The BAR

The pavement is slick with water and between the high-rise buildings, the wind howls. Joe tugs his coat closer and leans forward as he continues up the street. He doesn’t recognize this neighborhood yet something about it feels familiar. There’s a steady buzzing in the dark corner of his head and it makes the skin at the back of his neck prickle. “What in the world is going on?” He turns his cheek against the sharp lashing of raindrops and squints at the streetlights bouncing off the puddles of water, giving the passing cars a distorted shape. There’s a pink neon sign two blocks ahead and he sighs with relief as he spots the familiar letters BAR. He just needs something to calm his nerves and then all will be alright. 

The windows are leveled with the street and gives off a warm glow. Joe practically jumps the stairs leading down to the entrance and as he pulls back the door, a bell rings. He shuts the door behind him and wipes the rain off his face. The room is sparsely crowded with two people hunched together over a table in the back and a third standing in front of what looks to be a jukebox. There’s a fourth man behind the bar – back facing the entrance. He’s smartly dressed in a white shirt and a black apron, polishing glasses with rhythmic movements, which instantly puts Joe at peace. He walks across the floor and slumps onto one of the barstools placing both his hands in front of him, leaving foggy imprints on the cherry wood counter. There’s a green tint to the bartender’s neck and Joe recognizes it as the mark of a man spending too many hours underground and boy does he know what that feels like.

“A whiskey double, please, when you have the chance. Hold the ice.” 

“Apologies, my good sir, but we do not serve alcohol here,” the bartender says over his shoulder before turning to face him. “Haven’t in the last six hundred years or so.” 

Joe bolts from his chair, kicking it to the ground as he staggers back, hand clutching at his chest. 

“Oh, I see.” The bartender carefully puts down the glass he’d been polishing and throws the towel over his shoulder. He smiles, showing off multiple rows of sharp teeth while keeping all three of his eyes locked on Joe. “This happens all the time. Did you come through the wormhole on the 5th or 12th avenue?” 

The man is definitely green and “Is that gills on his neck?” Joe tilts his head, ear almost touching his shoulder. 

“Did I what…?” 

The bartender sighs. “Did you happen to just visit a restroom at a Walgreens?”

Joe nods as pieces of a memory comes through.

“Mhmh, and did you go for the stall at the very back?” 

“Yes,” Joe says, doing his best to keep his voice from breaking. 

“And did you – by any chance – hold some kind of small circular object in your left hand as you locked the door?” 

Joe’s face has drained of all color and the buzzing in his head expands to his throat, down his chest. 

“A coin..?” He says – more to himself than to the bartender – before it all goes dark. 

“Right! That’s what they’re called, a coin!” The bartender says as he peeks over the counter. 

The world is tilted. It has fallen over. At least that’s Joe’s first thought when he wakes up. He blinks and rolls over on his back, groaning as the hardwood floor digs into his hipbones. He’s got a napkin stuck to his cheek and as he pulls it off he and squints at the printed letters in the right corner, he reads: Bizarre Alien Rendezvous. With furrowed brows he pockets the napkin and.. There’s someone hovering over him. A muscular and most definitely purple man with two antennas dangling off his forehead, giving off a soft glow. Joe is not proud of the shriek that comes next but at least he doesn’t pass out. The purple figure offers him a seven-fingered hand and, after some hesitation, Joe takes it. 

“Ah, the human is awake!” The bartender squeals. “I’m very pleased,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him. “I put this on the menu specifically for occasions like this. Please, have a seat again, good sir,” he says, gesturing to the barstool still lying on the floor. 

Joe picks up the chair and sits down, carefully glancing around the bar. He gives a tentative nod to the purple guy who mirrors the gesture before wandering back to the jukebox.

“What is this place?” Joe thinks when he wiggles out of his coat and places it on the chair next to him just before the sound of Cyndi Lauper annihilates the silence as it blasts through the jukebox. 

“OH FOR FUCKS SAKE,” he shouts, jumping out of his chair, almost knocking it over again. 

“Sorry, sorry!” The purple guy yells from his corner before locating the volume button. 

“Is he.. dancing?” Joe stares as the man turns around and taps his hips to the beat of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”. The bartender – now hunched behind the counter – is pulling out an assortment of trinkets, making an awful lot of noise. Joe leans his head in his hands, hair still damp from the rain. 

“Why a Walgreens..?” He finally says. The rattling stops and the bartender peaks up from behind the counter.

“Sorry?” 

“Why a Walgreens?” Joe says again, with a little more force this time. 

“Well, it’s an intergalactic franchise, of course. They’ve had a monopoly on public wormholes for decades.” He huddles behind the counter again. “Ah, here!” he says as he swings a large plastic jug onto the bar. He looks expectantly at Joe and then – since the human is yet to jump up and down in excitement – he adds “It’s milk!” The bartender unscrews the jug and starts pouring the liquid into the high-ball glass still on the counter. “I’ve read that humans are very fond of their milk.” The liquid is thick and comes out in big lumps. “Although I must say I find it somewhat disturbing.” The bartender masks his frown with a big smile as he places a red straw in the glass before sliding it towards his guest. 

Joe just stares at it – mind blissfully empty – but doesn’t touch the glass. 

“Is something the matter?” 

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. Again, he tilts his head, ear almost touching his shoulder and after a few heartbeats of silence:

“It needs to be refrigerated..” 

“Fascinating!” The bartender exclaims. “You learn something new every day.” The doorbell rings and they both turn to look at the two dark figures towering in the doorway, water puddling at their feet. The jukebox screeches and Cyndi Lauper comes to an abrupt stop.

“Ah, there’s the Celestial Immigration Agency, off you go,” the bartender says as he reaches for the glass. “I hope you are not afraid of spiders!”