It had taken a long time for Cheryl to get the nerve up, and then the funds up to do this, but now... now she was finally opening. She shook her shoulder length brown hair and smiled into the mirror, "Go girl, it's now or never," she spoke to the mirror, her light blue eyes reflecting the light that came off of the lights above the mirror and an inner light that was all her own as well.
With a skip in her step and a song running through her head she stepped out of the back of the pub where her office was and started to the front of the pub. As she walked the length of the building her ran her fingers along the tables, not real wood, it was that press wood stuff, with a good strong top on it as well, easy to keep clean, and fairly cheap to replace. Not that she wanted to replace anything here yet, or wanted any reason to replace anything either. She quickly pushed that thought out of her head and continued to the front doors, running her hand along the real oak bar counter that ran half the length of the pub, now that was the thing that cost her... well that and the sound system for the stage at the very back of the pub, she had hoped to attract bands to play here, as well as attracting patrons.
With one last look about she dimmed the lights a little bit, turned on the jukebox, setting it for free plays this night and then unlocked the doors.
The first customer to appear was a lone, nondescript woman. With a friendly smile toward Cheryl, the woman selected a seat at a long table in the corner farthest from the stage. She opened a small notebook-sized computer and began to type. Letters bloomed swiftly across the monitor.
"III.C. Just as extemporaneous speakers have distinct skills (innate or developed) which distinguish them from other gifted speakers, so do extemporaneous writers.
"III.C.(1?) The study and practice of extemporaneous writing affects one's spontaneous spoken language practices."
With a few final keystrokes, the woman buried the words and launched a program that slowly presented an image. While the file took its time, she looked up. Remembering where she was, she looked around to see about placing an order.
Cheryl smiled at the woman, "What will you have tonight?" She quickly noted the computer and the woman's dress and pegged her as a middle management type, most likely a mixed drink, but smiled and waited for her order.
"Do you have scotch? Real scotch? Like Johnny Walker Black Label, maybe?"
Smiling, "Of course I do, what respectable par doesn't?" she talks as she walks back to the bar, "On the rocks?" she asks as she pulls out a glass from under the bar as well as a large, dusty bottle of scotch.
As she spoke, two more customers came in and immediately took chairs at the woman's table. One man and one woman, both young; and they both wore the robes and distinctive shaven crowns of Franciscan Friars.
"Welcome to the Underground Pub," Cheryl smiles at the two as they enter.
"Barmaid," the young man barked with a grin and a hard slam to the tabletop, "A bottle of Abbaye de Tholomies Minervois Réserve for my sisters and myself. No need to worry about the year. I'm sure anything you have will be more than good enough for our simple taste."
Laughing slightly she brings out two glasses, "I'll have to go to the back for that,' pausing a moment, 'If you will excuse me a moment."
The two seated women rolled their eyes and groaned tolerantly, but just barely.
Quickly Cheryl vanishes to the back only to reappear a moment later with the bottle. "I hope this will do."
"Lovely," the young friar says, bathing Cheryl in a charming smile.
His sister lays a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," she says to Cheryl. She studies the waitress for a moment then adds, "You know, since there's no one else here, and if your boss doesn't mind, you're welcome to join us."
"Great idea, Franny," her brother grins then turns his attention to their companion. Snatching at the computer, he says, "Join us and our adorable heathen Cora here. How about it, Cora? Has this thing given you the secrets of life yet?"
"That," says Cora, pulling her computer back to herself, "is not precisely what I was looking for. At least not here. Not today."
"Fie," says the young man, "that's what everyone is looking for."
His sister chuckles, "So pronounces the all-knowing Ferdi."
"Don't call me Ferdi," her brother growls.
Cheryl smiles at the monk, "I'm not sure if my boss would like me drinking while on duty, but I will be more than happy to sit with you a while." The small woman sits down at the table, but positions herself so that she can see the door in case anyone else comes in.
"So, Cora, tell us," Ferdi says, indicating the little computer, "what have you been up to?"
"Just some notes on communication skills," Cora says.
"Great! Share them with us. You know, I've always wanted to be a preacher."
Smiling, Cora shakes her head.
"She won't," Franny laughs, "precisely because you want to be a preacher."
"Whatever do you mean?" Ferdi pretends to be offended as the women exchange conspiratorial looks.
"It's your arsenal of charm, Ferdi dear. I won't be responsible for adding to it. The general population is unsafe as it is."
Ferdi furrows his brow and smiles at the same time, unsure whether to be pleased or indignant.
Enjoying his dilemma, Cora relaxes and sips her drink. "I do have an interesting tidbit for you though, to add to our study of human nature. What do you think about this theory? I think we have a tendency, maybe not universal, but pretty common, to despise our own victims."
Ferdi shakes his head. "I don't get it. In what way? What victims?"
"Ooh," Franny says, leaning forward, "I do. I know that when I've been convicted of my own guilt toward someone else, that is the last person I want to see. I would have the impulse to cross the street to avoid them if we met by chance. I'd much rather shun them than the folks who have done me wrong."
"Yes," says Cora, "and it begins with the apology that is really an accusation in disguise."
Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.