“He’s a player.” The barkeeper nods over to the table where the suit has hooked up with his jeans and hightops friends. “Picks up a different woman practically every night.”
I glance at the man who’d left the card. He, too, is watching me, and when our gazes meet, he winks. Heat rises in my cheeks and I look away, imagining just what he might do with these women he “picks up” almost every night. I could be one of them. I could experience something that no one of my generation has ever experienced. And—as long as I get my sample—I could justify it all in the name of science, too.
But can you live with yourself afterwards?
I frown, looking back down at the card then up at the barkeeper who is still watching me. “Every night?”
“Practically.”
I sigh. Mr. Tall and Handsome is exactly what I’ve pegged him as: a conscienceless disease in the fabric of the 20th century. Everyman doesn’t need DNA like that. I’ll keep the card though, as a souvenir of what could have been.
I look back at the barkeeper. He is even taller than Mr. Popularity and just as muscular, though his are from hard work rather than the local gym. He is definitely prime. Too bad about the eye color. Linked with the dominant dark hair, those vibrant blue-greens might be hard to splice out. Besides, I get no tingly sensations from him. Just a comfortable settledness. I have a feeling he can don and slough off roles at his whim and wear each shoe well. I don’t know why, but I have this uncontrollable urge to keep conversing with him. Which is weird. Where I came from, we don’t talk just to talk.
“How ’bout a real drink? On me,” he says, shelving the glass with the rest of its clean counterparts.
“Sure. Why not?” If I’m not going to experience what real copulation is like tonight, I can at least go out on a limb and experience an alcohol high.
“What’s your poison?”
“Poison?”
“Your preference? What do you like?”
“Something clear.” I don’t feel so much the criminal with a “clear” drink. Those frothy pink, smooth oranges, icy yellows, and crystalline greens he’s been passing out all evening are just plain sinful. At least to look at. Color. Another thing this generation seems obsessed with.
“All right. Clear it is.” He looks back at the rows of bottles behind him, a hand absently stroking the scruffy looking stubble on his chin as he studies the choices. “Sweet, sour, or dry?”
Both sweet and sour sound too much like a sensory cocktail. I don’t understand how a liquid drink can be dry, but.... “Um, not sweet. Dry sounds good.”
“Martini?”
I shake my head, not knowing what a Martini is.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He reaches up for a blueglass bottle on the top shelf. I glance at the label as he sets it down to fill a tall tumbler with ice cubes and am still at a loss as to what it is, other than it comes from Bombay and was named after a gemstone. Deftly he twists off the top then pours the clear liquid into the glass, concurrently punching a button on his “soda machine” so that some more clear liquid tumbles and mixes in with the alcohol.
I frown, thinking of the 7-Up I’ve been sipping. That had been sweet, and bubbly. I really liked the bubbles, not so much the sweet. Seems there is nothing in this time frame that doesn’t involve an overload of sensory input.
“Lime?” he asks, picking up a wedge of green fruit.
I give a slight nod. Fresh fruit is acceptable for consumption.
He gives the lime a quick squeeze, impaling a second slice on the rim of the glass, then slides the drink in front of me with a smile. “There you go.”
I tentatively take a sip—bubbly for sure—then another. Not sweet. Dry seems an apt description. I like the lime and the hint of, well, I don’t know what.
“What do you think?”
“Fresh, crisp.” I lick my lips, savoring the aftertaste of the lime. “I like this Sapphire and Soda drink.”
“Sapphire and Soda.” He chuckles. “That’s cute. I think I’ll list it as a special.”
I don’t say anything. I’m trying to figure out what I’ve said that is funny. Maybe they call the drink after the place, Bombay and the addition of the soda.... Bombay Bubbly, perhaps? My confusion must have shown on my face because the barkeeper’s smile fades, the twinkle in his blue-green eyes switching to studious interest.
“What?” I ask, resisting the urge to squirm on my seat. This century must be really getting to me. How to be still and composed are things Everyman children are taught at a young age.
