1. She's Plastic, She's Speed-Read
A/N: Sorry for releasing this first part so late! My husband's grandfather died, and I was at the funeral. Also, I apologize if any of this doesn't make sense. I'm super sick, but I didn't want you all to think I was neglecting you!
The story and chapter titles are lyrics from "The Game" by Mnemoli's favorite band, Poets of the Fall. She based her version of these characters heavily off of this song.
APRIL 18, 2076: Revere, MA
Myra Taylor wasn't having the best night, and the pathetic wad of cash in her tip jar certainly wasn't doing much to improve her mood. So far, it wasn't even enough to refill her gas tank. At this rate, she'd have to start walking to work, and the idea of hiking from Nahant to Revere just to sling drinks for rowdy tourists and unkempt locals was as unpleasant as it was impractical. Myra wasn't sure how she was going to make this month's tuition payment, if her customers kept holding out on her like this. Maybe she should try to pick up a third job. The Slocum's Joe up in Lynn was always looking for help, and reeking of old fry oil was still better than stinking of fish from one of the seafood factories that dotted the coast. Besides, a discount on doughnuts sounded pretty good when she could barely afford instant noodles.
Myra had always hoped that the life of a starving artist would involve more art and less starvation, but with the economy crumbling, she was glad that she'd finally put her painting on hold. Instead, she was two years into a degree in Copyright Law, and while it wasn't the most exciting of career paths, it would allow her some networking opportunities. And honestly, at twenty-three years old, what she really craved was stability. Dreams of becoming a famous painter were far less important than a full belly and a roof over her head that wasn't her father's.
"Hey, Myra!" shouted a nasal voice. "Where's my drinks for table four?" One of the waitresses, a petite crow-haired hag named Angela, stood by the bar, her hand on her hip. Myra hated that smug bitch. She was pretty sure the snotty server wasn't paying her out at the end of the night. Honestly, as far as Myra was concerned, Angela could go fuck herself. But unfortunately, she was the owner's niece, so there wasn't much the bartender could do but smile politely and nod.
"Coming, Ange!" She sighed as she filled the bar tray with six highball glasses, carefully layering liquor and mixers to create the "Rose of Revere," one of The Waterfront Tavern 's signature cocktails. She hated gimmicky drinks. If you wanted to impress someone, it was better to go with quantity, not flash. Only underage drinkers and complete assholes ordered fancy drinks, as far as she was concerned. For the whole table to order the same thing? Myra had a sneaking suspicion that Angela had recommended the drink. Seriously, Angela could go fuck herself twice. With a hot poker.
Myra cursed under her breath as a bottle of blackberry simple syrup slipped from her fingers, exploding across the floor and splattering her nice, neat tights with purple, sticky mess. Damn it, that would have been a bitch to clean up on a slow night. And tonight was anything but.
"Bastards could have just ordered bourbon, but no, they had to order the most complicated thing we sell," she muttered, gesturing to her barback. "Harry, I'm going to need more blackberry syrup. And a few wet rags."
"Chef's gonna be pretty cheesed, Myra," the young man warned. "That's the third thing you've broken this week. You know that comes out of your cut of the pay, not before you give me my cut, right?"
Myra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, just get me the fucking syrup. I won't pull a fast one on you."
"Quite a mouth on you, isn't there?" an amused voice said from the bar behind her. She turned to see a young man, lean and muscular in his well-pressed uniform. Army. Great. Just what she needed tonight. The man was pale of complexion, though his young-looking face was tanned and weathered by years of battle. His hair, even with its short shave, was a striking ginger. But what really drew Myra's attention were his eyes. They were intelligent and warm, a surprising steely blue that met her gaze confidently and held it in thrall for a long moment. The soldier flashed her a bemused smile that would have been charming had Myra not found herself covered in syrup and glass.
"Forget her mouth, pal," leered one of Myra's regulars, a toothless bum named Monty. "I'd like to get some hands on the rest of her."
Myra glared at the men before continuing to mop up the sticky mess. "I've told you a thousand times, Monty. Any part of you touches me, and I'll cut it off with a corkscrew," she hissed. "Understand?"
"Hey, doll, relax," the old drunkard replied, waddling off with his beer. "I'm just being friendly."
The soldier grinned at Myra. "When you've got the time, I'll take a whiskey. A shot of water on the side."
Myra nodded, pouring a couple fingers worth of mid-shelf rye into a glass before doling out a quantity of water alongside it. "There you are, soldier," she said in her practiced customer service voice. "Cheers."
As the soldier turned his attention to his drink, Myra got back to work cleaning up the syrup. She was almost done by the time Harry returned with the syrup, and she quickly added it to the cocktails. "Harry, you mind running these out to table four for me?" she asked. "Ange is about to kill someone over these, and I'd rather it not be me."
"Gee, thanks," the barback groaned, carrying the heavy tray away.
Myra sighed. At least that was dealt with. Now, she could turn her attention back to her customers at the bar. Things had gotten a little backed up, and the impatience around her busy station was palpable. Still, Myra was damn good at her job, and even better at calming irate customers down. In a matter of ten minutes, she was caught up.
