You In A Glass

After 453 miles of rain-soaked highway, Mim saw lights on the horizon. The hoverbike whined beneath her, assuring her that it, too, would like to stop for a stiff drink.

Slindy’s Tavern looked like God’s mistake, a lonely puddle of neon clinging to the side of a desolate interstate. But on this side of the planet, at this hour of night, Mim’s options were extremely limited. She guided the hoverbike through the near-empty lot, and parked it smack between a van and a dumpster.

She deserved a drink, after a day like this. And a few minutes sitting still to plot her next move couldn’t hurt, either. I’m not lost, she assured herself, prying off her helmet. I’m just improvising.

A sign above the door read: “We take all sorts, here,” beside a sketch of a cartoon alien. Another read: “Best cocktails outside the Milky Way.”

Mim pushed through the revolving doors, and was greeted by the smells of wet fabric and spilt beer. Several heads turned briefly her way.

At one table, a poker game was being played at high volume, handcuffs dangling from the wrists of at least two participants. A man with a guitar was attempting Def Leppard from the far corner, sporting an orange jumpsuit without apology. The sound of shattering glass seemed to come from everywhere at once.

A slow smile spread across Mim’s face. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. After all, what better place to hide from the law than amongst criminals?

She chose a seat at the emptiest side of the bar—back to the wall, eyes on the door. She set her cherry-red helmet, the only beacon of color to grace her wardrobe, on the counter beside her.

From the pocket of her coat, she pulled a two-way radio and a sodden map. Not that she needed the map, of course.

“Don’t tell me.”

Mim glanced up at the nearness of the sound. An unsettlingly attractive bartender had planted himself opposite her, both forearms propped on the counter.

“Jaded PI, here to shake down some creep. You’ve been a loner since birth, and drive a very fast bike,”—he indicated the helmet—“so…bourbon, neat?”

It took Mim a moment to catch up. “I’m not a private investigator,” she said, frowning.

“You’re kidding? Damn. I’m so rarely wrong. Let me try again?” He put his fingers on his temples, shutting his eyes as Mim rolled her own. The last thing she needed right now was a flirt, pretty though he might be.

Abruptly, her radio crackled to life. “Backup, backup, we have 62C.” She laid her palm down on the speaker to muffle the sound, and the bartender cocked his head.

“Okay, the plot thickens. New theory!” He rested his chin in his hands, resembling an overeager puppy. “Detective with the Galactic Police. Your DCI told you not to chase down a suspect, but you’re doing it anyway, rainstorm be damned…so then, a dark beer, maybe? Something local?”

The geezer sitting nearest Mim collected his pint and shuffled off, presumably having heard the word ‘police.’

“Listen,” she said, pushing away a sodden lock of hair. “I’m not going to confirm or deny any of that, because…well, why bother? But how about we forget the part where I pulled up on a ‘very fast bike,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

The bartender grinned. “Want me to stash your helmet, detective?”

Want me to give you a black eye? she thought. But, weighing her options, she had to admit that the helmet was a touch incriminating. She slid it toward him. “Believe it or not, coming from a jaded, loner-since-birth-type: yes, please do.”

He whisked the helmet behind the bar, neatly obscuring the gesture with a well-placed cleaning rag.

“Look around you, love. I wouldn’t be in business if I let my patrons’ secrets slip. But between you and me, may I just say…nice wheels!”

“It's a hovercraft,” Mim pointed out.

“Nice proverbial wheels,” pressed the bartender. “How long have you had it?”

Mim heaved a sigh. She shook back her sleeve, looking pointedly at her watch.

“Eight hours, twenty-two minutes. If you count the time I spent hot-wiring it.”

The bartender’s eyebrows lifted.

“Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He pointed at the radio: “62C is the cop code for auto theft!”

“Now you’re catching up,” said Mim.

“I should have guessed! I’m an idiot.”

“Far be it from me to correct you,” said Mim, flipping open her map. “So if you’re going to continue guessing at my life story, I suggest moving to the other side of the law. And, by the by, I’ll have a Tom Collins.”

The bartender scoffed, which should have been condescending but, somehow, managed to look cute. “Oh. Well. That’s not really how we do things at Slindy’s.”

“Look, are you a bartender or not?”

“I’m a craftsman,” he corrected, plucking a tall glass from its drying rack. “A muse of mixology!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And that means what, exactly?”

He snatched up a bottle of greenish liquid, pouring a measure into the glass. “You are looking,” he said, “at the resident aficionado of cocktail profiling.”

She squinted at him.

“I mix you a drink you’re sure to like,” he explained, “based on who you are.”

“Fascinating,” she assured him. “But I drink what I like. And besides, you’ve just guessed me wrong. Twice.”

“Third time’s the charm!” he sang, balancing a spoon across the rim of the glass.

Mim scanned the area for other available bartenders, but pretty boy appeared to be the only apron-clad sucker in the place. Relenting, she spread out her map.

“So,” she mused, “you serve meticulously curated cocktails to…criminals?”

He winked. “Not your kind of place?”

Mim cast a meaningful eye around the room. A few seats down from her, a man was attempting to crack his ankle monitor with a cocktail spoon.

“Exactly my kind of place,” she admitted.

