The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide to New New England & Beyond

Spiral

Quebec was colder than he imagined. Upon his arrival to Montreal, he applied for refugee status in the ancient state house and was granted space in a crowded warehouse with other asylum seekers. Having spent his life among the Interconnected, he wasn't disturbed by the close quarters and open rows of cots. It was far less crowded than sleeping in one of the storm shelters in Sherwood or Reverside. He was given some scrip, a warm coat and a pair of boots. He spent his days wandering the city, looking for his mother or his uncle. He had an image of his uncle Charlie saved from his mother's message. He applied various aging programs to it so he could recognize him when he saw him. He created a similar model of his mother, from his memory of her at the ruined box store and on the airplane. He spent his free time at night modifying and remodeling these personas so he would be able to spot them. One day he walked into Zinc and saw his uncle Charlie tending bar.

The bar itself was, as advertised, made of five long polished slabs of zinc. The wood supporting these slabs had been rebuilt once or twice, but Matthew was told the bar itself had been in the same location for over seventy years. Behind it, Charlie served apple brandy, cider, cannabinoid tea, as well as regular tea and coffee when it was available. Some of the older patrons sucked on a vaporizing hookah that dispensed an opioid smog. "To relieve the aches and pains of old age," Charlie had told him. There were whiskey, beer, and wine as well, but that cost more scrip. Those items were imported.

Nearer the windows, overlooking the park, there were sofas, chairs, and low tables, set up salon style. The patrons tended to get more amorous and wild as the night wore on. Extreme displays of public affection were not uncommon. Matthew was tasked with arranging screens between the sofas and the bar when things got out of hand. This prevented the younger clientele from witnessing the unpleasant reality of geriatric sex.

The music came from an old world set of speakers, continuously refurbished by the owner, connected to a meticulously maintained pair of turntables. Each night, someone new stood behind the desk in front of shelves of old vinyl and spun the records. It was a coveted job. Matthew wanted badly to try his hand at it but had been repeatedly turned down. He continued to hope that he might be given a chance to play the old recordings. He had become familiar with the entire collection at this point, making a mental note of each jacket and album in rotation, as he cleaned the glasses and plates, and swept the floor.

The DeeJay this evening, a short dark haired woman in her twenties had just set the needle down on "Europa and The Pirate Twins" from "The Golden Age of Wireless." Matthew looked up the title browsing the local Quebec network. He had a theory that the DeeJay was being ironic with her selection. Giving a knowing glance in her direction, he sent her a private message: ["Thomas Dolby? How apropos!"] but got no response either physically or virtually.

There were isolated groups of the Interconnected here, likely among the younger population. Everyone he managed to reach out to seemed too aloof or too frightened to share their identities. There was no system of Merit in place, only local information, discussion, games and mutual fantasies. Matthew couldn't guess whether these communities would someday grow into tribes, or if they would stay hidden on the fringes of this society, but he was able to use his limited connection to look up song titles, translate words from French to English, and find out where to get the best bagels and ice cream, which were specialties in Montreal.

At closing time, he ate. Jean-Philippe was not in the kitchen, and the food was immediately forgettable. He was getting a taste for the cider though. He tried to limit his intake to one pint a night, failing at this more often than not.

When the clock behind the bar struck two, Charlie made a show of winding it up with an oversized key kept on a shelf below, announcing to the dizzy patrons that it was time to assemble themselves and head on home. "Peu importe où vous allez, mais vous ne pouvez pas dormir ici."