CHAPTER ONE
Creating a beer is much like breeding a dog. Dogs have that one tricky gene, number fifteen, that can cause height variation between five inches and seven feet, more than any other land vertebrate. (Imagine humans ranging from two to over thirty feet tall.) Hops are complicated, having intricate aromas, regional differences, and changing chemistry upon brewing.
Sipping the dark and sylvan house ale, I studied the wavy-haired bartender. A pretty man with smooth skin, a dark mustache, and little sideburns, he resembled Nikola Tesla, who despite his love for frequency and vibrations, was said to have died a virgin.
I’d taken refuge in Union Station bar after the bus blew a tire on a pothole as I rode home from work. I hadn’t been in this neighborhood before, although it was only a few streets and a couple of turns away from Cochton Enterprises where I worked. I’d looked at it through closed bus windows, pretending that I wasn’t gawking at the residents loitering on cracked sidewalks in front of a bar, an abandoned grocery store, and a laundromat with a window boarded with plywood. I’d never planned to set foot here. Other passengers had stood beside the bus on the fragmented sidewalk and called for rides. I’d foolishly bolted into the first place I’d seen, seeking shelter from the cold drizzle and urban neglect. Officials in black bomber jackets and belts covered with devices that hung like pinecones walked past the window. Those belts loaded with technology confirmed my suspicions. I was in a bad neighborhood.
I wasn’t a citizen of this city-state, carved out of Iowa, with a name pronounced “Cock-Ton” like an enormous penis. I was a chemist from Michigan on a work visa and didn’t worry about the officers. I had a permit to be here and, unlike most of the population, to have seeds. This was my first month in the country, and I was struggling to understand my new home and connect with the people here.
I looked up numbers for a cab. Tiffany lampshades diffracted light above the bar. A hundred years had flown by without touching this spot. There was even a huge painting of President Ulysses S. Grant behind the bar above the mirrors. Despite the sidewalk cracks and the officials stepping over them outside the window, Union Station was clean.
“Want another?” asked the bartender, coming over to my booth. He was dressed in black wool pants and a black T-shirt with “Union Station” stamped in gold block letters on the pocket. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Of course, that meant nothing.
“It’s good. What do you call it again?” I wanted to be friendly. I’d met few citizens and made fewer friends in my time here.
“Rainy Day Dark Ale. Perfect for today. I brew a small batch when I can. Most people who come in just want CochLite. You have good taste.”
“This is your brew? I love the aroma. I’ll take one more,” I said.
The bartender brought me an amber glass and read my company nametag pinned to my jacket.
“Dr. Catrina Pandora Van Dingle.”
I snatched off the tag and put it in my pocket. My name had always been embarrassing for me and what kind of person sits in a bar wearing a name tag? I might as well have worn a “Rob me” sign.
“It’s a Dutch name,” I said quickly. “What’s yours?”
“Ulysses.” Now this bar was making sense. Union Station. U.S. Grant. He had to be the owner. Ice balls ticked the street-facing window as the temperature dropped below the freezing point.
“You work for The Company, I see.” His deep voice poured from his chest as easily as beer from a pitcher.
“I do. I study chemicals in plants. I’m analyzing beans grown from seeds found in an old pair of pants.” Too much information. I should have stopped at do. The man leaned towards me so I went on talking.
“The original beans were found in antique corduroy trousers purchased at an estate sale by Bert Cochton.” Bert was a history buff who specialized in buying up old Civil and Revolutionary War clothes abandoned in attics. Part owner of Cochton Enterprises, he had a dream about these beans the moment he got his hands on them—that they would lead to something great. When a Cochton has a dream, no one in Cochtonville stands in his way.
Ulysses said, “I see. Well, better call somebody for a ride if you’re waiting for the bus. Things here don’t get fixed quickly, as you know.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been in Cochtonville for a month.”
“Oh. Welcome to the city.” I’d saturated him with information. He went back to the bar as I dialed for a ride. Fifteen minutes passed. No luck getting a cab.
The lights of the Pavilion of Agriculture snapped on and most of the bar’s patrons drifted out the door—a three-inch-thick Prohibition-style affair with a rectangular peephole—leaving me alone with the bartender, a couple kissing on the couch in the corner, and a man and woman playing pool. The man wore a newsboy cap and thick plastic glasses. The woman, hair shimmery with henna (2-hydroxy-1,4-naphthoquinone) was in a tight red dress with a little bow under the left breast. In contrast, I wore a cropped jacket over a green polo, with the gold C for “Cochton,” purchased at the company store. Cochton Enterprises liked us to wear insignia clothes. It made us appear professional. I unclipped my hair and let it fall like a sandy flag.
The woman from the pool table glided over to the blue-backlit bar, graceful in her heels. She had twenty-pound breasts and a ten-pound ass, and I was insecure in her presence. She shook her hair at the bartender and let it drape over one eye. “Hey, Ulysses, get me a drink of water.”
Surprisingly, she came to the booth and sat across from me.
