Photo by Nabil Saleh on Unsplash.

This short story was written in 2013, never before published.

It feels funny in the beginning.

Materializing out of thin air, feeling the cathode rays pushing me into a world with which I’m not familiar. This world emerges out of nothingness—hard light and ions, scrambled static, out of which appears a smiling face. Gracefully, she glides from one end of the bar, putting a small black notebook into her apron. Her eyes bright with some joyous unheard laughter, her gaze remains on me. 

She wears a prudish, frilly purple shirt that goes all the way up to her neck. Her hair is fluffy and blonde, curly at the ends -- because this world only exists in the 1980s, and perms are the style. Not exactly puffy, but round cheeks (from smiling for all the unheard laughter) blush as she notes the way I gaze at her from my spot, with my own notebook, at the end of the bar.

“Well hello there, handsome. Is there something I can get for you?”

I want to ask for her phone number, if I can. If you’ll let me. 

A voice that feels like it’s been inserted into my throat and made to speak for me emerges, almost coughing, “I’ll... I’ll have a beer I think. I don’t know, this is my first time in a bar.”

“Any particular brand sweetheart?”

“Oh come on, Clara,” another, more shrill voice comes from behind me, moving from right to left. “If he can’t see through your tip-hogging, I don’t know if anyone else can.” I can hear you out there, you know.

“Do be quiet, Lucy,” the smiling blonde waitress says to a shorter, clearly angrier waitress with a white towel over her shoulder. “Don’t mind her, dear. She’s just upset that she found out she’s having the devil’s baby in a few weeks.” 

“Um,” the voice in my throat chokes out again. I know it doesn’t belong to me, but it pushes itself out anyway: “I’ll have a Heineken if that’s all right.”

Clara, the blonde, turns to a tall, lanky man behind the bar. “Jack, could this man have a Heineken please?”

“Sure, Clara,” this man responds. His face matches a black and white picture that hangs from the bar—only the black and white photo shows his face beneath a ballcap with the letter C on it. He’s hauling away to throw what could inevitably have been a strike-out curveball. “What’s say after I serve him, you and me blow this popstand and go on a date?”

As he pours the bottle of beer into a mug, I hear cheering from the back room, where there’s clearly a party of older gentlemen carrying on and laughing. “And why don’t you stick it where the sun don’t shine, Jack?” this blonde, humorless but ever-smiling waitress tells him.

“Oh-ho,” a man at the opposite end of this oddly open, square bar in the center of this main room grunts sarcastically.

All of these people are constantly moving about except for the patrons seated at various odd places around the bar. An older gentlemen serves several of these patrons on the other side.

Looking over my right shoulder, I can almost see you out there. 

My gaze moves down to the notebook in front of me, though it’s difficult to take my eyes off of the beautiful waitress. Jack slides the beer-filled mug down the bar perfectly to where I’m sitting. The perfect beer-mug pitch. As I lift the mug to my lips, I read what’s written in the notebook in front of me.

“They live in a strictly cathode world. They exist in a separate dimension of electron radiation and light; hard constructs broadcast like ideas across the airwaves, or traveling through cable highways as multi-headed hydra.

We see them on the other side of the bubble -- we watch their lives unfold on the cyclopic monolith that we all worship. But for them, time is different; they live in their own two-dimensional world perpetually stunted to only recognize their neon 1980s time capsule.

Through that bubbled window, we voyeurs can only observe and never interact. Ours is a passive existence, only ever watching their activities; they are always active, always moving about their four-cornered world.”

Did I write this? The lovely waitress swings around the bar and asks me if everything’s okay; still smiling. “I’m sorry, um, Clara, is it? Did you see me sitting here writing?”

“No sweetheart. I didn’t even see you come in. I noticed you here and I came to serve you. Do you mind if I read what you wrote?” she asks.

That’s probably not the best idea in the world. I slap the notebook shut. “No,” awkwardly exits my lips. “Maybe I could read it to you sometime, though. Y’see, I’m a student of literature, I think. A writer. But, my, um, memory’s not very good. I don’t actually remember writing it.”

“That would be marvelous, darling. I’m a bit of a literature student myself. Maybe I could critique what you’ve written.”

Now that, that might be interesting. Would she recognize what I was saying? Would she be able to comprehend it—an emissary from another world, somewhere beyond the bubble, come here to tell her the nature of her very existence?

“I’d... I’d like that.” No names float to the surface of my mind for me to introduce myself. It suddenly occurs to me—non-threatening and easily digestible for an audience. “My name is Chip.”