He takes out a white cloth, rubbing up a ring of condensation from the polished bar. “So, what’s your name?”
“My name?” G5S36. But I can’t tell him that. Instead I spout off the one on the fake ID in my pocket. “Rebecca.”
He flips the cloth over his shoulder, folding his body down so he is low enough to lean on the bar with his elbows. His head is still taller than mine. “So, Rebecca,” he draws out the name, as if it is foreign . . . or he knows it’s not mine, “you got a story?”
“A story?” I chuckle, though even to my ears the sound is off-key, forced. “I don’t have a story.”
That at least is the truth. Where I come from, there are no individual stories. We all work together as part of the system. Our singularity but a small gear in the working matrix of Everyman. It’s not fancy or exciting, but it’s a life. One that I never questioned past the age of five—or until three days ago.
Stop that. You were content in that life. And you will be again once you go back.
I clear my throat, pushing away the drink. Selfindulgent addict. This is why Everyman came about in the first place, to eradicate such dangerous egocentricity. “Why do you ask?”
I don’t like how he’s watching me, as if he can see right through me and read my mind. Which is a fallacy, of course. He’d need an implant, and then my individual access codes to link up.
He shrugs, massive shoulders lifting and falling. He really is a big man—like a Roman gladiator or a Greek Hercules. Even this century doesn’t make many like him. “Everyone has a story. It’s in the eyes. And yours are saying that you’d like to leave it behind.”
I jerk back on my stool, almost toppling off. Leave it behind? Why in the world would he suggest that? I am G5S36. Geneticist number five in sector thirty-six. I have a purpose. A reason for existing. Here I would be ... I’d be....
Different. You’d be an individual. You’d be Rebecca.
I give a quick shake of my head. I’m going to have to have my implant checked when I get back. It seems to have picked up a virus. The barkeeper is still watching me so I volley back his own question, “Everyone has a story? So what’s yours?”
His scruffy cheeks twitch, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Mine? It’s too long for one sitting. And you wouldn’t believe it even if I told you.”
I purse my lips. If a person’s story can be read in their eyes, then I believed that his is a long one, but given my own strange tale—that I’m a geneticist sent back in time to collect a random sampling of genes in order to rejuvenate our gene pool before we all become extinct—yes, well, there isn’t much I wouldn’t believe.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks. I realize he’s still on the story thing. He’s asking if I want to share, take a load off my chest, as they say in this century.
I shake my head, tracing the wood grain of the bar. “Not really. Besides, I’m thinking of writing a new one.”
My hand starts to shake on the bar. Am I really? Would I really risk my secure life for a future here and now in this sensory depraved time?
No. That’s crazy. That’s the addict talking.
Laughter spikes through the general roar of conversation. I twist my head around to see a woman leaning forward, her hand linked with her date’s over the polished table and her teased mane of hair obscuring their faces. Kissing. In public, too.
Two booths over the pack of men, including Mr. Popularity, are in a heated discussion o
ver the sports scores being flashed on the television. I tilt my head to the side, gnawing on my lip as I watch them throw mock growls and verbal abuses at each other before the “fight” breaks up with a couple of razzed insults and a shake of the head.
Odd. Where I come from there is only one view. One opinion. The one you’re supposed to have. Differ from that and you’re ... removed from the system.
And that’s why I don’t want to go back. Sometimes I don’t share in Everyman’s view. Like the concert. I just don’t understand how something so beautiful and moving can be bad. Perhaps it’s because it is moving, pulling from the self an emotional response. Emotions, and their baggage, good or bad, are a complication to things running smoothly.
Yet everyone here seems so happy. Even the two old men sitting at the end of the bar, quietly drinking their beers, hold a companionable sort of silence between them. The only one who seems as alone as I am is the bartender himself.
He comes back over to me, carrying another drink. He sets it down in front of me with a wink. “Here. This will hit the spot.”
