A note from Jessica in 2020:
This is a story that has been ruminating in my head for awhile, but I couldn’t figure out what I did with it, because it had been so long. I finally found it in my drafts pile, after I thought I had moved it over to the Vox.com blogging service in 2010, which unfortunately got deleted when the website went under. So, I’m throwing it up here, because I love this little story. It has a lot of intrigue standing alone by itself, and I want you to enjoy it. I’m leaving it in its original form, with all the promises from 2008 to complete it within a year (oh young writer, you are never going to finish it that quickly!). I hope you enjoy it. 🙂
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“Jeremiah”
Prove it or die.
Summary: “It’s true, I promise!”, and they say, “Prove it.” Have you ever tried to prove something without evidence? Meet someone who must, before it’s too late.
<Meet the beginning of a new story. I hope to finish it this summer. Enjoy!>
November 28, 2006
13 Downing St.
Westminster, London
About Two Years Ago
At 9:52 in the Churchill Arms, I was in the middle of bartending, pouring a porter for a customer, when the door clanged open again.
“Damn that bell…”
I looked up to glare at it, only to discover myself looking at the odd-postured man entering our pub. He, however, paid no attention to the bell.
Scrunching my brow, I mix a shot for myself and take a sip, still watching him awkwardly try to slither his way through the tightly packed, smoky pub crowd. It was a busy night for us, but I was in between customers, so what the hell, I could have a drink; well, so long as I paid for it anyway, and that’s no trouble.
I twirl the glass around in my hands for a moment, still gazing, remembering when Amy had first put the bell, like a high pitched woman, atop our once perfectly reserved door. I, personally, felt sorry for it, the poor, raped bachelor, but of course, now being married, it had ceased to protest, and bell was still there, unopposed.
“Yeah, I’ll get a Pimm’s please!” a skinny, porcelain doll “yelled”, and, probably in an attempt to look like she knew what she was doing, leaned against the counter.
I automatically snapped out of it, matched her plastic smile, and started getting the ice for her drink, but my eyes, almost as mechanically, still train ahead of me at the cock-postured, almost young, man. I guess, even after working here for 3 months, I still get moments where I’m just looking at full but empty space. I keep pouring, just thinking about him, skulking over there, looking for a table. Interesting character, that one… perhaps a bit too self-concious… “That will be 2.50 please”…. but, come to think of it, he does look a bit like… “Thank you, miss”…wait a second… oh my god, it’s not…
I forgot to say “have a nice day” and almost dropped her change. Never mind, it couldn’t be him. He’d been successfully avoiding us for three years; impossible. But, cursing under my breath, my curious eye returns his way. He had taken a table in the left-hand corner and started examining the menu, oblivious to my thoughts. Smooth face, blonde hair, looks American… “Oh c’mon, you’re nuts!” The comment spews out like I had just slipped on Gary Crouch’s (our busboy), wet floor, but still, for a moment, I continue study him, puzzled.
“Can I get uh shot o’ voDka?” a cross-eyed Scot questioned, seizing the nearest untaken stool.
Still gawking out of the corner of my eye, I grab a shot glass. Honestly, for the life of me, I swear can’t be the Fish; the guys had nicknamed him that because catching him was, well, slippery. We would come close, think we had him, and then he’d disappear. The Fish simply wouldn’t make a stupid mistake like walking into a frequented bar. But then I remembered he didn’t know I was the bartender. I must have looked too long, because he shiftily looked my way, and, fear suddenly grabbing my insides, I went on to my next customer, the twitchy gentleman I had served only nine minutes before.
“Hello sir, what can I get you?” almost fully knowing the answer, half expecting something else.
“’Ow abouut ‘at prettty faccce ‘a yourss?”
I glanced at the middle aged man now staring at me behind at bar top of clouded eyes, “Like I’ve been trying to tell you sir, this is a pub, not a gentleman’s club; you’ll have to order something else,” and washing the closest glass, “Now sir, what can I get you? I recommend a Mann’s Brown Ale.”
“Nah, I’s stiiill waaanting the prettty faccce.”
“One Mann’s Brown Ale, coming right up, sir. That will be £4. 57 please,” as the cash register whirred. I gave him my best “pay up” look. Enough was enough for one night.
Drunk as he was, he looked a little disappointed; nevertheless, he dug for his wallet, shakily counted the amount, and pushed it across the counter, “ ‘ere yaa gooo, sweeettie, but I’llll be baaack for anootherrr ‘unnn.”
I smiled and swiped the change. As far as I was concerned, he could keep trying; like the countless other drunkards who tried to hook up with me, it wasn’t going to work. After all, I like my job, and Amy had said before, “It’s my pub, my house, it’s up to you to keep it clean, so don’t spill the trash”, and I didn’t intend to.
I poured him his sixth drink and slid it over to the counter where he was sitting, which was probably his last. With those eyes, and that floppy stance, he looked like he might be on his way out soon.
I scanned the packed room, looking for any more takers for my face, but only found Jon dancing a jig around a crowd of “mature” adolescents, platter in hand, on his way to table 16 out of 20 to deliver their meal. I returned to my porter and took a sip, my eyes wandering over to the left corner again, and I checked my Rolex. If it was The Fish, there was something I would need to do, which was almost equivalent to leaving early: risky. I was about half-way through my shift, and I had been relaxed, until… well, the door opened almost every four minutes, sometimes eight; it made my porter turn over in my stomach just thinking about it. I swear, I can’t stand that….
Clang-g-g-g.
…
*End of 1st Prolouge*
More on its way!
Currently, this story is taking longer than estimated to actually compose. I’m sorry about the delay, but I can’t write wonderful things until the backbone of the story comes together, and, surprisingly (as stories are) this one has a complex subplot. So, I will work on plot number two, and, with patience, you might even be rewarded with a second prolouge (or an addition to the first). Also, I believe that once I get this plot nailed, I’ll be writing so much that I’ll be flying, so you have that to look forward to. For now, I thank Rennie (you know who you are) for the wonderful novel sharing session we held last night; it really helped me get my thoughts together on one path. And you should thank her too, since you will soon be reading those thoughts. But, moral of the story: even elongated projects have good endings, and Chapter 1 is coming soon. For now, enjoy the short blurb of promise. 🙂
love you all and thanks for reading,
Jess
The Rose 