Virtual Eternity (the Serialized Novel) Episode 4 - The Happy Hour Part One: Mingling and flirting with Lana

This is Episode 4 of the serialized version of the novel, Virtual Eternity: An Epic 90s Retro Florida Techo-Pro-Life Love Story and Conversion Journey. These 52 episodes are presented here free for you. You can buy the paperback version from Mike Church’s Crusade Channel Store (at a lower price than Amazon!).

Or you can start reading at the Table of Contents: here

Episode 4 - The Happy Hour Part One: Mingling and flirting with Lana

In those first three weeks, I still dreamed of bright lights, packets of fire, and little suns. Sleep often eluded me, with all that light.

I rose after these insomnia-filled nights believing that my weeks in Florida were full of too much loneliness. Still no validation from Lana, no Phase 3, no follow-up with Olson yet. When this third work week ended, I had resolved to see the weekend through. Then I would leave Peyton Beach and Vincula.

I entered Santiago’s bar with Mike. Even though I planned to move back west soon, fears of scorn or indifference from new acquaintances still gathered in me. Such apprehension would uphold Lana’s knowledge of me. I must prove her wrong, and I must ignore my worries. Were my heroes afraid of the ball hitting them before they smacked it over the fence? I could win everything in one swing: Mike’s respect, Phase 3 access, and the touch of Lana’s sculpted and perfect lips.

Poor Olson could probably never get the access for me. Only Lana could. I had not spoken to her since my disastrous dinner invitation two days before. Further efforts to win her could embarrass me, but I had nothing to lose. She might laugh at my tasteless methods, those that had won dozens of college girls, those that seemed corrupt when applied to those innocents, but fair when applied to Lana. As I moved through the bar, I dispelled my hesitation. I had now reached the highest league, as all my heroes had. Their life of excellence spread before me in an imagined world, one swing away. I had one more time to bat, before I resigned and returned to Colorado to search for the perfections, the Goodness and Authenticity, held by Meredith or someone else, if not Lana, here and now.

A barrier island shielded the suburbs from the ocean’s turmoil. A host of marinas clung to the side away from that tumult, on a long river that connected to other rivers to stretch up and down the entire peninsula. Boats of vacationers and fishermen sailed and motored in this smooth, dark waterway and docked for sleep or refreshment. Next to the mangroves and marinas, hidden under the shade of some oak trees, stood Santiago’s, named for a Cuban immigrant who fished the productive waters some twenty years before the town began to serve contemporary industries. The bar perched on the edge of the water’s churns like a way station between earth and oblivion.

The builders of this place probably wanted to activate its natural beauty. But for most patrons, the bar was somewhere to drink and hook up with partners, either in a sexual or fun way, or both. At some time in someone’s mind, however, this place was meant to be savored.

More likely, the builders mainly had considered the profits they must generate. When they bought this mangrove-laden land and constructed the building, the costs were two orders of magnitude less than now. But back then, the owners were strapped enough to be concerned. Then, their goal was to bring in money and its people, many of whom would want to drink and hook up, using the river’s beauty as a backdrop. They hurriedly nailed planks to a porch to make benches and tables, with enough nails to withstand the windiest of winds. They placed the bar nearest the porch so that the drinks could get in front of people faster. They hammered upright planks for people to lean up against, with their arms and bottles hanging over the river and their conversations leading to hooking up.

Mike and I reached the porch. There we met Kevin, who was accompanied by another introduced as Scott Bering. We four men sat in front of the sun hanging in the northwestern sky, thirty-six hours past its summer solstice, still heating the late day. An earlier rain had crawled out to sea a few hours before, leaving its sticky residue on our benches and skin.

We had earned our weekend of freedom. We talked, obtained pitchers of beer from our servers, and swilled competitively. “I windsurfed at lunch,” Mike said. “The winds were intense before that storm.”

We ate the complimentary food, given in morsels and taken in abundance. Conversation ranged from sedate to turbulent.

“They delayed the layoff,” Mike said as he tossed a chicken bone into a dish. “It was supposed to be across-the-board, but the Diversity Action Team got hold of one of the lists. It’s negotiating to change it.”