“I shouldn’t,” I say, glancing at the clock. 11:15. If I leave now I can be across town with time to spare.
A hand appears in front of my eyes. Large and calloused. The barkeeper. “I’m Gil, by the way. Gilgamesh, actually.”
“Gilgamesh. That’s nice.” I tentatively reach out.
He gives a firm pump of my hand, then grunts, nodding his head as he releases me. “Now I really want to know that story.”
I take my hand back, rubbing it where the bones feel crushed. How does he not break the glasses? “I told you, there is no story.”
“Come on. You didn’t even comment on the name. Everyone comments on the name.”
I input a search into my implant but it comes back blank. Guess the files I’d downloaded weren’t extensive enough. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Gilgamesh isn’t exactly a common name in the here and now. Most people want to know how I came by it. And the nickname, Gil. Well, there still are Gilligan’s Island reruns on TV, so. ...”
I must have a blank expression on my face because he frowns, narrowing his eyes. With a quick scan to first one side, then the other, he leans in close. “You don’t have someone after you, do you?”
I swallow hard, wiping the clammy sweat on my torn denim. No, not yet. But if I don’t make it to the extraction coordinates by midnight I probably will. “No, not exactly.”
“But someone’s got you on a tight leash, don’t they.”
Too close, fear has me snapping at him. “I don’t see how that is any of your b—”
He stands up, holding up his hands. “You’re right. None of my business. But....” He glances around, then moves over to the end of the bar. Folding his body like an accordion, he bends down, pulling a key from his back pocket which he stuffs into a keyhole in the cabinet. I try to glimpse inside but see only what looks like a large slab of a reddish looking stone and the ever popular rolodex that seems to be the “thing” to replace personal identity codes in my century. After a moment he sits back on his heels, closes the cabinet, and pulls the key out. Then he’s walking back toward me, another one of those business cards in hand.
“Take this,” he says, sliding it across the counter toward me. “This guy, he’s great at helping people write new stories.”
I stare at the card as if it is a viper—an angry one.
He taps the counter, gaining my attention. “Take the card. Don’t have to use it. But it doesn’t hurt to have it.”
I nod.
“And drink the drink. I made it especially for you. I’ll be insulted if you don’t.”
I nod again.
With a last measuring look he turns away, going down to the end of the bar to chat with the two elderly men. Their faces liven when he comes near and the balder of the two launches into what is obviously a humorous story. I watch them for a while, my hands twisting the cup around and around as I pointedly avoid looking at the card.
The change in programming from local news to a late night show brings my attention back to the clock.
11:32. Maybe if I catch a cab.
I start to shift off the stool, but as I do, my gaze passes over the card. It’s laying there, white, innocuous even, against the dark stained wood. I sit back down. Pick up the drink. Set it down and pick up the card instead. There isn’t much there, just an address under a name: John Doe. That one pings in my implant as a placeholder name for a male party whose true identity is unknown.
My finger flicks the thin cardboard, nerves and possibilities bubbling up in my stomach. If I don’t show up they will send someone after me. But in this time, this place . . . if I can buy myself another identity....
I gnaw on my lip. I still have to deal with the implant. I know enough that I can probably change my access codes so they can’t track me. Better yet would be to find a hacker and get him to whip me up a virus I can upload to deactivate the chip. My gaze falls back to the card, the name. Maybe this John Doe will know of one.
Someone yells out a departure. The bartender, Gil, raises his hand and calls out a “Later, Norman,” which receives a bunch of laughs. A couple minutes later the two men at the end of the bar stand up and shuffle out. They, too, are waved off with a personal farewell.
A bar, where everyone knows your name. Where everyone has a name.
People are leaving. It must be getting late. 11:42 to be exact. Unless I manage to land the cabby from hell the moment I hit the curb, I’ll never get to the extraction point in time.
By the Founder, what have I done? I’m stranded here without anything but a couple hundred dollars in my pocket. Alone in a strange world.
