By John Leatherman
I swim to the bar of the Trendy Anemone nightclub and hail the fuchsia-haired, green-skinned mermaid bartender, squinting at her name badge. “Hey, uh… Mara. What have you got that’s, uh, free?”
Amazing. I finally managed to telepath through a whole question without a drop leaking into my mouth. I probably moved my lips, though.
She stares at me, phosphorescent silver eyes flaring. “I’m sorry, did you say free?”
The word hear doesn’t begin to describe how I perceive Mara’s telepathic voice. It hits my brain’s sensory lobes like the timbre of windchimes combined with the caress of a light evening breeze.
I cut my gaze toward the bouncer, a barnacled octoperson with bulging tentacle muscles, leering at me from a few fathoms above. “I paid the cover… I didn’t think I’d have to buy a drink too. And I’d kind of like to make rent this month.” All the cheapest brews are for the Atlanteans, who can imbibe through an osmosis-like process that I still don’t understand. Anything requiring a squeeze bottle is a premium item.
“Surface boy, huh? First week on the kelp harvest?”
“What gave me away?” I smirk down at my sheer gray wetsuit and kick my non-scaly legs equipped with swim fins. “Just got my first check. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff they deducted from it. Equipment fees. Nightly draining of the employee living quarters. And the hydroxygen tax? Whoa.”
“Well, we only treat our water with hydroxygen to accommodate surface people. Atlanteans can breathe and t-speak in ordinary seawater.”
“Yeah, they covered that in the orientation holo-vid.” I t-groan. “At the very end. Would like to have known that part before I signed up for the whole summer.”
Mara smiles. “All right, just this once, because you look kind of cute when you’re gobsmacked…” She places a four-ounce plastic squeeze bottle of spring water on the counter.
I show my “purchase” to the octo-bouncer, who nods and swishes away.
Clutching it to my chest, I turn back to Mara. “Thank you so much. I won’t forget this. I’ll find a way to—”
“Let me stop you right there, Geoffrey Chattersley Thimbly,” Mara cuts me off. “You want to save up until you can thank me properly with dinner at Seas 52.”
I stare at her, stunned.
Mara continues, unfazed. “That would be a lovely offer. And I’d accept, because, you know—free food. But I don’t want to be what keeps you from your goal of covering your fall semester at Twin Forks University without another desperate call to Grandpa Chattersley.”
“How do you know so much about me?”
She t-giggles. “Geoff, here’s an orientation tip that wasn’t in the holo-vid—humans aren’t very good at telepathic conversation. They don’t know the difference between t-speaking and thinking.”
I grimace. Despite being the one in the wetsuit, I feel naked.
She pats my hand. “Relax. In time, you’ll learn to keep those sweet thoughts to yourself.”
The sensation of her skin against mine is like a gentle, ethereal evening breeze massaging my entire being.
Mara drifts along the counter. “All right, I have other customers. Please drink responsibly. And don’t let the empty bottle end up in the ocean. Even though it kind of already is.”
Pushing off the bar, I propel myself up through the permeable membrane enclosing the dance sphere. Inside, a womanatee techno band performs. Swarms of human-fish hybrids sway and gyrate to the otherworldly trills and rhythms. I blunder through a crude imitation of their dance.
“Thimbly? Is that you?”
Even away from the kelp fields, that t-voice smells and feels like slimy seaweed. I swivel toward the muscular blue merman with curly orange locks. “Mr. Cornelius! Almost didn’t recognize you without the safety vest.”
He t-chuckles. “No need to repel sharks in here.”
“I wouldn’t think so.” I glance at the bouncer. “They could never afford this place.”
“The numbers are in, and you’re our top kelp wrangler. Congratulations. I have to say you’ve taken to this job like a human to air. How did you find your first week?”
I hesitate and then realize the futility of a diplomatic answer. “Awful, Sir.”
Cornelius winces. “You are refreshingly honest for a Terran.”
“Don’t misunderstand me; Atlantis is amazing. But it’s way more expensive than I expected, and now it turns out I can’t even work my game on cute mermaids. How soon can I go home?”
Cornelius strokes a webbed hand on his bearded chin. Maybe he’s pondering how long Grandpa Chattersley will laugh before he considers rehiring me at the rubber cement factory.
I pile on more t-questions. “Is there a transport tomorrow? Could I use my round-trip inter-realm transit fare on it? I know I opted to pay that off in four easy installments, but maybe I could pay it all now?” I perform the unforgiving mental math. “Any chance I could get a prorated refund on my advance fees?”
Finally, Cornelius t-replies. “We’d really hate to lose such a productive worker so early in the season. How would you like a one-month bonus?”
My jaw drops, and water rushes in. As I choke it out, I t-ask, “A full month? Nothing garnished for hydroxygen or equipment or dryness subsidies?”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t need them at the end of the summer.”
“So, this is a sign-off bonus?”
“I could authorize it once you satisfy three conditions. One, you complete the work term you originally contracted. Two, you continue to perform at a satisfactory level.” He pauses to let a humanta ray dart between us. “And three, on your departure, you promise to honestly tell everyone back home that your summer in Atlantis was the best time of your life.”
I stare at the bottle in my hand and glance down at Mara. “You’ve got a deal.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I love your stories, John! You’ve got a great quirky style that keeps your me just a little off-balance. Any chance we’ll see more of these characters?
Glad you liked it!
So far Super Gus is the only recurring character, but I quite often write as though there could be more.
Great horrible job story.
Glad you liked it. The inspiration came from an ad in my campus newspaper claiming you could earn big money over the summer on the salmon boats in Alaska.
Fun story!
Thank you!
Good one and original.