We finally enter Jackie's Place! 6,785 Words on Day Four.

So, finally got to write about Jackie's Place, and was able to work in some of the word challenges today. I will post a couple of excerpts- everything I wrote today was about Jackie's Place.

First, a description of Jackie:

Jackie was a permanent fixture in the bar, and the subject of much speculation. It was not known how, or when, he had arrived at Jackie’s Place, or even when the bar had begun to be called Jackie’s Place. Old time residents of West Orange seemed to recall that at one time, the bar had been called ‘brian j. Pickles.’ Common sense dictated that the name change and his arrival must have coincided, but the owner claimed to not remember ever hiring him in the first place. No one, including the hotel staff, could ever recall him arriving at or leaving the premises. A rumour had circulated that he slept in the backroom on a mattress made up of empty beer cases. Others said that he never slept, and was in fact, a vampire. This last rumour had likely arisen due to his uncanny resemblance to Kiefer Sutherland, a Canadian actor and star, best known for his role in the iconic film ‘The Lost Boys,’ and for his one-off Twitter war with Ontario Premier, Doug Ford. Kiefer Sutherland had taken issue with Doug Ford’s social media team making comparisons between the oft-booed politician and his grandfather, Tommy Douglas- a well known Canadian hero widely credited with bringing universal health care to Canada. Opinions were divided as to whether the best zinger from the tweet was “I knew Tommy Douglas, and you, sir, are no Tommy Douglas,” or the stinging post script: “P.S. you’re lucky my mum’s not active on Twitter.” Throughout that June, the debate over which line carried more sting had raged between patrons of Jackie’s Place, which despite its isolated location and general air of seediness seemed to draw a steady stream of patrons. Jackie himself never commented, but smiled gently to himself every time a comparison was made between himself and Kiefer, who with his Twitter take-down of Ford had become something of a Canadian hero, himself.

A longer excerpt- I hope you enjoy it! Still have to fit in Kawhactus. Hopefully, tomorrow.

“What do you have on draft?” he asked, trying to catch Jackie’s gaze and failing completely. Jackie snorted derisively and pointed at the sign in the window. Apparently, Jackie considered draft beer to be an ornamental feature that might be present at the Hilton, but not here. He poured the last remnants of the pot of coffee into a mug that might once have been white, and set it down on the bar with enough force that some of it spilled. An oily sheen glimmered on the surface of the coffee. The cheerful man, undeterred, asked “do you have any craft beers?”

Jackie turned his back and reached for a glass to polish with the filthy rag, now flung over his shoulder. He responded to the question with a grunt, and then, apparently not satisfied, snarled “I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.”

His hand, still reaching, froze as the man responded quietly “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.” 

Jackie stiffened, and for a moment there seemed something military in his bearing. His eyes sharpened and his jaw clenched. He turned, and looked closely at the man for the first time. He was nondescript, which should have got Jackie’s attention immediately, but he had been lost in his thoughts earlier, and then distracted by the aspirational breatharians, who were drinking their coffee and eating their stale pretzels with gusto in the corner, making empty promises to themselves and each other that this, this would be the last time they ate or drank anything. He silently cursed himself, and absorbed every detail of the man at the bar- the greyish sweater, the chino pants, the sensible loafers. He was not handsome, but not unattractive. He was completely forgettable, and Jackie would never forget him. He memorized each detail as though his life depended on it. Who knew? Perhaps it did.

“The piano sounds like a carnival,” Jackie said, measuring his words cautiously, his eagle eyes never leaving the man’s face.

The man half-smiled, amused as he responded “and the microphone smells like a beer.” Jackie sighed softly with relief. His body, which had been coiled tightly with tension relaxed slightly, and his hand, which had been edging toward the waistline of his jeans, reached for the filthy rag instead. He appeared more relaxed, but his eyes, which had earlier been soft and dreamy, remained sharp. He wouldn’t let his guard down again.

“Time to bring the gang back together,” the man said as he took a sip of his burnt coffee, now cold. He held Jackie’s eyes, and Jackie was impressed that he controlled the automatic wincing reflex that the coffee inevitably triggered. Jackie nodded, and the man threw a couple of crumpled bills on the bar as he took his leave. When he was gone, Jackie was still for a long time, staring into the corner where the aspirational breatharians held court. He decided that today was the last time they would meet in his bar. They could find somewhere else to be aspirational assholes. Content with his decision, he reached under the bar and pulled out an old, black, rotary dial phone. He placed the receiver to his ear, patiently dialed the number, and waited. He didn’t wait long as the call was answered almost immediately.

“Time for you to come in,” he said in his whispery voice. After a long pause, he spoke again. “The Devil is in New Jersey.”