“Well hello, Chip,” she outstretches her hand to me, like a Victorian member of court. “I’m Clara Ames. Welcome to Pitchers.” The name of the bar—Pitchers. Very cute, as I suppose it’s an entendre for both the bartender who appears to be hurling the perfect curveball in the black-and-white picture, and that beer, after all, can be served in pitchers.

“GEORGE!” the whole bar erupts as a stocky, business-suited man enters from the door behind me. Incredible. The older gentleman who’s serving the patrons at the other end of the bar asks, “What’ll you have, George?”

“Oh, ‘bout a million dollars and a super-model wife. But I’ll settle for a beer, which you and I know is better than both.” Jack pitches another mug down to George’s spot at the opposite end of the bar from me. “What’s going on back there? Seems pretty ruckus,” the portly George asks, gesturing towards the back room.

“It’s a party for the 42nd airborne, World War II survivors. The first one of ‘em that came in actually stripped down to his birthday suit before the other guests arrived. Helluva Joke, huh Georgie?” Jack says.

“Crazy bastards, Jackie,” George responds. 

Clara’s attention stays on me, despite the excitement that George has brought into the bar. “So what is it you were writing about?”

“I was writing about writing, I think. Literature about literature. It’s, uh... very meta.”

“Could you at least read me one little line?” she says.

I can’t exactly resist her huge, blazing green eyes as they press into the foundations of my being. I open the notebook just far enough for me to look like I’m reading directly from it, without actually showing it to her. And, instead of reading whatever it is that’s on the page, a line pops into my head.

“We’re all the heroes of our own literature.”

Her smile disappears, replaced with a perplexed look. “Oh, that’s a good one. Do you mind if I write that down?” She already has her black notebook out. She doesn’t exactly wait for me to respond, either—her hand already blazing the throwaway line across her own page. “Perfect! Thank you, Chip!”

At this point she disappears to help other customers. I’m a mere afterthought, lost in the to and fro of banal chatter. 

“Who’s to say that this kid could compete with Jackie ‘Boom Boom’ Bonham, huh? Just some kid off the street?”

Jack, George, and the older gentleman carry on a conversation that I have no part in, but apparently I’ve been invited. They’re motioning over to me as though I’m just another abject episode for them to discuss.

George: “Ah, he can’t compete with you, Jackie. But then, we don’t really want to see you and Clara get together. Maybe she and him could date, just because we love to see you hooking up with every other woman that walks in this bar.” 

The older man: “Yeah, I don’t really think some kid could come in off the street and sweep her off her feat, Jackie.”

“Aw thanks, Ump. I don’t know why she drives me so crazy.”

I can guess—because the Creator wanted her to. Same way he wants her to drive me crazy; because she drives him crazy. These sort of stories always have to have some dramatic tension—some romance that goes somehow unresolved. It’s the way of the Creator and all his people... out there, beyond the bubble.

As I’m hearing the conversation and the thoughts occur to me, I read another passage from the notebook:

“I am the avatar of the Creator; I’ve been sent into this world so that I might interact with these characters, a cosmonaut in their four-cornered universe. I am not cognizant -- merely the Author’s Chip-suit. There is no Chip... just the life support system protecting the Creator from the fictional inhabitants; a glove worn by the great and all-knowing hand. Every now and then I can turn and glimpse out at the fourth wall of the bar and hear the laughing. I hear you laughing at me.”

Did I write this?

“Hey Clara, do you find this kid attractive?” Jack asks as he cleans a mug with a white towel. He’s gesturing towards me.

“Well, Jack...”

“Naw, seriously Clara, I want to know. Is there something attractive about this stranger that walked in off the street?”

Georgie and his pack of friends on the other side of the bar are clearly watching this conversation with great intensity. Clara gathers up her courage and stands beside me -- and her response is clearly to humor me. “Yes, Jack, I find him quite attractive. He’s quiet, intelligent, a student of literature...”

“Yeah, and you’ve already wrote him down in your little book, eh?” Jack says, his eyes dim, cloudy with anger. 

I try not to pay attention; I try not to show my urgent desire to dip her backwards and kiss her passionately, just as the legendary sailor swept the nurse off her feet. Aside from my terrible, overwhelming desire, there exists an even greater urgency -- to know if I had been writing in this notebook. 

“Jack, I...” are the two words that force their way out of my throat.

“You know something, Clara?” Then he just shakes his hands in the air as though he’s strangling someone, after which he points directly between her eyes. Finally, he throws his hands up in the air without finishing any coherent thought. 

On the other side of the bubble, I can hear the laughter, just as the words scribbled in the notebook predict. 

“Jack,” I choke out again. 

