, he might be able to afford it now, but he's pretty sure his dad isn't going to let him leave until he finds a much better place, finds a girlfriend, gets his life 'in order', whatever that means. As far as he's concerned, having a steady job and a reliable paycheck counts as having his life in order, even if his personal life is in a state of disrepair.
He's not exactly sure he should have another drink, but Ned's up and fetching them before he has time to ponder it over, and once the drink is on the table, he can't turn it down. This one he'll try to take slower. Pacing himself is important. He has no intention of getting drunk and embarrassing after just barely meeting the guy.
"Seven bosses. Well, eight, I guess, if you count Peggy, and I do, mostly because she's perfectly capable of yelling at me, and often does. To be fair, she usually has pretty good reasons for it. And then there're... yeah, I guess ten is about right. My job also occasionally consists of sleeping at the office, and being the only sober one in the whole building. Which is about as fun as you can imagine."
Ned makes a small noise of agreement when Ginsberg says what he does about wishing his job paid a bit more. He's making enough now to keep his head above water, but things were bad for the first year or so, and he doesn't want to think how much worse it would be if he didn't save money using rotten fruit, and if he wasn't able to make large amounts of cash on the side with... less savory endeavors.
"I don't drink much, myself. Don't know why I suggested coming here, of all places. I guess I just figured that's what people do, when they- " he hesitates, redirects his words from his intended 'when they're attracted to someone' "-when they meet someone interesting. They buy them a drink."
He bites the inside of his lip, feeling the heat spreading across his face again, but he pretends he can't and hopes Ginsberg doesn't notice. He can always blame it on the alcohol. Rolling the glass between his palms, he asks, "Why's everyone so drunk at the office? Or is that... normal, for advertising agencies?"
"It is what people do. I mean, I think it's what people do. I don't think anyone's ever bought me a drink before."
And it's kind of a nice feeling, actually. He could take or leave the alcohol -- although at the moment, he seems to be taking it, albeit slower than he was with the first drink -- but the sense of having someone around interested enough in him to actually buy him a drink is unique and not at all unpleasant. He could get used to this.
He notices that Ned's a little pinker in the cheeks than he had been moments before, but he's just as likely to chalk it up to the alcohol as he is to anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Ned has essentially verified that this very much counts as a date, he's not quite consciously aware of the fact that this probably means Ned is attracted to him.
"Everyone's drunk at the office -- or high at the office, there's a lot of that, too -- because everyone's miserable at the office. They think I don't see it, because I'm not drunk with them, or high with them, but I do. They're all trying to escape from something. That's why they work so much. That's why they drink so much. I think that's normal, for advertising agencies. Every place I've ever worked has been like that."
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He checks his watch. It's seven forty five. He figures he can probably draw this piece of pie out for another hour and fifteen minutes, and besides, where would he go if he left? Back home, for his father to interrogate him about the blind date? That's not going to happen. Wandering aimlessly doesn't appeal to him, either. He can settle in right here, with his barely eaten piece of pie and his coffee, and draw ad ideas on the napkins. So he just smiles at Ned. "I'll stay."
When Ned introduces himself, he realizes he hadn't even bothered to do so himself. Oh well. It didn't seem that Ned had taken offense, but he'll rectify the mistake now. Knowing each other's names is a good first step towards making friends, right? That's how it starts out. "I'm Michael Ginsberg. But just call me Ginsberg. I mean, if you call me Michael, I won't realize you're talking to me, and then I'll look like an idiot, so I just stick to Ginsberg."
He really should let Ned get back to his customers, he realizes, so that somewhat stumbling introduction out of the way, he determinedly takes another bite of pie, and lets Ned rush off to take care of the disgruntled patrons who obviously aren't getting their coffee refills quickly enough.
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At which point he returns his attention to his other customers, though as the minutes tick by, he finds himself always aware of Ginsberg's presence there. He makes sure he never runs out of coffee, looks with interest at the little things he's sketching on the napkins but doesn't ask questions. Ned uses the time wisely, cleaning the kitchen before closing and making everything neat and tidy so that he'll be able to leave at the earliest possible moment. A few minutes before nine, the last other customer leaves, and Ned gets rid of his apron, pauses a minute where he can't be seen in the kitchen to try to straighten his hair, his shirt sleeves, make sure he looks presentable.
"So you're, what, an artist?" he asks, nodding to the rather large pile of scrawled-on napkins.
