Scene 1: The Bar

First scene of a story I started to write this evening. Yep.

Scene 1: The Bar

The rain was coming down in an unending torrential waterfall, and had been for the last several hours.  To say that it was raining cats and dogs would be an understatement.  It was raining f****n’ jaguars and wolves.  Lake Michigan must have risen an inch by noon.  The wipers were on top speed and I could still barely see the street as I circled the block.  Damn, no parking.  I glanced at the faded brown briefcase laying on the passenger seat beside me, already wishing this was all over.  Its contents were a mystery to me, but I knew somehow that this ominous case contained my future.  

My thoughts were stuck on some sort of twisted frantic loop track as I scanned the grey for a place to store my wheels.  Who would want to meet on State Street, in the heart of downtown, for a clandestine meeting like this?  And why was I forced to deal with a stranger?  Who were my employers?  What madness was this?  

I would soon find out.

Forced to park two blocks away, I braved the wet and the wind with an umbrella in my left hand and the briefcase in a death grip under my right arm, and I marched on down the sidewalk.  By the time I got to the front door the cheap umbrella I had purchased at an airport eight month’s prior was a flimsy plastic rag hanging off of an already bent skeletal frame.  I tossed it in a wet trash can outside the window and entered the building a soaking mess of a man.

Lyle’s Bar was exceptionally seedy for a neighbourhood that commanded the highest real estate prices in the state.  Scanning the dim, near empty interior, I knew immediately why I had been summoned to this particular location.  Except for the parking, it was perfect.  Two people shot pool in a far corner as the heavyset bartender gave me a wary sidelong glance.  Was this Lyle?  I was wondering what terrible sin he must have committed in the womb to deserve such a horrible name when I caught sight of a lone figure sitting at a booth.  It had to be Him.  He was dressed all in black - almost a caricature of a movie villain - and I would have laughed had I not been terrified.  

As I cautiously approached the booth, briefcase still clutched under my arm, the stranger spoke.  At least I assume he did.  He never looked up, but from under the wide brim of a very dry hat came the raspy word I was waiting for.

“Sit.”

I sat.  Slowly the hat tilted back to reveal the hardened face of either a weathered forty year old or a triathlete pushing eighty.  Male.  Caucasian.  Unshaven.  Scary as f**k.  And very dry, shoulders and all.  How long had he been here?  There was no drink in front of him, nor evidence of a past beverage.  The man was now either staring right at me or right through me.  I couldn’t tell which.  His light brown eyes were glossy somehow, like a layer of illicit ozone had enveloped both sockets.  His pupils were off as well, and I wondered if he was high on something, or just utterly insane.

“You have it all?”

“Well, I think so.  They didn’t tell-”

“Good,” he injected flatly, magically producing and lighting a cigarette in one fluid motion.

“You’re allowed to smoke in here?” I instinctively asked though already knowing the answer.

“Well, you’re probably not.”

My level of discomfort was reaching crescendo just as a shadow appeared over the table.  It was the bartender - good ol’ Lyle, if that was his real name - and his nervous appearance didn’t put me at ease.  Not one bit.  

“You’d like your coffee now, Sir?  I’ve just made a fresh pot,” he stated timidly, and from my peripheral vision I could tell he was looking pleadingly at me as if to gauge the potential violence of the situation. 

Black Brim nodded silently without breaking eye contact with me.

“Umm, how do you take your coffee, Sir?” 

“Very seriously, so don’t f**k it up.”

“I meant, would you like cream or sugar?”

“Did I ask for candy?  Black.  I want to taste it.”

“Very good, Sir.  And for you?” he  directed towards me.

“I’m fine, thanks.  I’m almost on my way,” I said hopefully, wishing upon any star up above those rumbling clouds to hear my pleas and whisk me away.

“He’ll take a coffee too,” Black Brim stated.  “Black.  He’s going to be here for a while.”  

Author's Note

I am flawless.