“No shop talk, Mike,” Scott said as he plunged a chip into salsa. “Where’s Gina tonight?”

“She’s supposed to be here. She’s picking up some of her friends.”

“She works at Vincula, right? Have I seen her yet?”

“I hope you haven’t!” He pointed a shrimp at me. “This guy’s a snake. Remember that night with Higgy’s date?” Mike described the results of a long-ago fraternity party. I felt like a voyeur, as if Mike read a magazine description of someone else’s sex act. Kevin and Scott saw me redden, but respect emanated from their eyes, so I forgot that Mike was stripping a girl’s self from her again. Besides, I reasoned away, the girl would never meet these men imagining her private body being ransacked.

But no tale could match Mike’s description of Paula, our fraternity housemaid, particularly since Mike himself supposedly shared in the experiences. Scott was absorbed in the story.

We met Paula during spring recess at a South Texas gulf beach. My budding marketing background caused me to think that someone had set her up as some absurd spring break advertising display. She wore only a string bikini bottom that hid almost nothing below her rippled stomach, and only patches on her oddly large chest. She drank from a cooler full of beer. She was a mannequin: Her face was stony, emotionless, and smooth; her dark skin and hair framed unlikely bright gray eyes; her joints were lined with tiny bracelets and anklets.

Soon Paula’s situation also interested us. Her parents hated her. After high school, while taking a few junior college classes, she traveled south with several co-eds. She flirted too closely with one girl’s new boyfriend, and these strangers left her on the beach with only a bag of clothes and a cooler. Paula admitted she had trouble befriending other girls. She was much more comfortable with us. Her advanced maturity, sharp wit, disregard for rules, and tiny swimwear fascinated us. At the end of the week, right before someone swatted down the wall of silver beer cans, Paula announced she had nowhere to go. We were unconcerned, until she suggested letting her live at our house. In exchange for a small salary and room, she would perform much-needed cleaning duties.

In the ensuing year, she never did her chores, no one paid her wages, and she never required her own room, since one of our rooms was more than comfortable. I knew her touches better than anyone; my brothers’ stories revealed that she was rather dull, much less innovative than the aggressor I knew. My atrocities even continued during my infatuations with other women. I tried unsuccessfully to stop seeing her. Of course, the women I tried to love broke up with me if they discovered this arrangement.

Mike’s talking ended when Gina arrived with five ladies and three men. Several worked at our company. Two of the girls were named Lisa. I wondered if one was the virgin. I noticed a petite brunette whom Gina introduced as Maureen Kelly. She was shorter than most adults I knew. Her build was slender, and her face displayed this. Her shiny smile and black-dilated eyes surprised me, as did her offering me a handshake. The softness of her hand struck me, too, but I went back to my conversation with Mike.

I faced the water at one end of the picnic table. As Mike talked, I watched a new storm rise on the horizon across the river. Later it floated northward, deluging mainlanders. When the sun dropped behind this gray, the tavern owners flipped on amber Christmas lights strung around the wooden porch to stimulate the festivities. We continued to celebrate the pink and blue dusk that heralded the end of the week’s work. Everyone shouted above the amateurish musicians playing inside.

Everyone at the restaurant dressed the same as they did at work that day. The men wore more formal shirts with collars and buttons down the front. As the night proceeded, the buttons progressively opened up. Most wore jeans, the acceptable Friday pants. The girls wore more varied types of shirts, with brighter colors. If a season had a color trend in fashion circles far away, it never reached Florida in time. Most of the shirts gripped their midsections like the girdles of old, some leaving a sliver of skin exposed near the belly button.

“Aren’t you dating that section leader from Programs?” Mike asked Maureen.

“Yeah, we go out.” She waved her hand. “He’s taking out vendors in Lauderdale tonight.”

“Are ya’ll serious or what?” a Lisa asked in a slow accent.

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s hard to say.”

“He seems like an okay guy,” someone said.

“He is, but you know how men are.” Maureen curled straight brown hair around a finger. “Same problem: No matter how old they are, and he is older, they’re still little boys.”

“Definitely,” Mike said. A loud discussion on the differences between the sexes ensued. Servers continued to spread beer pitchers, wine carafes, and bowls of spicy chicken legs, meatballs, pizza slices, chips, and various dips before us.

