[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People - Detour

[Jennie Teakle]

Saturday late
The Blue

Christine
Orphan


The bar is just called The Blue. Judging by the worn and peeling  
fascia board above the grimy front windows, it may once, in more  
affluent times, have been The Blue Something - Dolphin, Mango,  
Yonder . . . hard to tell. But probably something breezy - someone's  
bold, high-hopes stake into the American Dream.  A cocktail bar on  
the edge of Uptown - a sure thing, right? Then in the late 80's, the  
overpass gets built, arching up and over the old main drag, turning  
the street and the lively little mall that used to be on the way  
Uptown into a backwater.  Most of the businesses on the strip fail  
and disappear - all but a poky convenience store, a dry cleaners and  
a small bar. The Blue Something. Nobody can remember. It doesn't  
matter. It's just a run down, forgotten little joint on the edge of  
Downtown.

Inside, it's dingy, the atmosphere hangs like a shroud over the  
stained counter and frowsy vinyl booths. Apathetic maintenance of  
what must once have been a gaudy interior, 80's neon chic, makes for  
uneven patches of shadow and the few patrons here tonight keep to  
them. The bar is tended by Mr Blue himself. Must be. He has the blank  
gaze of someone who's spent too long staring down failure. There are  
no dreams in his face; it's folded into lines of indifference.  He  
serves Christine on autopilot and that suits her just fine.

Christine sits at the bar, drinks focused and silent, like it's going  
out of style. On the bar in front of her, a phone and a wallet. The  
cell is hers but the wallet isn't. A chance find and trigger for a  
blinding headache, one that she is doctoring with alcohol. Christine  
considers which she'd actually prefer. An episode of the Sight or a  
good, solid kick in the head? Tough choice.  Through the fuzz of her  
headache and a whole lot of medicinal vodka, Christine tries to  
recall exactly what she'd Seen when she picked up the wallet in the  
cab. White and red. Roses? Valentines, now? Cute. She supposed to be  
a Seer or some kind of psychic frickin dating agency?

Christine drowns her misgivings. She'd bailed on Jack because it had  
seemed so important at the time to find the woman who owned the  
wallet but that's not what has dumped her here, suicide drinking. She  
finds she currently isn't able to give much of a damn about  
Alison . . . Christine focuses unsteadily on the drivers licence in  
the wallet again . . . Dr Alison Beauchamp. Whoever the hell she is.  
Sorry, Doc, thinks Christine closing the wallet with her fingertips,  
slipping it clumsily into her pocket. Vision-o-Gram Gal has a  
personal crisis on her hands. Your roses can wait.

Christine finishes her drink but not even the raw, scouring of cheap  
vodka stops the blue-lit image that flickers inside her head. Her  
crazy chase after an unknown woman had crashed hard into a real life,  
street side drama along the way.  A black and white, an ambulance, a  
stretcher with a blood stained sheet thrown over, a window blown all  
over the sidewalk. A diner in Neon City - The City's Edge Cafe.  
Christine, slowing to an aghast halt, was pretty sure she got the  
whole story in the blink of an eye. But she'd still joined the crowd  
of murmuring bystanders to check. Make sure. She owed him that.

He was a waiter. His name was Murray and he was maybe as old as 20.  
Killed in a stupid, accidental scuffle when a crazy old lady had  
hysterics at the shot-gun toting teenagers who'd held up the diner.  
He'd served Christine coffee . . . yesterday? The day before? He'd  
let her bum a cigarette. In return, she'd told him his future.  
Couldn't help herself. But y'know. He is still dead.



TBC


The Blue is dedicated to Tom 'Cocktail' Cruise :-P














































		
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