The soldier flagged her down, and she poured him another drink. "Any particular reason you're drinking alone tonight, pal?" she asked. It wasn't that she particularly cared. But she'd learned in her years of bar service that people tended to tip more when they felt a personal connection. Myra wasn't the type to flirt her way into a few extra dollars, but she was damn good at acting like she cared. In her experience, everyone who drank alone had a story, and most were willing to share it in the tavern confessional once they were a few drinks deep. And with the emotional catharsis of their worries being mumbled into the aether, most folks were more than willing to part with a few extra bucks.
"Was supposed to meet a buddy of mine here," the soldier said, his steely eyes distant as he sipped on his rye. "I guess he's not going to show. Not that it's that shocking, since he's dead and all, but..." The man sighed heavily. "I guess part of me thought if I could just get here, somehow..." he laughed, downing his glass in a single gulp. "It's stupid."
Myra smiled, offering him another round, which he accepted gladly. "That's not stupid. I know exactly what you mean. My mom died when I was still pretty little. Old enough to miss her, though. I used to go to the library where she worked every day after school, just hoping that I could see her. So I get it."
The soldier nodded. "Sounds like you do."
"Is there anything else I can get you?" Myra asked awkwardly. She hadn't been anticipating sharing her own story with a man she just met, and the fact that one of her greatest hurts fell so easily from her tongue bothered her immensely. There was something about his soulful eyes that just made her want to offer up all her secrets like she was some pathetic worshiper begging for rain. It was unnerving.
"I'd take your phone number," the man replied with a smug grin. "Maybe next time I won't have to drink alone."
Myra snorted. "That's so not going to happen," she retorted, moving on down the bar.
"I'll bet you a hundred bucks I can change your mind by the end of your shift," the soldier said, holding up a crisp bill.
The bartender laughed. "Twenty years ago, I might have said yes," she quipped. "Of course, I was three then, so I probably wouldn't be good company. But a hundred dollars won't buy much these days, bud."
"So what do you have to lose?" he replied.
Myra sighed, pulling a matching bill from her apron. "You're on," she mused. "But only because there's no way you're going to win."
The evening continued in much the same way, as the swells and tides of thirsty patrons came and went, leaving dirty glasses and a few crumpled bills in their wake. Still, the soldier remained, drinking his heart out and becoming increasingly rowdy. His brooding had turned to heavy flirting, and that had become playful harassment. By the third time he tried to throw a beer cap down the front of her uniform, Myra had had quite enough of his tipsy antics.
"That's enough!" she said, catching the beer cap in her hand and tossing it into the soldier's drink. "Either you knock it off, or I'm kicking you out."
The ginger grinned at her. "Sure I will, ma'am. Just as soon as you agree to go on a date with me." He leaned back in his bar-stool, popping his boots up on the bar with a contented sigh.
"Hey, asshole!" Myra fumed, her eyes blazing with anger, "Just 'cause you've got a fancy uniform doesn't mean you own the place. Get your goddamn feet off my bar before I call the cops."
"How about you make me?" he shot back, his eyes clouded with drink. "Better yet, pour me another. This one's got a cap in it."
"I think you've had quite enough," Myra retorted, pulling his empty glass away.
As she turned to put the glass away, she tripped on the bar-mat, her head colliding with one of the tap-handles behind her. Her arms flew out reflexively to save her, and her left arm went straight through a stack of wine glasses, shattering several of them. "Fuck!" she screamed as she struggled to stand, clutching her bleeding forearm.
Harry ran to her side, his eyes wide. "Are you okay, Myra?" he asked as she grabbed a clean bar rag, wrapping it around her wound.
"Does it look like I'm fucking okay, Harry?" she hissed as she bled through the rag in a matter of seconds. "I think I need stitches."
The bar-back nodded. "I'll take you to the hospital. Let me just go tell Chef."
Myra shook her head. "He'll dock your pay, Harry. I'll call my dad."
"I could take you," the soldier replied. During the commotion he'd stood up and was now leaning over the bar, his steely eyes wide with concern.
"You've done enough," Myra muttered. She pulled the wall phone from its hook, carefully dialing.
"Thank you for calling the Nahant Sheriff's office," a chipper voice responded. "This is Maggie. What can we help you with today?"
"Hey, Maggie," Myra said. "It's My. Is the Sheriff still in?"
"He's still here, honey," the older woman said, "but he's in a meeting with the Mayor right now."
"Well, it can't really wait," Myra said impatiently. "I cut myself on some glass and I need a ride to the hospital."
Maggie gasped. "Why didn't you call 911, silly?"
"It's not that bad. I'm just...a little woozy."
Maggie clicked her tongue against the top of her teeth. "Okay. Stay calm. You're at the bar?"
"Ye-yeah."
"I'll have Deputy Andrews come get you right away. Don't worry, My. I'll make sure your daddy knows what happened."
"Thanks, Maggie," Myra slurred as her eyes. "You're a real...phearggh." Her tongue didn't seem like it was capable of making the sounds she wanted it to any more, but Myra found herself not caring too much. The last things she remembered before losing consciousness was Harry calling her name and the face of that troublesome soldier, his damned steely eyes wide with concern.
