Short Stories From Fading Worlds

A Bar Called Kuiper: The Down-and-Out

"Another. I want another gin, and I don't fucking care if it kills me at this point. Just get me another."

"I think you've had quite enough, friend."

The bartender looked at the man practically pressed against the bar, ignoring the glare that was sent his way as he denied the patron another drink.

"Come on, penny for your thoughts. Talk to me a little."

"About what? The fuck is there to know?"

The bartender sighed a little. So far this one hadn't been particularly good company, but he was almost certain there was a reason for all of it. People responded to grief in many different ways, after all.

"About you, of course. What's got you like this?"

The man snorted disdainfully.
"What's got me like this? I don't know, try not having anything left. Anything."

"What do you mean by that? Are you on the run?"

"From the law? No, I've never broken the law in my life, 'cept maybe when I was a dumb teenager without thinking. No, I'm leaving because, as I've already said, there's nothing left for me."

"Nothing at all?"

The man gave him another annoyed glare.
"What, have you got rocks in your ears or something? There. Is. Nothing. Left. I can't hold a stable job back home, I've used up all the goodwill my friends and family had left for me, and lets not even bother getting into the shitshow that is my love life. I can't stay anymore."

"Nothing to do with the corporations?"

The man snorted again.
"Fuck the corpos, I've got my own problems to deal with. I'm not going out to the colonies because the corporations took my work, or because I think they're treating me unfairly. I'm leaving because I fucked up, again. This time the only difference is that I've run out of tricks to save me and safety nets to catch me. There, does that satisfy you?"

For a few moments there was silence, the bartender simply shrugging at the man before continuing on with their conversation, pouring out a measure of cheap gin for the man.

"A little, yes. Here's how this is going to work. You keep talking, you get a drink. Sound fair?"

The man, clearly more than a little drunk already, grunted out what sounded like a reluctant admission of acquiescence.

"Fine. Give me the glass and I'll tell you more of what you want to know. Why the fuck you're interested in what's happened to me I couldn't guess. Must be pretty funny to hear from an outside perspective now that I come to think of it. Actually that makes sense. You often find enjoyment in hearing of other folk's misery?"

The bartender chuckled a little.
"In their misery? No, not at all. I merely get my enjoyment from talking to people. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there aren't exactly many sources of conversation around here anymore. Well, there never were to begin with, but there's even fewer nowadays. You're not the first person I've met who's headed out to the colonies, nor will you be the last I'd wager. Here, tell me what sort of work you're able to do; chances are that, whatever your qualifications, I'll have at least some idea of where you can head to find work of that nature."

The man scoffed, draining his gin and leaning his head on the table.
"I'm not good at anything. I haven't the school qualifications for office work, and I lack the strength for construction or the mines. Farming as well, and soldiering. I can't do any of that. I can't do anything."

"Let's not be so hard-done-by yet. Whilst it might not be exactly what you've hoped for, I do know someone who requires a hand with his work. The pay would be good enough, bed and board are included, at least I think, and the work would be stable. He'd probably be happy to teach you on the job as well."