Sweat glazes my skin, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I feel like a fish out of water. Reverse drowning. I grab up the cup in front of me, gulping the cool liquid. It burns going down my throat and I choke, sputtering.
“What is this?” I demand of Gil who is at the end of the counter frowning as he tallies up a bill.
He glances up. “Fancy Free.” Then goes back to his scowling.
Free. I tap the cup. I’ve always been alone. But until now, I’ve never been free.
Gil finishes his complex addition and moves over to a bell behind the bar, giving the rope a good yank. The resounding bong echoes through the room, patrons quiet. “Last call.”
I stay where I am, watching as Gil makes brisk work of the last few orders. I’m not sure he loves what he does, but he seems settled. Like he fits. I want that. A job I pick. A place that is mine. A chance at....
Well, I’ll think about that when I get there. Right now the chance is enough.
“You need me to call a cab?” Gil comes over to stand in front of me, hands on his hips as he studies me intently.
I glance over at the clock: 12:07. A glance around shows everyone else is gone. I hadn’t even noticed the time had come and past.
“No. I’m good. I’m just headed to the hotel on the corner.” I slide off the stool, my high-heel boots hitting the scuffed floor as I simultaneously shrug on my leather coat. When I came in it was chilly, by now it will be cold. I suppose I can try and find John Doe, but somehow I think it’s better to wait until after sunrise.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, contemplating my meager supply of cash. I wonder how much this John Doe’s services are going to cost.
Gil tips his head to the side.
“For the drink,” I explain, gesturing toward the empty cup. I can’t remember finishing it, but I guess I must have at some point, probably during those last fifteen minutes I’d been daydreaming.
He shakes his head, waving me off. “Nothing. It’s on the house.”
I smile in thanks and start toward door, hesitant but with mounting determination. This is not just an adventure, it’s my life now. My hand closes over the handle and freezes. Ice running through my veins, anchoring me to the floor. I don’t know how long I stand there, every synonym for foolish runn
ing through my mind, just that I can’t do this.
“Best of luck with your story.”
Gil’s rumbling voice shakes me free. I do a half-turn, one hand still on the door as I look over my shoulder at him. He’s drying another cup, but his attention is focused completely on me.
It’s in the eyes. What I see there is confidence. Knowledge. As if he can actually see how everything is going to turn out.
Foolish indeed. That’s just wishful thinking. Still. I can’t help but hope he’s right.
“Thanks,” I say, and push open the door to my new future.
WHERE WE ARE IS HELL
Jackie Kessler
TRACY Summers used to think that Hell was auditioning for roles she knew she’d never get—not tall enough, not pretty enough, not anything enough. But now she knows better.
Hell is an endless corridor full of doors.
Tracy opens a door and steps through. It closes behind her, sealing her inside blackness so complete that it swallows the sound of the door locking. Once, she had been afraid of the dark. But that was a long, long time ago. Now she is far too resigned to be frightened. At times, hope scratches through her resignation, winking like an evening star searching for someone to make a wish upon it. This is not one of those times. Tracy lets out a sigh, and that, too, is eaten by the darkness.
Holding one hand before her and the other to her right, she begins to walk.
There is nothing but darkness and doors. This is how it’s always been, how she dreads it always will be: Tracy, alone in the dark, alone with the doors.
She thinks she had a life before this; sometimes, she sees pictures of her past flash in her mind, the colors vibrant, even gaudy. Those rare memories—or, possibly, daydreams—are the only colors left to her. Even the doors are strangely colorless, as if they are merely the suggestions of doors, outlines to possibilities of other places. She cannot actively remember her life, if she ever did have a life before the doors. Whenever she tries, images blur and fade to nothing, leaving her blank. So she clings to the few memories that have visited her: she had been a dancer, trying to get her first big break; she had been in love with a man who had been far too good for her; she had once done something that had been very, very bad.
After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar Page 23