“He’s being friendly to you ’cuz he’s in the doghouse,” the woman said. Here was the first person in Cochtonville who’d approached me when it had nothing to do with work or commerce. “Hey, Ulysses, how about some snacks?” she called.
“He’s being friendly?” I said, confused.
“He usually don’t talk to Company people much. I got no prejudices. Nothing much to hide. I’m Maven, by the way.”
“I’m Catrina.”
The weather report was on the television. An “arctic invasion,” the forecaster was saying.
The bartender put a basket of pretzels in front of me and handed Maven her water.
Maven chomped a pretzel. “I’d hate to be on the road with this ice. Lucky all I have to do is walk the streets. Ulysses, give me some of what’s behind the counter.”
“That, my dear, will cost. Cash money this time,” the bartender said, reaching into his pocket and tucking something in her palm.
She snapped her fingers shut to hide it. “Put it on my tab.”
He put a hand on his hip. “Maven, let me know if you’re going to die soon.”
She opened her leather purse and blinked. “What you mean by that?”
“I’ve carried you this long. I might as well be a pallbearer and finish the job.”
She slipped the small item into her purse. It dropped in silently. The bartender went back to the bar and stood behind it. The man in the cap joined Maven and me in the booth.
“Ulysses talks tough, but he’d be nowhere if it weren’t for Bernadette. She’s the real manager of this place,” he said. “They’re both the proprietors, but she’s the one with the business sense.”
“He’s the creative one,” Maven said. “They’re having another tiresome fight. That’s why she’s not here.”
“They’ll get over it,” the man said, bug-eyed behind his glasses. “They’ve got to.”
He went to the pool table and put a cue between his legs.
“Hey, baby, you can lead a horse to water. Who’ll play break the law with me?” He wiggled it at me.
“Go home, Ernie Ray,” Ulysses said from behind the bar. “You’ll get me arrested. This nice woman here probably agrees that all deviants need locking up.”
Ernie Ray put his pool cue on the table. “Hey, man, is this some kind of acid test? I’m not going anywhere.” He sat next to me again. I inched away. I wasn’t quite used to so many locals in one spot displaying their strange attitudes and archaic speech patterns, as if they’d been dropped into a time hole by their separation from the rest of the United States.
“Welcome to the joint.” Ernie Ray huffed his stale popcorn breath in my face, as if all he ate was free bar food and he was eager to share the experience. “You’re cute. Single?” He had a prominent brow and hairy eyebrows. He’d hit on a sore topic. I was single but didn’t want to be single forever. My parents had expressed worry that this place was known to be prudish and I’d never find a man. My granny was concerned I would find a man—an oppressive one. I wasn’t sure I had room in my life for a man at all, and yet, I wanted more than just a life in the lab. I wanted kids, a family, everything good that a person could experience.
“Aren’t you getting a little too personal?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. He was the desperate type. He made me uncomfortable. I was sure I’d caught a glimpse of him slumped against the door the last time the bus had zoomed past.
Ulysses came over and leaned on the booth. “Ernie Ray, find that guy who pays you ten to go down on him. I’m trying to keep a decent place here.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead doing that for only a ten,” Ernie Ray said in all seriousness.
“Walls talk, Ernie.” Ulysses pulled him from the booth. “And accidents will happen, pal.”
“Wait, wait. One poem for her. It’s called ‘Toast to a New Girl.’”
“Poem?” I asked. The media here was twenty-four-hour news. It surprised me that people even knew what a poem was.
“Make it fast,” Ulysses said. “Watch the words.”
Ernie Ray shrugged off Ulysses’s grasp and steadied himself. He recited with a deep croak.
“Let’s drink to getting hard
To holding the line
To cornering the market
To hiding all women in the suburbs
Only wearing Floyd.”
He bowed. I wasn’t sure if I should clap or not. This whole thing had me uncomfortable.
“Did you like it?” he asked eagerly.
“What did it mean? I can’t say I understand poetry. Is it all about emotion? Sincerity?” I couldn’t classify this guy. Maybe he was one of those who came with special-handling instructions.
“Exactly,” he said.
The door opened and a man in a tan uniform came in with a keg on a cart. “Delivery,” he said brightly, shaking precipitation from his short hair.
“In this weather? You’re a juggernaut,” Ulysses said, following him as he wheeled the beer to the cooler behind the counter.
Ulysses unlocked a drawer. He counted out bills and gave them to the man and asked, “Need a tip?”
“Sure do,” the guy replied. “Brings a man out on a night not fit for sewer rats.”
Ulysses reached under the cash tray, palmed something, and shook the man’s hand, giving him what he’d taken out.
“Be gentle,” Ulysses said. “And be careful on that ice.”
“Will do,” said the man, a common-looking, middle-aged fellow. I couldn’t imagine what he might be getting for a tip. He slipped out with a rattle like a specter of smoke or a final breath.
“Me too,” Ernie Ray said. “I need a tip.”
“When you deliver something useful,” Ulysses said.
