Expatriate

[Storyteller]

Dan
February. The realisation that the second month of the year was already upon them hit him like freight train. Blindsided, Daniel found himself stumbling towards the weekend with an uneasy feeling in his gut. Negative thoughts crowded his mind. Doctor Green wasn’t back in town until next Thursday, and Daniel refused to make the call. This wasn’t a downward spiral; it was simply a hiccup, an temporary dip that he could get himself out of. There was no reason to call his psychiatrist, to interrupt the man’s free time. He could handle himself, he had to believe that much. Faith was an expensive mistress. The pride he felt when he’d tossed out the last flattened box was not enough. The comfort he felt as he sunk into the couch, feet on the cleared coffee table wasn’t as comfortable as he remembered. Nothing helped. The thought of work only delighted his negativity; his career problems were fuel to a fire he sought to put out. If only alcohol could drown the flames. It didn’t, but he was desperate for escape, and so he found himself here. “Double bourbon.”

Lancaster dArto
For weeks -- or had it been months, now? -- Elliot Lancaster, formerly known to a select few as 'Freddie', had begun to fully settle back into a new but familiar routine. It would be familiar to those who knew him before, familiar to an old self who still lived, somewhere, in the corner of his soul. So much had changed and Lancaster still floated, not completely at ease but at ease enough to at least appear content and happy. He did not yet feel whole, but he assumed that would come with time. Life had been a storm, waves heaving against sharp rocks, but now that it had settled to a gentle lapping and a clear(ish) blue sky, he'd discovered that remnants of his old power remained. Small, but they were there. So that when he approached his newest customer -- who asked for a double bourbon -- he was aware of the tumultuous emotion that had driven him to the bar stool. Anxiety, but nothing quite as simple as that. Lancaster nodded, and went about collecting tumbler and bourbon. He poured it in front of the customer, before pushing the glass across. "Should I leave the bottle?" he asked. A hint that he had guessed some deeper trouble.

Dan
Could he afford to slip a hundred dollar bill across the sticky counter for the bottle? How much did he pay Doctor Green a session? We’re psychiatrists simply glorified bartenders, handing out medication instead of tumblers and shot glasses? There’d been a time in history when medicine and alcohol had been one and the same. He glanced past the stranger, searching for the familiar names. Jaegermeister was all he saw. Then again, an Irish pub was unlikely to be stocked in every imaginable German spirit. Daniel shook his head, then brought the tumbler to his lips and slammed its contents down. He slid the empty glass back towards the bartender, and fished a fifty from his wallet. It’d be enough to cover at least… three. Hell, he’d not even looked at the prices. It was something he’d have to start doing until business settled. He placed the money on the countertop and tucked his wallet into the jacket hanging from his seat. Or so he thought, unaware as the leather hit the ground. “You own the place?”

Lancaster dArto
If Lancaster had still been a vampire, he might have heard the slap of leather against wood. However, with the music playing overhead (some 80s classic rock song someone had chosen from the jukebox) and the sound of laughter and revelry scattered around the pub, he heard nothing beyond what was directly in front of him. He took the note to mean another drink was required, and poured another double shot. "I do. It's my home away from home," he said, Australian accent broad but not crude, his smile warmed by the sun he'd basked in earlier that day.

Dan
Daniel thought it looked nice, but he didn’t vocalise it. He hummed in approval, giving the place a cursory glance over his shoulder. It lacked the cosy dimness he’d come associate with some of the bars he’d ventured to, but the lack of darkened nooks and crannies also gave it a cleaner edge. There was something about many of the places he’d visited that’d made him uncomfortable. At first he’d scratched it up to the novelty of being a single, divorced man, but after one encounter too many with a vampire, he’d come to realise his discomfort sourced from something far more instinctual. He’d known the shadow as a dark place, a prison of his own making, but here in Harper Rock, it was where predators roamed free. “What would’ve an Australian pub looked like?” As pleasant as the place felt — reminiscent of midwestern city bars, Irish theme was a bit of a cop out.

