Public House Part 3

Darnes settled on the agreed 6 minims. This meant that beer was officially back on the menu, so everyone was congregating to the bar and passing by Pak. He found out the woman from before was called Mamba. He was also introduced to a Swede called Fenrick -or Fen- who told him that Airgead was based on Irish folklore; a German named Hans who wore a black leather jacket from outside and went on about missing his family; and Sykes, an Irish man with African origins who stared into his glass most of the time, trembling, and was the only smoker amongst them.

Yeung-Sung held his ground as all the regulars of the Joint Wick clacked his shoulders, slapped his back or nudged him playfully. His focus was on nodding and greeting them back, smiling too, if he could muster it. The last person to properly introduce themselves -and get their drink- was Shirley. Still frowning, he looked at Yeung-Sung like he was a ripe fruit on the verge of spoiling. Wearing a clay, sleeveless top, Yeung-Sung noticed again how he was all tense muscle and tender curl, and so looked down immediately, trying not to repeat his earlier mistake. He watched Shirley’s exercise shoes for movement, and when they did, he looked back up and saw Shirley smiling.

“Chin up, we’ve been there. Well, I have anyway,” he said. He looked over his shoulder. “Unlike these guys, I can never really be comfortable here, but anyway, don’t worry. They’re good people. They’ll sort you out.” Then, as Yeung-Sung was too shocked to reply he added, “Next round is on me!”

“Thank you,” Yeung-Sung said at last. Shirley rocked a satisfied grin, and Yeung-Sung felt a heat in his cheeks, growing more embarrassed when he caught a glimpse of Aisling out from her corner smirking at the both of them. About to apologise, it was then he realised that Shirley was as red as he was, and as paranoid.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked him.

Shirley was taken aback -though to Yeung-Sung it seemed a perfectly reasonable question. “How long?” he repeated, placing a hand gently to his lips. Not so gently, he curled his fingers into a fist and shifted it down like he was switching gears. “Too long,” he decided.

Yeung-Sung took a seat at the middle booth, which overlooked the congregation at the bar. Empty handed, he licked his lips while at the same time repeating his mantra of ‘Airgead is a stupid idea’. But for the third time today he was unsure of this belief. Just a moment ago all the pubgoers were leering over him and judging him. But now they were just having fun, in another bar, any other night; laughing, joking, drinking. Passing the time with gossip and memories. The memories before the colony. Before the crash. Because where else would you find people leaving their private lives to drink in a public house like this?

Only here is this possible, Yeung-Sung realised.

He was facing evidence -identified by a fierce feeling of reluctance- that maybe the experiment was working. That maybe it was possible to turn over governance of the world to GLI, to Jordan, and that they could be trusted to line our lives with social safety nets.

Is this actually the beginning of a new world? One that I’m a part of?

The question arose, and floated in his mind unanswered, for he had no defining argument inside of him that could say for sure. Yeung-Sung, finally, took out his phone as he sat alone at the booth. The black, unmarked screen stared back at him with his own face.

Do I try it?

“Here. For you”. Shirley placed a glass in front of him. Taking it, he realised that nearly all of the main group was coming over to him. They fought for the closest place to him with excitement, and the ones that couldn’t find a seat on the couch remained on the barstools, stroking their chins. Nudging through Von Martin and Mamba, Wilhelm placed himself on Yeung-Sung’s right hand-side. He rubbed his hands, nodding at the phone in Yeung-Sung’ hand. I’m not going to have a choice in the matter, am I? Biting his lip and furrowing his brows, he knew his face expressed that sentiment perfectly.

The group was arranged like they were about to witness a miracle. They muttered amongst themselves with feverish awe, drilled the points of their shoes into the floor with expectant energy. Wilhelm even acted like a nurse, wriggling his fingers into an imaginary pair of gloves. He shushed them. “Ready?” he asked, looking directly into his eyes.

But Yeung-Sung could only blink back as the bar looked on. Patiently, silently -except for the occasional slurp and soft clink of glass on wood- they watched. They waited. Even Darnes, leaning as far as he could over the counter, turned down his own mixtape to allow Yeung-Sung the prominence.

Right. This is happening then.

He held the phone lightly. The tips of his fingers held the backside steady, his thumbs in a cradle just off the edge of the screen face. Its case was smooth. He pressed down the power button and it gave off a vibrating yet plastic heartbeat. Yeung-Sung swallowed, his throat feeling dry and narrow. The tension was like a thick cord wrapping everyone close, yet as soon as he used his other thumb to tap open Airgead it snapped for good.