The Blind Spot, Manhattan, NY, 1700 hrs
The air inside the bar was thick with the scent of old drinks and the stale, metallic tang of ancient copper, trapped by lead-lined walls - an innocuous quirk to most patrons except for the rare few in the know. The entire sub-basement was a digital dead-zone, rendering most electronic devices inert. Digital surveillance halted at the front door and whatever information you wanted out of the regulars - provided you were in a position to warrant such knowledge to begin with - you were expected to gather them in the old fashioned way - talking.
The man sat at the far end of the bar, calloused fingers tracing the deep, smooth grooves etched into the reclaimed timber of the bar top. At the sound of a sudden giggle, his eyes drifted casually a few stools down, where a group of kids - most likely college students - had congregated. A second passed before he lost interest - turning his attention back to the silent ritual he was partaking, in between sips of the Weller Antique 107 - one of the few brands that was neither visible on the shelf nor could be requested - on the off chance the bartender had to serve a bourbon-aficionado. No, these drinks only came out for very few individuals.
Above the dusty shelves packed with drinks, a flickering neon sign cast a rhythmic blue light, spelling out "Life's Right". He'd heard remarks about the sign from other customers, theories about what could it mean. A cliched slogan. Some 'ironic' quote. Many would ask the bartender outright, to which he'd always had the most succinct answer - "Dunno. Was before my time."
The man took another slow slip, letting the rich flavour linger on his tongue. Warm, sharp and sweet - the myriad flavours coexisting in a blissful harmony, none of them fighting for dominance. He lifted his empty glass just a fraction - a cue overlooked by most likely everyone except the bartender. He approached the man with an unlabeled bottle, filled his glass and retreated back to his original spot - back to fielding requests of 'new age' cocktails. Someone among the college group was not happy with his cell phone signal. "Dude are we for real? I just realized I have no fucking signal! Feels like I'm in one of those old school elevators or something." - "Yeah the reception here is crap, sorry dude, shoulda warned you. But hey look on the bright side, at least Cindy can't get on your ass while you're here." That earned a loud chortle from the group, followed by the usual charitable remarks - 'yeah no kidding dude', 'she's an absolute bitch', 'psycho I tell you'. They'd probably gone on for quite some time - the man wasn't sure, he'd tuned them out soon as he'd taken the first sip of his fresh drink. He'd been deeply immersed in his self-inflicted ritual of tracing the grooves when he heard a faint voice above his head. "Turk. Here's here."
The air inside the bar was thick with the scent of old drinks and the stale, metallic tang of ancient copper, trapped by lead-lined walls - an innocuous quirk to most patrons except for the rare few in the know. The entire sub-basement was a digital dead-zone, rendering most electronic devices inert. Digital surveillance halted at the front door and whatever information you wanted out of the regulars - provided you were in a position to warrant such knowledge to begin with - you were expected to gather them in the old fashioned way - talking.
The man sat at the far end of the bar, calloused fingers tracing the deep, smooth grooves etched into the reclaimed timber of the bar top. At the sound of a sudden giggle, his eyes drifted casually a few stools down, where a group of kids - most likely college students - had congregated. A second passed before he lost interest - turning his attention back to the silent ritual he was partaking, in between sips of the Weller Antique 107 - one of the few brands that was neither visible on the shelf nor could be requested - on the off chance the bartender had to serve a bourbon-aficionado. No, these drinks only came out for very few individuals.
Above the dusty shelves packed with drinks, a flickering neon sign cast a rhythmic blue light, spelling out "Life's Right". He'd heard remarks about the sign from other customers, theories about what could it mean. A cliched slogan. Some 'ironic' quote. Many would ask the bartender outright, to which he'd always had the most succinct answer - "Dunno. Was before my time."
The man took another slow slip, letting the rich flavour linger on his tongue. Warm, sharp and sweet - the myriad flavours coexisting in a blissful harmony, none of them fighting for dominance. He lifted his empty glass just a fraction - a cue overlooked by most likely everyone except the bartender. He approached the man with an unlabeled bottle, filled his glass and retreated back to his original spot - back to fielding requests of 'new age' cocktails. Someone among the college group was not happy with his cell phone signal. "Dude are we for real? I just realized I have no fucking signal! Feels like I'm in one of those old school elevators or something." - "Yeah the reception here is crap, sorry dude, shoulda warned you. But hey look on the bright side, at least Cindy can't get on your ass while you're here." That earned a loud chortle from the group, followed by the usual charitable remarks - 'yeah no kidding dude', 'she's an absolute bitch', 'psycho I tell you'. They'd probably gone on for quite some time - the man wasn't sure, he'd tuned them out soon as he'd taken the first sip of his fresh drink. He'd been deeply immersed in his self-inflicted ritual of tracing the grooves when he heard a faint voice above his head. "Turk. Here's here."
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