Lancaster dArto
"An Australian pub?" Lancaster repeated the question, brow arched, before he shrugged. "I don't think there's such thing as an 'Australian' pub. Though I suppose..." he thought of the many small town pubs he'd visited with their large fans attached to walls, swinging backwards and forwards but doing nothing more than push around hot air and dissuade the flies from landing anywhere. "Sparse. Lino floors, cracked. Attempting modernity but always a step behind the curb," he said with a laugh. "Honestly, most pubs in Australia try to look like pubs from somewhere else. They look like this," he said, gesturing to the walls around him.

Dan
Strangers in a strange land the two of them. Expatriated kindred spirits, or something along those post-colonial lines. Perhaps that was why Daniel found the man engaging. Or perhaps he was starved for company, distraction, and there was already two beers and a two shots of bourbon eroding his guard. He’d never been to Australia. It was one of those distant places that sounded part ridiculous, part mythical, and which was probably not that different from most other places in the world when it came down to it. Taking a sip of his bourbon this time, he leaned forward onto his forearms, drawn into the conversation. 
“So how long you been here?” As long as he was asking questions, they weren’t talking about him. And as long as they weren’t talking about him, he could pretend he was someone else, for a while.

Lancaster dArto
The question caused a firing of synapses, a rapid fire of memories flashing back and forth like the impatient flickering of television channels. They were being filed and thumbed, some snapped back and away, snuffled and hidden. Some allowed the light of day. One such memory was of these two feet stepping foot on Harper Rock soil -- well, asphalt. A small plane landing at Harper Rock airport. The air had been crisp and a new adventure awaited. It had been near Christmas, 2011. "Just over six years," he said. "You?"

Dan
Six years. Daniel had lived in a place longer than six years, but to do so in Harper Rock seemed like a feat. Disappearances, murders, gang violence, booming tourism, vampires... It was Canada’s slice of Area 51. Minus the aliens… so far. Area 51 meets Detroit. It was undeniable that the mysticism of the city had been part of its allure, but he’d picked it because it wasn’t what people would’ve assumed he’d pick. Canada itself held little interest for Emily, and that had made it all the more appealing. Of course, his visa conditions were tied to his financial ventures, which weren’t doing so well. He look a large gulp of his drink before answering, “Just over a month.” He’d spent Christmas with family, travelling back and forth before that, but he’d opened his first cardboard box in the new year. Tonight, he’d opened the last. Somehow, it didn’t feel like much of a feat. He took another swig, emptying the tumbler.

Lancaster dArto
Just over a month. Lancaster's head bobbed; he didn't know what brought people to Harper Rock nor what inclination they would have to stay -- beyond being turned into an undead creatures of the night who risked permanent death if they left the safety of the rift. Why had that ever stopped Lancaster? Why had he been afraid of death when he'd been so open to the possibility before? Now he was human, and he had no reason to stay. And yet here he was. Maybe there was something else about Harper Rock, something below the surface that no one had yet discovered. A sonic soundwave that kept everyone enthralled. "And you have plans to stick around...?" he asked, holding up the bottle of bourbon with an arched brow -- a question. Would the guy have another?

Dan
Daniel nodded, lifting the glass and holding it for his third drink to be poured. If he didn’t take it easier from this one onwards, the Australian would be picking him off the floor by half-past. But he was confident he would take this one slower; the anxiety was melting away, liquid courage warming his insides. The conversation though, it was a reminder of things he’d come to forget. He resented that. He resented how it’d all played out, how even internationally she had some influence on his life. Foolish of him to think the divorce papers signed, he’d be free. He’d given it all away, sacrificed for a freedom that was only half real. “That’s the plan. We’ll see how well it goes though…” he brought the tumbler to eye level, and watched the liquid slosh around. “What’s keeping you here? Family?”




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