The Place: October Short Story Competition

The Place

They met at the usual bar. It was open 24/7, and it was a place to hang out, chill and meet people. There were the regulars of course, but people came and went, and although some were missed, their places were occupied by the newcomers and trade was brisk.

They were all exceptionally beautiful people, rich and successful. They oozed charm and sophistication; even white teeth and a confidence which always amused him.

Barista watched the room, dispensed cocktails with a quiet efficiency and listened. He responded to the regulars, laughed politely at their jokes but to most of the punters he was invisible; just someone behind the bar.

The newcomers always attracted attention. They were greeted politely; new blood to the jaded regulars. Some stayed, some were daunted. Barista quietly encouraged the less confident newcomers and watched his clientele grow.

He was fascinated by the dynamics of the room and shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversations. He kept extensive notes, and not just on their preferred drinks.

As they became regular visitors, they dropped their guard and began to share confidences about their real lives. Barista did occasionally ponder on the veracity of these confessions.  Some of them stayed for hours; eighteen hours was the record, which didn’t allow much time for sleep or much else, for that matter.

They paired off of course; there were private areas in the room where the Punters could have discreet conversations, arguments, or even plot murder, confident that they could not be overheard. Barista did wonder about their capacity for self-deception occasionally.

One particular Punter was a real player. He was a regular, one of the first customers and played the field. He was articulate, amusing and dominated the room. The place started to buzz when he arrived. He was friendly but slightly aloof; women vied for his attention.   Barista watched and waited.

He was good, he had to admit. He courted the shyer female newcomers with an old fashioned charm, and a sincerity which Barista thought was not entirely genuine. It was good for business at first, but then these women rarely came back to the bar, and that was bad news. He detected a pattern. Once the Real Player, his name was Oliver, or so he said, focussed on a particular female, there was a blossoming of the woman in question, a month or so of intense attention in the private area, and she disappeared. It had happened three times now, and Barista was intrigued, but slightly worried. He replayed the conversations. They seemed innocuous enough, and hey, the Punters were all adults and it was a place for people to meet.  What they did in their own time, when they left the bar, was up to them.

Unusually he talked about this with his wife. She was interested  in the venture, but looking after the children was her first priority but she helped him behind the scenes when she could. She had helped set up the business, and sold the idea to their backers.

Yes, she could do this. She understood his concerns, although she saw him less and less at home. He became a shadowy figure and she was the one who kept in touch with his family. He wanted her help now, so she agreed. It was the least she could do, she felt occasionally guilty about taking the children away each month, but he didn’t seem to mind.

So, a couple of days later, she made her entrance. Daphne was so self-effacing, she didn’t realise the impact she made. A couple of the Regulars tried to engage her in private conversation but she left half an hour later.  She didn’t re-appear for a week or so and Barista was delighted when he checked in for his shift and she was sitting at the bar. He mixed her a cocktail and she blushed, and thanked him for remembering.  She confided that she had definitely had second thoughts about returning but a friend had talked her into it. She needed to meet people. She told him her real name and what she did for a living.  He knew this of course; hell, he was married to her! He admired her role-play.

Oliver appeared at her elbow and bought her another drink. She thanked him and left half an hour later; Oliver appeared a little put out, but every time Barista signed in he was there, propping up the bar. Daphne didn’t re-appear until the following Friday.

She was still immaculate but distressed. Barista poured her drink and Oliver moved in for the kill.

They moved to a table on the far side of the bar and she stayed for a couple of hours.

Barista logged off  and sent the latest to HQ. He gave it a priority rating and told Daphne.  I think it’s a go. Standing by. Don’t take any chances. Take care. This is real; we may have a chance to nail this bastard. He’s killing this business.

Daphne logged out, showered, and dressed. Just had time to kiss the children goodnight and set off in the car. Her husband was still hunched over the keyboard as she grabbed the car keys, blew him a kiss and left.

She parked. She had half an hour to spare so she powered up her laptop. She re-read all the information again. All three women were typical Punters. For a variety of reasons they had deserted the real world and were trying to regain their confidence in cyber-space. This was now their “reality” and indeed the whole point of the site.  Daphne and Barista were trying to make this a safe environment. This evening, Daphne was supposed to find out what Oliver what up to. Well that was the plan.

HQ  had sent the three women the standard email, but none of them had responded, so they were still in the dark about why they had not returned to The Place.  The Regulars were contacted, well regularly, and their feedback thus far had been overwhelmingly positive. Some of the super-users had signed up for the three week intensive therapy course, which was carefully designed to enable them to gradually cut back their time on line and re-introduce them to The Real World.   HQ unfortunately had not been impressed with the success rate so far. They understood they had a moral duty to offer this support, but they weren’t happy with the figures. More Punters meant more revenue!  Barista and Daphne took the happiness and safety of their Punters a tad more seriously.  Daphne was sympathetic at first, Barista, she believed was committed to making this work and she was tolerant of the long hours, and when he asked for her help up front she had willingly gone along with the arrangements he had made. She has explained this to Oliver and he had said, yes, go for it! We need to know just what is going on.

Still ten minutes to go, so Daphne logged in and took a quick look at The Place. All the Regulars were there as usual, and trade was brisk. A stunning brunette was serving the cocktails and Barista was there, supervising. Brilliant, Amy had come up trumps, if that was the right word. Obviously, neither her husband nor the au pair had noticed that the children were missing

She looked at her children still wrapped in their duvets on the back seat of the car. She lowered her window. Oliver looked at her, I’m sorry, but I tried to tell you. They think it’s real. They are not going to sign up for the course you know. She smiled but her heart wasn’t in it. She looked at her lover and nodded. She kissed him, he was real and solid. This was her world and she loved the way their children inter-reacted and their weekends away. She left the cyber world to her husband and all the phonies. Oliver had been excellent, he had warned all the genuine people and  Barista would never miss her. Oh Brave New world, indeed! She preferred the old version.

Later at the cottage, she cooked a meal and Oliver, having settled the children, poured her a real drink. They logged on and deleted both their accounts.  It was done! They began to eat.