“I delivered a poem to the new girl,” he said hopefully.
“More like a nightmare.” Ulysses took Ernie Ray by the arm and walked him to the door.
“It will be when Bernadette finds out. I won’t tell if you tip me. This girl isn’t even your style. Hardly worth the risk.”
“All right, I’ve had enough. Get out.” Ulysses tossed him into the icy night.
“Chickens will come home to roost,” Ernie Ray yelled as Ulysses shut the door.
“That wasn’t called for. You know he’s not playing with a full deck,” Maven said.
“You too,” Ulysses said, opening the door. “Time to go to work.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“I am. I’m closing early.” He called to the kissing couple, “You two, the couch is finished for the night.”
Maven tossed her hair. “No need to bite my head off. You’re all sizzle and no steak. Do you think I’m playing gooseberry?” She put her purse under her arm, strutted to the exit, and slammed the door as she left. A few seconds later, she opened it. “Ernie’s making a fountain on your wall.” After the couple slunk past her, she slammed the door again.
I took a deep breath while Ulysses leaned over me and closed wooden blinds with a clatter. It had been a while since I’d smelled a man’s t-shirt. If not for the beer, his molecules invading my nose would have made me nervous.
“Dr. Van Dingle, were you planning on meeting someone here or getting a ride?”
“I’m calling a cab, but I’m not getting through. Do you have a phone that works?” I asked in frustration. This place was playing catch-up on everything except growing food.
Maven poked her head in the door. “Ulysses is a one-off! He always runs back to Bernadette.” Ulysses went and leaned on the door, forcing her back out.
“She’s right,” he said as he snapped the lock on the door.
“Are you going to keep that door locked?”
“Just for the next five minutes. Another beer? On me.” He pulled out a phone. “I’ll see if I can get through.”
“I’m near my capacity. This stuff is good. Dreamy. I mean creamy.”
“Glad you like it. Made from rainwater and the best of secret ingredients.” He put down his phone. “No answer and no use leaving a message.”
“I could figure out your secret. I’m a chemist after all.”
He sat down across from me. “You’ll never get a secret from me.” Did he have dimples?
I eased myself into the coziness of the place. “Are you going to join me, or must I drink alone?”
“I don’t drink on the job. It could lead to bad habits.” Ulysses had baby blue eyes and thick lashes, I noted, in case I had to give a Patrol report.
“You’re closed. You even pulled the shades.”
Five hours of lost signals, a discussion on importation and chemistry of hops, one locked door, a microwaved pizza, and two beers beyond my limit later, Ulysses turned off the light over the bar. I wasn’t sure what my options were. There had to be a hotel within walking distance. The weather was too bad for scary weirdos like Ernie Ray to be slinking around. Only the officers would be on the sidewalk.
Ulysses stood with his arms folded across his chest. “I live above the bar. I’ll bring down a blanket and you can sleep here.” I watched him open a door next to the beer cooler and climb a narrow set of stairs. He had a nice butt and a steady walk with an easy gait. For a second, I was embarrassed by my staring at the butt of a man instead of considering his mind. Was it so wrong? I was a professional woman with a promising career. I could objectify a man I’d never see again, couldn’t I? The only dangerous objectification was internal objectification that limits a person’s scope of experiences and leads to shame and depression. Did I learn that in college or was I drunk?
My equilibrium off kilter, I sat listening to the city, waiting for Ulysses to return with a blanket. It was dead still except for the tapping of ice on the window. It gave me the creeps. The floor of the bar was all footprints and popcorn. The booths were about four uncomfortable feet long. This dreamy bartender had me lusting to whiff his t-shirt. Grant’s portrait was looking sexy. I’d slip out and find my way home before I grew more ridiculous. I went to the door, stood on tip toes, unbolted it, and poked my head out. A sheet of ice twinkled over the gnarled sidewalk. The bus was still there, frozen in place, listing a little or maybe it was me being unsteady. Not a sole around. Ice pellets pinged on the streetlights. Down the block, one flickered and went out. A siren’s scream exploded across the city. I leapt back, my heart pounding in my throat. A robotic voice, loud enough to blast paint from a building, bounced through the city. “Alert. A security violation has been reported. Citizens, remain inside.” I slammed the door and covered my ears, refusing to panic.
Ulysses came down the stairs. He had no blanket. “Don’t worry. We get warnings all the time.”
“What’s it mean?”
“If you go out, the Vice Patrol will use you for target practice.”
“What about Maven?”
“Every person for herself at times like this.”
His gender-inclusive language warmed my flustered heart—he was a magic number, an island of stability. I liked him. I trusted him. Autonomous pheromones and perspiration sprouting under his arms, he reached over and locked the door. “You’d better come upstairs and sleep on the futon. I got a roommate, a woman, so you won’t be in danger except maybe from her. I’m on her bad side tonight. All my fault, I’m afraid. Stay quiet and away from windows.”
“I can take on any woman.” The beer had me cocky.
“No, honey, believe me. Not Bernadette. She never loses.
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