pulse.txt

II

Funny thing about pulses: they can change.

Sure, everyone knows that, you'd say. The man you love shows his true colors, it gets faster. Get in a fist fight with a machine gun, it gets faster. Wake up with a hangover, it gets slower. Bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned factory, it gets slower.

Of course it does. But it's not just like that. After all, it always evens out in the end. A pulse keeps equilibrium. We're talking actual, tangible, nontemporary change. And there, that's where it is. That can change. Not just the tempo, but the strength. Even the pattern. It can become a new normal. And everyone can feel it when it happens, even if they don't know on the surface.

And, just like a person's pulse, a city's pulse can change all the same. You might not notice. You probably weren't paying attention. But a bartender. A bartender would notice. After all, nobody has her finger on the artery of the city like a bartender.

So when her favorite customer walks on in after a long time away, she knows. Even without a word. Bartender's seen her countless times before. Countless states. Makeup and red hair anywhere from perfect to dissolving. But when the pulse changes, she knows. And she is right there with the perfect medicine.

"Is this a Nighty Night?" Ulala asks, dazed and boggling vacantly at the sudden glass in her hand. "I haven't ordered yet."

"No," the bartender says, and she takes a hesitant sip.

"Fuck," she breathes, letting out what feels like a thousand-year old sigh waiting for the perfect moment to make a break. "I didn't know how much I had forgotten. That's still perfect. That's seven, right?"

"Not for you, Red. This one's on me."

"You can't just give me free drinks. You'll get in trouble."

"Three things wrong with that, doll," the bartender says with an affectionate but unassuming touch on Ulala's arm. "One, I most certainly can. Just don't come to expect them. Two, I'm too good a bartender to get in trouble. Oh, one tick."

She steps aside for a moment to retrieve and open a bottle of Belgian beer and bring it to Salam, who had just walked in to sit in his usual corner and think about his usual thoughts (which were maps). She comes back as quickly and professionally as she might wipe a spot off the counter. "And three," she continues, "it's not free. I didn't say it was on the house. I said it was on me. My tab."

"You have a tab?"

"Of course, baby. Can't sell the swill if you never toss the sauce."

"But now I feel guilty."

"You'll feel more guilty if you don't drink it. It's okay, gorgeous. It's a gift. Besides, I came into some money and nothing to do with it. Drink up. Next one's on you."

"Damn, babe," Ulala says between sips. "You're too good to me."

"Seems to me, you need some extra goodness."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Maybe not, but you know I would know anyway."

"You hear things."

"I know things. People tell me things, and I tell them things. You sell fashion, sweetie, you know people."

"I sell underwear."

"You sell fashionable underwear, Red. You can't sell that if you don't know how to keep your finger on the pulse."

"The pulse?"

"Everybody's got one, and I don't mean in their arteries. It's something more than that. And I know you have to know how to read it like I do. It's how you sell your lingerie, it's how the cute cop questions a suspect, it's how your roommate writes her articles, and it's how that tap buster runs his website."