Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Fifteen

In which our heroine meets a fellow bartender and has a drink.

Lorinda tried to stay in the shadows, tried to spot security cams, tried to make a plan. Getting arrested, tossed into a breeding center, being forced to marry Brad — whom, she now realized as she walked, she couldn’t stand the sight of — was definitely not an option. But what was the alternative?

She crossed at an intersection. The streetscape on the other side was completely different. Instead of seedy industrial buildings, alleys, and vacant lots, there were gleaming, pre-fab modular stacks four, five, even six stories high. Dozens of multicolored stacks, maybe hundreds, stretched off into the distance. A tall barbed-wire fence separated their tidy little back yards from the sidewalk. She saw swing sets, bicycles and tricycles, small climbing structures, a miniature trampoline. In some of the yards there were little Black kids at play, along with some of their parents. 

The block was endless. She finally came to an entryway over which an arched, wrought-iron sign announced 

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Little Harlem. It was vaguely familiar. She must have heard or read about it somewhere. The name had something fantastical about it, like a magical place from a storybook, full of amusing, mischievous little people who got into scrapes and got up to shenanigans. But here it was, big as life and dead serious.

A hundred yards down the street, a police car slowly turned a corner and headed toward her. Ignoring her thudding heart, trying to look as normal as possible, she strolled in. 

It was like another world. For one thing, there were two Black people walking ahead of her. She’d of course seen plenty of pictures of Black people. And videos and movies, and on the news. Pastor Doug occasionally invited Black musicians to join the house band for Sunday services, and they were always really good. And she vaguely remembered that she’d seen some Black jazz musicians playing in a park when her family vacationed in New Orleans. But she’d never seen one, much less two, just strolling along as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The thought that she should be afraid flickered through her mind, but she realized she was much more afraid of what could be coming after her from the direction of the hospital. 

She picked up her pace, hurrying past the little stores carved out of the modular units that lined both sides of the street. A candy store. A burger-and-fried-chicken place. A clothing store. The Little Harlem Vintage Shop, with a window full of old junk. Another restaurant, this one called Bernice Soul Food. Little Italy Pizza. A hardware store. It was so interesting she almost forgot that she was on the run. An appliance-repair shop! A shop that repaired musical instruments! A place called the Harlem Jazz Club. Then a blues club. Then something called The R&B Club. She turned down a cross street and was surprised to see that Little Harlem was … big! It just kept going. The architecture was the same, but the storefronts were all different, each seemingly expressing the personality of the owner. A walk-in clinic! A shop that sold nothing but frozen foods! And then she came upon a double-wide storefront with a neon BAR sign in the window. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but the place was open. Without hesitating, Lorinda went in and immediately calmed down. The bar, the tables, the bottles, the glasses: She was back in her element. For the first time since she’d escaped from the hospital, she felt safe.

“ALL RIGHT BRAD,” said Janelle Stark in the friendliest, least antagonistic voice she could manage. It was difficult enough to talk with all those bandages on her head; her anger only made it worse. “Now tell me again what we’re going to do.”

Brad, on the verge of throwing up, was trying with everything he had to keep it together. “You’re driving me to this place Little Harlem because you know Lorinda went there because you have cameras everywhere.” 

“That’s right. And what are you going to do there?”

“I’m going to find her and bring her back out to you and your crew. You’ll be waiting by the entrance in two official G-Wagens because you can’t go into Little Harlem —”

“We can go in if we need to, Brad. Keep that in mind. It’s part of our unofficial agreement that we only go in for national security purposes. Do you love her, Brad?”

“Yes, I think I do. She’s so beautiful.”

“And what else?”

“And she’s carrying my baby. Is she really pregnant?”

“She wants an abortion,” said Stark sneering the best sneer she could muster with all those bandages around her face. “You don’t want an abortion if you’re not pregnant.”

“Right, right. And I’m going to tell her how much I care for her and how great a life and family we’ll have together and how she’s trapped and better come out with me or ...”

“Or there will be consequences.”

“Right. Consequences.” 

“Close enough. All right, Brad, let’s go. And remember, we’ll be watching you.”

THE BAR WAS EXPANSIVE and dimly lit, which met with Lorinda’s professional approval. It was empty, which did not. Of course, it was still before noon. Maybe the place wasn’t even open to the public yet. PumpJack’s opened at 5 p.m., although most days you could walk in the door before then. Of course you’d be asked to leave as soon as you encountered a member of the staff. The bar itself was a beaut: long, highly polished planks of dark wood with fifteen or twenty stools in front of it and a gorgeous mirrored back bar behind. Bottles lit from below. Very well stocked. 

“Can I help you?” The woman who stood up from behind the bar was Black, early thirties, wearing a boldly colored print top, big hoop earrings, and the wildest hairdo Lorinda had ever seen, furrowed at the scalp, many long, skinny, beaded braids down the sides and back, all perfectly executed. Without realizing it, Lorinda was staring. “Can I help you, miss?” 

“Oh, sorry,” said Lorinda. “I haven’t slept and I’m a little … your hair is just so amazing. And this bar. This bar is beautiful.”

The woman gave her a skeptical smile. 

“I’m a bartender,” Lorinda went on, for some reason feeling slightly foolish. “In Perfecton. Actually, Head of Bartending Operations, or I will be soon. I know a good bar when I see one.” 