This seemed to please him, by the amount of perfect teeth he showed as he laughed. “You been on this side of the planet much before?”

“Nope,” said Mim, truthfully.

“Are you headed somewhere in particular?” he asked, nodding at the map.

“Nope,” she lied, fishing a pen from her pocket and uncapping it with a pop.

He sighed, placing a sugar cube in the center of the spoon. “Suit yourself. At least pick something less incriminating to tell me about yourself.”

“Like what?” She found the highway she was on: Interstellar Interstate 5, northbound. She approximated her current position, marking it with an x.

The bartender was using what looked like a turkey baster to dribble water over the sugar cube, causing it to slowly melt.

“Something that won’t make me an accessory to your crimes,” he said, and Mim stifled a laugh. All right, she thought, I’ll play.

“I was named Mim, after a moon that has since been demoted. So now, I’m technically named after an unidentified hunk of orbiting space solid.”

This delighted him to no end. He finished her cocktail with a flourish, discarding the spoon and excess sugar.

“Well, Mim of the demoted moon,” he said, leaning closer. She held his lovely eyes, smirking, wondering what terrible punch line he’d come up with next.

“That’s nowhere near where we are,” he finished.

Her smile evaporated. His finger was planted on her map, surrounding her x with an imprint of sugar water. She batted him away.

“You shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.”

“You’re probably right,” he ceded. “But your sense of direction is terrible.”

“My sense of direction,” Mim hissed, “is fine.”

He turned away, raising his palms. “It’s your funeral! Just remember which side of the planet you’re on. Take a wrong turn out here, and you’ll run smack into the cops. And I would hate for that to happen to a nice thief like you,” he added, punctuating the statement with another wink.

Mim groaned aloud. “Backup deployed,” barked her radio, choosing a poor moment to interject. “Two cruisers, headed for the Sirius Turnpike.”

Her eyes darted between her map, her alien-green cocktail, and the receding form of her bartender.

“Hey,” she called, and he turned. “What’s in this, anyway?”

“Absinthe. Tastes a bit like licorice. A little herbal, a little earthy.”

Mim sniffed at the glass. “Earthy as in the planet, or earthy as in ‘tastes like dirt?’ ”

“Just try it, will you? Remember, I’m an expert,” he said, and wandered off to refill drinks.

Mim glowered at her useless map. If she could get the bike across the border by dawn, she’d be in Capitol Territory, which was outside the jurisdiction of the cops currently on her tail. Simple enough. The only problem was, the Capitol border was not included on this particular map.

Against her better judgement, she sipped at the drink. It did taste of licorice, but was surprisingly refreshing. She swiveled the map until it faced upside-down, and started over.

Loathe as she was to admit it, the only thing she knew for certain was that she was somewhere along the II5. She was headed vaguely north, but the map sported no compass. And worse, she couldn’t find anything called the Sirius Turnpike.

Pretty boy was making his way back to her, sliding the anklet-clad drunkard a beer and a new spoon. She waved him over.

“You can’t have me to yourself all night,” he teased.

“I told you mine,” she said, giving him a less than subtle once-over. “Your turn.”

He grinned—there were those perfect teeth again—and reached for a handshake. “Hassler.”

Mim tsked. “Rough name for a guy trying to flirt with girls in bars.”

He rolled his eyes. His hand floated persistently between them. “Then just call me Jim.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Jim?”

“Not everyone is named after the fifth moon of Neptune, okay?”

This time she forgot to stifle her laugh. Relenting, she shook his hand.

“The absinthe is good,” she confessed.

He brushed invisible dust from his shoulder. “I knew you’d like it.”

“So this is my cocktail doppelgänger, is it?”

“You in a glass,” he agreed.

She took another sip. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Don’t make me punch you,” Mim warned.

He folded his arms, a cheshire cat grin on his face. “Because it’s unexpected, a trifle bitter, and—depending on who you ask—against the law.”

She drained the rest in one gulp, bringing the empty glass down in the center of her map.

“All right, bartender,” she said, a challenge in her eye. “Make me another one, and tell me where the hell I am.”

The Sirius Turnpike, as it turned out, had been turned into a private road some years back, and therefore rarely appeared on maps. It was also far too nearby for comfort. In an alarming gesture of humility, Mim allowed her bartender to mark a hasty new route using her pen.

“That should do it!” he said, adding a final scribble to the bottom corner.

“Closing in on the II5,” Mim’s radio tittered.

“And that’s my cue!” She rose, sliding far too many bills across the counter. “Keep the change. And,” she added, glancing around the room, “give me a head start, will you?”

“Going so soon?” lamented the bartender. “We were just getting to know each other.”

“It never would have worked out,” she teased, pointing between the two of them.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Our names rhyme, for god’s sake.”

He shrugged, retrieving her helmet and holding it out to her. “Then call me Hassler.”

“What’s your cocktail doppelgänger?” she wondered, taking it.

He offered her one last infuriating wink. “I drink what I like.”

Back on her bike, Mim took a final look at the inked route on her map. Ten more miles, a right turn, and finally…

A phone number.

She grinned, shoving the map protectively into her pocket. Behind her, Hassler’s voice yelled “Police on the way!”, and the bar erupted as Mim took off into the night.