sarasota-bound
May. 21st, 2020 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watchfobIt is too damn hot to be wearing a jacket.
Jotaro checks his watch – it’s noon, 97 and humid, and he thinks that if he keeps this up, he’s going to get heat stroke. Might already be in its early stages. He wipes the sweat from his brow, nudging his hat in the process, and he grimaces as the movement makes him uncomfortably aware that the band has been soaked through.
Fucking Florida.
He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it into the passenger seat of his car. He pulled over on the side of I-75 a couple miles outside of Tampa after the rental’s engine started spitting smoke that smelled like pancakes. Triple A gave him an estimate of about an hour before they could send a tow his way, and an idle car retains heat far better than the open air, humidity be damned, so he’s leaning against the shadowed side of the vehicle, idly counting down the minutes until he physically dissolves.
He had to wear a turtleneck, too. He had to wear a black turtleneck, and a calf-length jacket, in the middle of the Floridian summer.
Wonderful.
He thinks about calling a cab, or – Uber, was it called? But he doesn’t know of any taxi companies off-hand, and he doesn’t have any cell service, and he’s never used any of those kinds of apps, anyway; he’d probably mess it up even if Jolyne were there to explain the procedure, like she so often has to do when it comes to Jotaro and technology–
He rolls up his right sleeve. Why did the air in this state have to be so heavy.
He’s thinking about popping the trunk and rifling through his luggage to change into a tank and his compression sleeve when a little green car that looks vaguely bug-shaped rolls up behind him on the shoulder. He stares at it as its hazards blink on and the owner steps out.
He’s wearing a fucking turtleneck, too.
“Excuse me,” the driver says over the rush of cars flying past them. “Are you alright?”
Jotaro continues to stare.
“Do you need help with that?” the man tries again.
“No.”
“Oh.” The man tugs at his shirt before smoothing a hand over the front of it. It’s a forest green, a bit darker than the shade of his car. Couldn’t go for something light, either, huh? “Then, could I ask you a question?”
Jotaro answers with impassive silence. He wonders, briefly, if this man is going to try to kill him. Florida Man Murdered in Broad Daylight, the headline reads in his mind. Dumbass found in the grass beside major highway wearing a sweater, despite, presumably, the victim not being 70 fucking years old. Details to follow.
Jotaro looks at him a bit closer and decides, no – no, he’s probably not going to try to kill him. Probably wouldn’t be able to, anyway. His hair is neat and his glasses are prescription and there’s a stiff set to his shoulders that speaks to his nerves. Maybe a tourist.
“Can I ask you for directions?”
Definitely a tourist.
“Where you headed?” Jotaro asks. It comes out less like a question and more like a demand.
“Sarasota,” the other man answers. “I was doing fine, but I have no bars and my GPS cut out.” He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I’m not from around here,” he says, and it sounds like an apology.
Jotaro nods once.
“’S where I was going. Before…” He jerks a thumb backwards, pointing at the smoke.
“Oh!” The man looks from the car to Jotaro and back. “Well, I could give you a ride, if you’d be my navigator.”
Jotaro considers this. He thinks about roadside assistance, and how an hour really means two and a half. Thinks about how he should probably stay with the car to sign off on paperwork when they finally do arrive. About sitting in the truck until they reach the tow yard and having to figure out how to secure another vehicle for the rest of his trip.
In the end, the way his shirt clings to his skin, weighted and damp, decides for him.
“You got space in there for a suitcase?”
Jotaro checks his watch – it’s noon, 97 and humid, and he thinks that if he keeps this up, he’s going to get heat stroke. Might already be in its early stages. He wipes the sweat from his brow, nudging his hat in the process, and he grimaces as the movement makes him uncomfortably aware that the band has been soaked through.
Fucking Florida.
He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it into the passenger seat of his car. He pulled over on the side of I-75 a couple miles outside of Tampa after the rental’s engine started spitting smoke that smelled like pancakes. Triple A gave him an estimate of about an hour before they could send a tow his way, and an idle car retains heat far better than the open air, humidity be damned, so he’s leaning against the shadowed side of the vehicle, idly counting down the minutes until he physically dissolves.
He had to wear a turtleneck, too. He had to wear a black turtleneck, and a calf-length jacket, in the middle of the Floridian summer.
Wonderful.
He thinks about calling a cab, or – Uber, was it called? But he doesn’t know of any taxi companies off-hand, and he doesn’t have any cell service, and he’s never used any of those kinds of apps, anyway; he’d probably mess it up even if Jolyne were there to explain the procedure, like she so often has to do when it comes to Jotaro and technology–
He rolls up his right sleeve. Why did the air in this state have to be so heavy.
He’s thinking about popping the trunk and rifling through his luggage to change into a tank and his compression sleeve when a little green car that looks vaguely bug-shaped rolls up behind him on the shoulder. He stares at it as its hazards blink on and the owner steps out.
He’s wearing a fucking turtleneck, too.
“Excuse me,” the driver says over the rush of cars flying past them. “Are you alright?”
Jotaro continues to stare.
“Do you need help with that?” the man tries again.
“No.”
“Oh.” The man tugs at his shirt before smoothing a hand over the front of it. It’s a forest green, a bit darker than the shade of his car. Couldn’t go for something light, either, huh? “Then, could I ask you a question?”
Jotaro answers with impassive silence. He wonders, briefly, if this man is going to try to kill him. Florida Man Murdered in Broad Daylight, the headline reads in his mind. Dumbass found in the grass beside major highway wearing a sweater, despite, presumably, the victim not being 70 fucking years old. Details to follow.
Jotaro looks at him a bit closer and decides, no – no, he’s probably not going to try to kill him. Probably wouldn’t be able to, anyway. His hair is neat and his glasses are prescription and there’s a stiff set to his shoulders that speaks to his nerves. Maybe a tourist.
“Can I ask you for directions?”
Definitely a tourist.
“Where you headed?” Jotaro asks. It comes out less like a question and more like a demand.
“Sarasota,” the other man answers. “I was doing fine, but I have no bars and my GPS cut out.” He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I’m not from around here,” he says, and it sounds like an apology.
Jotaro nods once.
“’S where I was going. Before…” He jerks a thumb backwards, pointing at the smoke.
“Oh!” The man looks from the car to Jotaro and back. “Well, I could give you a ride, if you’d be my navigator.”
Jotaro considers this. He thinks about roadside assistance, and how an hour really means two and a half. Thinks about how he should probably stay with the car to sign off on paperwork when they finally do arrive. About sitting in the truck until they reach the tow yard and having to figure out how to secure another vehicle for the rest of his trip.
In the end, the way his shirt clings to his skin, weighted and damp, decides for him.
“You got space in there for a suitcase?”