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It's a chronic habit, this tendency to over-share information. Ned had only asked him what he did for a living, not asked him about where he worked or the whole history of the name, but as always, Ginsberg had offered up more information than was strictly necessary. He hopes Ned doesn't find that habit particularly irritating, because it's unlikely to go away anytime soon.
"I'd ask you what you do, but obviously you're the pie guy, so it'd be pretty stupid to ask."
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"Funny," he says, hands in his pockets, heart beating a little faster than usual as he waits for Ginsberg to collect his napkins and things, opening the door for him and then locking it behind them, "I mean, you see ads all the time, but you never really think about the fact that there are people out there coming up with them. Or, uh. Well, I guess you think about it, obviously."
He pauses a moment on the sidewalk. Asking Ginsberg to join him for a drink hadn't extended as far as deciding where to take him. But it's cold, with a wind that bites into the skin, so he decides on the closest place he knows, starts in that direction.
"Is it a good job?" he asks, with simple curiosity.
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"Yeah, I think about it. I mean, I write the text for the ads. Slogans, scripts, commercials, that kind of thing. I don't do the art direction. I wouldn't know how. You might have seen or heard some of my stuff. I did some slogans for Jaguar, when we still had that account, and I've done a couple for airlines. Mine're usually the really provocative ones, the stuff the companies initially think is too shocking to print."
And, admittedly, a lot of his ideas never get past his creative directors, because they are too provocative. He figures there's no harm in pushing the envelope, though. That's what creativity is all about. Following Ned out the door, he frowns a little at Ned's question. That's a hard one to answer.
"I guess. It's all I've ever done. I didn't choose advertising, advertising chose me, as trite and job-interviewy as that sounds. It's what I'm good at."
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"I know how that feels. Not with advertising, but, uh, with pies." He's proud of what he does, but he's not sure it would seem all that impressive to a guy who does commercials for fancy foreign cars and airlines. It all sounds very glamorous, and Ned would be more intimidated if he had known about all that first, before he saw Ginsberg with pie all over his face.
"So what's the most provocative ad you ever did?"
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He pulls his coat a little tighter around him, shivering slightly. His clothes are always too damn big, and that doesn't make for the most cozy of garments in weather like this. He'll be glad when they can get inside.
"Anyway. I'm glad I'm not the only one who has that feeling about something. Your pies are very good. I can tell you like making them."
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Well, maybe not his blind dates.
"What's not to like? Pie's the single easiest way to make people happy. When it's not being thrown in your face, that is." He smiles, and it's lopsided and just a touch shy, "You're probably better off, if she liked Nixon and ordered lemon meringue." There's a hint of scorn in his voice, and he explains, "You make enough pie and serve it to enough people, you start to see patterns in what sorts of people order what sorts of pie. Lemon meringue is always risky."
They round a corner and are at the bar Ned had in mind: it's a quiet place, tucked away, with low lighting and a TV set playing with the volume low, behind the counter. There aren't a lot of people around at the moment, and no one Ned recognizes.
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He wonders if he should be noticing that he likes Ned's smile, and especially likes that it's not a mocking smile. He's been the recipient of enough mocking smiles in his life that he's learned to differentiate between genuine ones and teasing ones, and Ned's is definitely genuine. He likes that -- people are generally so damn disingenuous, he's never quite sure how to speak to them without offending them or making them uncomfortable.
He doesn't go to bars much, so he's never been to this one, but he's willing to follow Ned inside, looking around curiously. Of course, he immediately has to look at the TV and ascertain what program it's playing, and whether it'll be likely to be playing any of the ads he's had a part in. Wouldn't that be great, he thinks, if he could show Ned one of his ads on TV? That'd be impressive, right?
And why, exactly, does he want to impress this guy, anyway?
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Another wave of nervous, awkward energy sweeps over Ned. Maybe he's reading it wrong, but he gets the feeling that they might not be on the same page here. That maybe he should have been a little clearer from the get-go that he was inviting Ginsberg out on another date, since the first had gone so badly. Had he gotten that? He'd said that if it went badly he'd be two-for-two for the night, but still, something about his demeanor makes Ned think he's assuming this is merely a friendly gesture.
The question is, should he leave it that way, or do or say something that would clue him in? Stomach churning with indecision he asks, tightly, "Can I... get you something to drink? What are you having?"