“Well, Miss Head of Bartending Operations,” the woman said, “this beautiful bar isn’t open yet. We’ll be open in about forty-five minutes.”

“Shit,” said Lorinda, setting her purse on the bar with a clunk, slumping onto a barstool. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been up driving all night. I think I just killed someone. In a hospital.” 

The woman stared at her.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, do I look like a murderer? Don’t answer that. My friend sent me to this doctor to talk about … a procedure. But the doctor wasn’t a real doctor, she wanted to lock me up, and I mean I’m not going to get locked up for nine months, I have things to do, I have this promotion coming up, I’m not going to marry some dude I don’t even like, they can’t do that.”

“Slow down, honey. Breathe deep. And never forget: They can do whatever they want to. I’m Crystal. Me and my family own this place. I think maybe you need a drink.” She stuck out her hand for a shake.

Lorinda looked at it and hesitated.

Crystal’s eyebrows went up. She said, with a lilt of surprise, “You ever meet a Black person before?”

Lorinda grimaced. “Not really, no.”

“Well don’t worry, honey, it won’t rub off.”

“Oh God. I’m sorry.” Lorinda shook the hand. “I’m Lorinda Moon. Look — I just —”

“Forget it,” Crystal said. “This is the country we live in now.”

“Great. Thanks. So, yeah. A drink. I wasn’t thinking of that, but, yeah, a drink.”

“Or should you be drinking in your … condition?”

Lorinda shot her a look.

“Right,” said Crystal. “You’re working on making your condition go away. Were you followed here?”

“No. I kept turning around to look.”

“Okay,” said Crystal. “What about cameras?”

“I don’t know,” said Lorinda. “I tried to avoid them, but … who knows?”

“Tell me about it,” Crystal said. “How did you kill this person?”

“Well, I don’t know if I killed her, but with this.” Lorinda took the little pink gun out of her purse. “I didn’t shoot her. I hit her with it. In the face. Really hard.”

“That’s so cuuuuute,” Crystal laughed. “You’d better get yourself a bigger cannon, so you can actually shoot someone next time. What are you drinking?” 

 Lorinda set the gun on the bar. “Can you make me a, let’s see, oh, wait, I’m trying to remember … a Nineteen-Twenty Pick-Me-Up Cocktail. It’s got —”

“Hold on, hold on. Okay. It’s two-thirds Pernod, one-third gin, a dash of Angostura, a dash of orange bitters, a dash of sugar syrup, fill it with seltzer.”

Lorinda was awestruck. “How do you know that?”

 “You know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to order that drink?” Crystal reached under the bar and brought up a worn copy of The Savoy Cocktail Book.

“That’s my Bible!” Lorinda cried. “I love that book!”

“It’s the best, right? I must have read it a hundred times, going back seven, eight years,” Crystal said, slipping it back under the bar. “I think I have it memorized.” She started to prepare two glasses. “I need to try this drink. Research,” Crystal said with a wink. “This might be my only chance.“ 

She carefully poured and drizzled and dripped in the ingredients and finished by topping up each glass with bubbly water. Then she slid a glass to Lorinda, lifted her own, and said, “To bartenders. And weird cocktails.”

Lorinda lifted her glass and clinked it against Crystal’s. “To research,” she said. 

They each took a sip, rolled it around on their tongues, and closed their eyes in thought. Crystal spoke first.

“Kind of good. I like that anise-licorice thing. You don’t get that a lot. And the way it goes all milky when the seltzer hits.”

“Pernod,” said Lorinda. “It’s magic. And no one knows about it. ‘Cept maybe in France.” 

“Ain’t that true.” Crystal took another small sip. “Now what are we going to do with you? You can’t stay here. I’m sure they’ve seen you on their cameras. It’s only a matter of time till they track you down. And, nothing personal, but you’ll stick out like a sore thumb here.” 

Lorinda pondered her situation for a moment. “What about the other places,” she said. “Spanish Harlem? The Jewish Ghetto?”

Crystal laughed. “No one’s gonna put themselves and their families at risk with you. It’s called harboring a fugitive. You’ve got to go far away.” 

“But,” said Lorinda, “I need to get back. My promotion—”

“Baby doll. Lorinda. You have other things to think about now. Like saving your ass.”

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PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!

Chapter One. In which we meet our heroine and her dainty little gun.

Chapter Two. In which Lorinda demonstrates her bartending virtuosity.

Chapter Three. In which our heroine receives a promotion and prepares to celebrate.

Chapter Four. In which our heroine proves herself an immoral citizen of the CCSA.

Chapter Five. In which our heroine goes to church.

Chapter Six. In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.

Chapter Seven. In which Lorinda learns something that threatens her big dream.

Chapter Eight. In which our heroine freaks out.

Chapter Nine. In which our heroine says the forbidden word as an unwelcome visitor arrives.

Chapter Ten. In which two unpleasant men perturb our heroine.

Chapter Eleven. In which our heroine seems to have found a solution to her problem.

Chapter Twelve. In which that black truck follows our heroine all the way to Austin.

Chapter Thirteen. In which Lorinda lashes out.

Chapter Fourteen. In which our heroine gets a taste of life in the big city.

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