The Blue Penny

The ellipsis in the gray bubble loves to haunt me. 

I am so impatient. Antsy. I can hardly wait to find out more, more, more. It’s what makes me a great journalist—or so people have told me. But I can’t handle the mocking pulsation of the gray bubble that appears in an iMessage chat. 

It flashes to remind you that information is coming, but you don’t have it yet. I honestly can’t stand it. 

And today, it’s infuriating as ever. Except today, I’m waiting on very important information. Very. And all I have to show for it is a pulsing gray bubble.

Shuffling back and forth in my kitchen, I stare at my phone. It’s innocent; a mere pawn in this reporting game. I lean my hands against the counter and exhale, my bangs flouncing. Then the gray bubble disappears. 

“NO,” I breathe. I grab my phone—as if I was grabbing it by the collar and threatening to steal its lunch money—and nearly throw it across the kitchen. 

“Louella?” I hear, breaking my concentration and releasing me from my violent impulse.

My roommate and best friend—Coral—comes strutting into the room. Tonight, her garb is mermaid-themed: bright pink wig, teal evening gown complete with a less-than-decent slit up the thigh, shimmery-champagne stilettos, and glitter. LOTS of glitter. She’s even threaded fishnet through her fingers and up her forearms; tiny sparkling seashells embed the various criss-crossings of twine.

She leans against the kitchen doorframe and crosses her arms. “Lou, what are you doing?” she asks, arching a sparkly eyebrow.

I would use my journalism skills to create a quick cover, but I can’t on Cor. She sees right through me. 

“Gray bubble,” I indicate, rolling my eyes. She knows what I mean, and knows it’s one of my pet peeves. 

“Ah,” Coral answers, her glittery eyebrows arching. She waltzes past me, smelling of salt water hair spray, and opens the fridge. Removing a bottle of Chardonnay, she pours herself a generous glass and sits on our window seat. “What’s the scoop tonight?”

I sigh and sit down at our breakfast table, tracing the knots in the wood with my pinkie. “I texted Ralph from the police department about a potential suspect in that grand larceny case—you know, the one that happened on Black Friday at the mall? Well, I’ve heard some things, and I want to confirm them. The case is wide open and it’s driving me nuts. They need to solve it already.” 

Coral waggles her eyebrows over her wineglass, unimpressed, and takes a gulp. “Oo, sounds interesting,” she quips, setting her glass on the windowsill.

Coral’s life consists of three things: dressing up, singing, and drinking wine. She rarely ventures outside of those activities. I’m addicted to researching, interviewing, and sleeping when I can. 

Coral and I met in college. She was a barista working at the campus cafe, and I was a try-hard column writer for our university paper. I’d write until my hand cramped, and she’d bring me my usual black coffee at various intervals. Over time, we became friends, and she helped me write much of my column our freshman year: “A Girl’s Guide to Coffee and Careers.” The column was dedicated to women on campus, and provided resources for interesting hobbies and career tips offered through the university. I was too invested in my schoolwork to care about having hobbies—or much less enjoying life—so that’s where Coral came in. She breezed into my life with her multi-colored wigs and operatic singing voice and never left. 

I roll my eyes and grab my iPhone by its throat once more, scanning my notifications. “Yeah, it would be interesting, if Ralph could just get back to me.” 

Coral sighs and stands up, her glass now empty, and glides over to the front door. “Well, as ravishing as that all sounds, I’m off. I have a gig at The Blue Penny tonight, and I’m nearly late. I hope you get the answer you’re looking for.” She blows me an air kiss and I wink back, our usual goodbye, as she gracefully closes the door behind her. Ah, what a rare bird she is. 

I turn my attention back to my phone, willing Ralph’s name to appear. If I could just find out if they have any suspects yet. That’s all I’m looking to know. Because then—

A sudden ding derails my train of thought. My phone lights up. 

“RALPH” flashes across the screen. 

I hold my breath and thumb my phone open, urgently scanning the response. 

RALPH: We’re tracking potential suspects...one is an especially strong candidate. I promise I’ll send you what I know when I find out more. 

I sigh, somewhat dissatisfied with the short and ambiguous response, but slightly appeased by his promise to send me what he finds out. Locking my phone, I’m about to slide it into my back pocket when it’s cheery-chime sounds once more. 

I glance at the screen and see RALPH. Opening his message, my breath catches in my throat. 

RALPH: Just notified of a potential suspect-sighting at The Blue Penny. Maybe tonight’s the night we’ll snag ‘em! I’ll keep you posted. 

My eyes dart to the front door. Coral.

I anxiously text back, 

The Blue Penny? Are you sure? 

I walk to the front door and look through the small peephole. A dark street fills my view. My phone chimes in my hand.

RALPH: Yes. Potential suspect arriving any minute. 

I text, 

Can I come? I‘d love to be the first on the scene for insider info.

While I’d usually love to be the first “in the know” for something like this, I’m more interested in making sure Coral is okay if the police end up confronting a felon. 

A few minutes roll by without reply. I sit back down at the breakfast table; my stomach in knots.

My phone chirps again.

RALPH: Come to The Blue Penny. 

I look at my phone disbelievingly, but before I know it my shoes are on my feet and I’ve locked the front door behind me.

*

The Blue Penny is a dive bar, basically. It’s a local haunt for night owls, workaholics, alcoholics, and the aspiring musician. For Coral, it’s her next big break. For me, it’s usually a watering hole of information. For tonight, it’s a foreboding question mark.

Making my way over the bar’s threshold, I’m greeted by a thick smoke that hangs in the air. Lamps fastened to the wall emit a deep-blue glow. It’s empty. No patrons, no music, no booze. Silence.

Except for a mermaid in handcuffs, huddled in the corner, surrounded by policemen. Her pink wig is crooked, and even her handcuffs have glitter on them. She glances up and makes eye contact with me. Her eyes are sad, and shame flickers through her expression.

Coral?