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What'll impress Ned as much as the choice of peach pie had, apparently. He trails off into indecisive silence for a moment, trying to figure out whether or not Ned's been flirting with him this whole time. It's kind of an egotistical assumption to make, and if he assumes that Ned's attempting to take him on a date and he's wrong about the assumption, well, to say that things would be awkward would be putting it mildly. That kind of wrong assumption could end up in something a lot worse than having pie thrown at him.
"I'll have vodka and cranberry juice, I guess. Is that something that only girls drink? Like I said, I don't know anything about alcohol. Are you a homosexual?"
He hadn't meant to blurt out that last part. Dammit. Looks like he's sitting at another table he wants to slide right under and hide.
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He looks around, surreptitiously, seeing if their conversation has caught anyone's attention. No one seems to have heard, or be looking in their direction. All the same, every bit of Ned's body language screams discomfort. Not the kind of discomfort that a straight man feels when being asked about his sexuality, either. He's certain that for anyone mildly clever, his reaction is answer enough.
There's an edge of fear to his voice when he asks, quietly, "Should I go?"
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He shakes his head. "No, no, I was trying to... I mean, I was just wondering because I wouldn't have a problem if you were. Because this..."
At least he has the good sense to lean a little closer, so that they won't be overheard, although nobody's paying attention to them anyway. "This kind of feels like a date. Not that I know a lot about dates, either. But this is what I imagine they're like, when they actually work out, and I don't get things thrown at me. But I wanted to make sure."
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Ned gives a hesitant, small smile, relaxing ever so slightly, from frozen terror back to his normal level of mild discomfort and tension. Because... Ginsberg said he didn't have a problem with that. Not just in an abstract, we-can-still-talk-civilly way, either. But after that initial confusion, Ned wants to be absolutely sure.
"So you're okay with, um. With this?" Ginsberg had been at the pie shop with a girl, after all. And something about the way he asked makes Ned wonder, "I should've been clearer when I asked you, but, y'know, a guy's got to be careful about this kind of thing."
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Shit. Did that sound way over the top in terms of flirtation? Now he has to figure out how to navigate that, too, and if casual chatter is hard enough, intentional flirtation is completely beyond him. The last time he'd tried to flirt with someone, well, they hadn't thrown pie at him, but they hadn't exactly reciprocated, either.
"All I mean is that it seems like you know what you're doing. That's a good thing, if you're wondering. Even if it's not true and you just know what you're doing as compared to me, because I have no idea."
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"I'll go get that drink," he says, because he needs a moment to get a grip of himself, to get over that flustered feeling. Ned goes to the bar, thinks he can feel Ginsberg watching him as he goes, but he doesn't look over his shoulder to check. A few quick words to the bartender and he's coming back with two identical glasses of dark red liquid.
"Sounded good," he says, giving Ginsberg his and resuming his seat. There's a faint blush on his cheeks that doesn't seem to want to go away, but he resolutely ignores it, asks, "So who set up the blind date?"
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He's definitely watching when Ned walks away. Maybe a little too intently. Maybe he should stop staring at the back of Ned's head, because if Ned turns around and notices him, that's going to be kind of weird, no matter if this is a date or not. He's pretty sure you aren't supposed to stare at the back of your date's head, even if they have pretty nice looking hair.
As soon as Ned comes back, he takes his drink, mostly to have something to do with his hands. He's not actually sure what vodka and cranberry tastes like, but he gives it an experimental sip and finds it pleasant enough. It's a lot better than some of the stuff the guys around the office drink. He can't understand how they can tolerate alcohol that strong, but then, they like a lot of things he'll never understand.
"One of my coworkers set it up. I'm pretty sure he was playing a trick on me, now that I think of it. It's like he picked the perfectly wrong person. That can't just be a coincidence. Or I'm paranoid about the intentions of my coworkers and he actually meant well. Either way, I'm glad it's over with, and I'm glad I'm here instead."
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"So..." he begins, searching for a topic that will ease them back into the flow of conversation before things got a but peculiar, "You said you did an ad for that carpet even though it was ugly - does that sort of thing happen often? You have to do an ad for something you think is actually terrible? Wouldn't that make it harder?"
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He doesn't know why he keeps insisting on saying so much. Surely Ned's going to get sick of hearing his voice eventually and decide that this was all a terrible idea. That he's stuck it out for so long is impressive, but there's no way he'll stick it out much longer, right? Is it too much to hope that maybe he doesn't actually find Ginsberg a hideous irritation?