He’s tall and manic, holding a finger up to me while looking away. Finally, he asks, “What is it, kid?”

“Have you seen me writing in this notebook?”

“Why, you been putting down quotes you’ve been hearing, the same way Clara has? Maybe you two are perfect for each other, and you both drive me nuts.”

“No, Jackie, I’m serious...” trying to be comforting, familiar. Colloquial.

“You two deserve each other... go drive each other nuts.”

Finally, I slam my fist down on the bar, “Jack, I need to know. Have you seen me writing in this notebook?”

He throws his hands up in the air in a defensive posture. “N-n-n-nah, kid. I ain’t seen you writing anything.” The intensity in his eyes drains away. He needs to be an everyman, a good guy; he needs to have everyone’s sympathy. The guest star with the non-threatening name should only appear quirky and a little off, but he shouldn’t be insane. This is the way the Creator needs to back himself down -- back me down.

Jackie “Boom Boom” Bonham, tall and a bit lanky, dark around the eyes as though he never sleeps; a working man with his greatness behind him. Those dark eyes follow the beautiful and spritely Clara from table to table, all around the bar. She’s magnetic that way -- my eyes follow her too. 

The older bartender, the Ump, as he’s called, sticks a finger in front of my face, but his voice has the gentleness of a grandfather: “You, I feel like I know you from somewhere. I’m just not sure, my memory’s a bit fuzzy sometimes.”

“Mine is too, Ump,” I say. “Maybe I just have one of those faces. This is the first time I remember being in here.”

“Maybe it’s from the old days, out at Wrigley. I used to umpire games back when old Jackie was playing. The old boy hit me in the mask one too many times with his fastball!”

Uproarious laughter from the back room, the World War II vets. The Ump laughs with them as he walks away, ready to serve another patron or wash another glass in the small sink behind the bar. I open up the notebook to another page just to see what I can find. It’s here to speak for me, to be the bond between myself and the great beyond -- but beyond the mere scribbles and ramblings appears only blank pages. Programs yet to be writ or wasted on the audiences that may or may never see.

Maybe he doesn’t quite want to tell me yet.

“So where are you from, cowboy? What brought you here?” Jackie Bonham tries to make polite conversation with me, maybe to stop his overwrought brain from focusing too hard on Clara.

There’s no response to be given, but the voice in my throat that speaks for me says, “I’m a student. I attend Seaver University, over on the west side of town. I only go there because it’s close to where I grew up.”

“Oh yeah? Clara’s a grad student out there, too. Aren’t you, Clara? Maybe you two could be study buddies,” he says with noticeable disdain.

“Hey Jackie! ‘nother round for the Forty Second!” someone shouts from the back room.

“I can handle this one, Jackie,” Lucy, the sparky, angry little waitress barks. The Ump immediately jumps at filling several beer mugs.

“So what is it you study?” Jack asks me, eyeing the notebook.

I recall what I told Clara and thought about consistency. “Literature, Jack.”

“Oh yeah. Like Tolstoy, huh? War and Peace?”

“Um. Tolstoy’s a bit stuffy for me.” My hand is on the notebook because his gaze is practically locked on it. 

“So whattaya like? Who’s your favorite author?”

Nothing comes to mind and the voice refuses to speak. Luckily, Lucy and the Ump decided it was time to ask for some help with the World War II vets.

Clara served me another beer without asking if I wanted one. “I find him a bit stuffy too. Long-winded. I’ve never seen you around the campus before.”

“Um. Still an undergrad. What’re you studying in grad school?” I ask.

The light doesn’t shine down here. This is the underworld of faded photons and the faux Wabash Ave. Divided from the rest of the universe, these beings only exist in this place, nestled somewhere below an elevated train platform and the cavernous valleys of the skyscrapers. It’s difficult for light to reach us here, but staring at her face, I know that this is not a universe of unending blackness; that these hard light constructs built from cathode rays in a wholly fictional world have just as much soul as anything else. All the light needed in this world comes from her. She says to me, “It’s funny you should say you study literature. I’m studying English Language Arts. It’s a track to becoming an educator... maybe even a professor.” 

Jackie regards me as he carries a few full beer mugs out of the bar and towards the back room. It’s clear that I’m not the only one blinded by her light. “Would you l-like to study with me, sometime?”

“I’d be very pleased to do so. Perhaps we can meet at the library?”

Because in this wholly fictional world, this interaction comes that easy. My hand on the notebook—the finger in the dam of my insanity. She doesn’t have to be real, does she? But I’m just a guest star here, just passing through the far more interesting super-position of this bar and the archetypal characters that headline the show.