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He pauses after saying that, a little curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, leans in as he amends, "Actually, I'm not wild about pumpkin, but that doesn't really matter. The fact that it's not to my taste isn't quite the same as it being... aesthetically and morally objectionable"
Ned keeps sipping at the drink; to tell the truth, he likes that Ginsberg is so talkative. His face is remarkably animated, and the rapidity of his words seems to Ned somehow more passionate than when he goes on one of his own rambles. Those are often out of nerves and sheer awkwardness, rather than... enthusiasm, and eloquence.
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Is he drinking this drink too fast? He's pretty sure he is. To be fair, it tastes good, and he's taking a sip every time he pauses for breath, which is pretty frequently -- that's the thing about talking fast, he's found: it can really wear you out. And how strong are these drinks, anyway? Will he know when this one's starting to affect him? Is it starting to already? Better drink some more and find out.
"What's it like, being your own boss? I can imagine it being really fun, because you can do whatever you want, and nobody can yell at you, but I can also imagine it being really frustrating, because you don't have anyone to blame except yourself if bad decisions get made. I mean, if something gets screwed up around my office, I can always blame it on the powers that be, by which I mean the entire executive team, and believe me, they screw things up regularly. Being your own executive team puts a lot of responsibility on you. You must be stressed out a lot."
At least, he'd be stressed out, if he had to run a pie shop, but then, pie is, apparently, Ned's passion, so maybe he's not.
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Ned notices with a faint moment of alarm that Ginsberg's nearly finished his drink, and he's barely sipped his. He ought to try to catch up, drinks a few gulps before he goes on, "I like it. I've never been great at working with other people, so it's ideal. It's not like I do everything on my own. I tried to do the budget and the taxes at first and that was a complete disaster, so I got an accountant. And there's a waitress - she wasn't in today, but she's there most of the time, and that makes things easier."
When he sees that Ginsberg's glass is empty he - with a moment of hesitation and a questioning raise of his eyebrows, takes it and his own and heads up the bar to get another of the same. He returns with them and a question at the ready. "So from what you tell me, your job consists of... writing slogans for products, sometimes morally questionable, getting sent on blind dates by coworkers with questionable intentions, and getting yelled at by, what, ten bosses?"
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If he could get out of his father's apartment, for one thing. Sure, he might be able to afford it now, but he's pretty sure his dad isn't going to let him leave until he finds a much better place, finds a girlfriend, gets his life 'in order', whatever that means. As far as he's concerned, having a steady job and a reliable paycheck counts as having his life in order, even if his personal life is in a state of disrepair.
He's not exactly sure he should have another drink, but Ned's up and fetching them before he has time to ponder it over, and once the drink is on the table, he can't turn it down. This one he'll try to take slower. Pacing himself is important. He has no intention of getting drunk and embarrassing after just barely meeting the guy.
"Seven bosses. Well, eight, I guess, if you count Peggy, and I do, mostly because she's perfectly capable of yelling at me, and often does. To be fair, she usually has pretty good reasons for it. And then there're... yeah, I guess ten is about right. My job also occasionally consists of sleeping at the office, and being the only sober one in the whole building. Which is about as fun as you can imagine."
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"I don't drink much, myself. Don't know why I suggested coming here, of all places. I guess I just figured that's what people do, when they- " he hesitates, redirects his words from his intended 'when they're attracted to someone' "-when they meet someone interesting. They buy them a drink."
He bites the inside of his lip, feeling the heat spreading across his face again, but he pretends he can't and hopes Ginsberg doesn't notice. He can always blame it on the alcohol. Rolling the glass between his palms, he asks, "Why's everyone so drunk at the office? Or is that... normal, for advertising agencies?"
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And it's kind of a nice feeling, actually. He could take or leave the alcohol -- although at the moment, he seems to be taking it, albeit slower than he was with the first drink -- but the sense of having someone around interested enough in him to actually buy him a drink is unique and not at all unpleasant. He could get used to this.
He notices that Ned's a little pinker in the cheeks than he had been moments before, but he's just as likely to chalk it up to the alcohol as he is to anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Ned has essentially verified that this very much counts as a date, he's not quite consciously aware of the fact that this probably means Ned is attracted to him.
"Everyone's drunk at the office -- or high at the office, there's a lot of that, too -- because everyone's miserable at the office. They think I don't see it, because I'm not drunk with them, or high with them, but I do. They're all trying to escape from something. That's why they work so much. That's why they drink so much. I think that's normal, for advertising agencies. Every place I've ever worked has been like that."
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