“What are we talking about?” Lana Schon flitted over to the table, enjoying nods and turned heads like a celebrity famous for being famous. Commotion reigned. She greeted Gina and Maureen by name. She seemed to know nearly everyone in the company and even their friends. An older man frowned next to her. He dressed himself for a trip into the city: black, blousy, wool suit with collarless shirt; greased hair; deep tan; shiny shoes.

Her arrival quickened me like the cocaine I had inhaled once. The accelerated heart had scared me, and I’d never taken it again.

She sat across the table from me and leaped into the debate. “The theory is that men seek to trample over each other to be the best. Women want to build consensus and connections, but men build walls around themselves.”

Blithe from the beer, I stole every occasion to look across the table at her. I avoided leering, but I could stare whenever she spoke. I concentrated on her kiss.

“Look at Reggie here.” She nodded to the urban escort standing behind her. “He’s unhappy with his evening so far, but I haven’t heard one word from him about how he feels.”

Reggie folded his arms. “Lana, I never said I was not enjoying--”

“Little boys,” she said, “are brought up by their mothers and taught to be different from them, to disassociate, and to look to the object-world. They teach girls to attach to their mothers and to other people. That’s how it begins.” Glazed eyes looked back at her. “That’s why men constantly interrupt other people. That’s why you see boys arguing about rules when playing games. That’s why they’re obsessed with their position relative to the outside world. They’re concerned with job titles and salaries. I see it every day.”

“And women aren’t hung up on those?” I asked.

“To some extent, we are, but our main goal is fairness.”

“The problem is that men don’t express emotions,” a Lisa said.

“Women spend too much time worrying about their feelings,” Mike said.

“And the intensity changes,” I said, smiling. “Sometimes depending on the day of the month.”

“Don’t go there!” Mike laughed.

Lana slapped at me in jest. “Whatever. Women are natural harmonizers, Mike. Since we want understanding between people, we need to read people’s feelings.”

“Why do you need to talk about emotions so often?” Kevin asked. “We’re constantly battling over that.” He motioned to the pouty, bug eyed brunette next to him. Apparently, she was his lover, Winnie, although they had barely looked at each other after she arrived with Gina. At our lunch three weeks ago, I noticed Kevin had little enthusiasm for her. Maybe she was the virgin, thus explaining his despondency.

“It’s communication,” Lana said. “What else is there between us? You need to work at relationships.”

Several spoke up at once.

“Our entire civilization and its notions of what’s important are based on male ideals of success.” Lana spoke directly to me, the only one still listening to her. “For men, care and friendship are secondary to worldly achievement.”

“They taught us in college that the entire Western system was tainted,” I said. Don’t be collegiate. “But if your system based on cooperation and care is so important, shouldn’t we ask if more people would be happier living under it?”

Reggie leaned toward Lana and whispered in her ear. A gold chain dangled from his neck.

“No,” Lana said. “It isn’t a game, Reggie. We can talk later.” He grimaced and stomped indoors to the bar stand.

“He wants us to be alone tonight. We haven’t seen each other for a few weeks, and he’s been jealous. He knows I’ve been going out. It’s like he’s watching me.”

“Want us to take him to the parking lot and beat him?” I asked.

“He’ll get over it.” Lana grinned. “Now, what was the wall you were building, I mean, the point you were making?”

I repeated my question, and she smiled again. “You’d be judging the system by the same male standards. That’s not particularly fair.” She laughed and pointed a celery stick at me. “It’s typical of a male to suggest we rank ideas by winners and losers, like football teams. Everyone has a right to her opinion. You can’t say one is better than the other. You must realize that women view the world differently, and understand when we do.”

“Anyway, I won the debate,” I said, smiling.

The rest of the table shifted to lighter chatter when servers delivered more food. As Mike told me, the talk “was getting too deep.” This relieved me. In this age, people’s beliefs are presumed equal, but discussing politics or religion is taboo. Years ago, I recognized that stating a theory on politics might lump me in with an absolutist morality. If disagreeable, this view could turn someone against me. They might make an example of me, as my parents often did to each other.

After an hour, Lana withdrew to find her escort. As she passed, several red-eyed men turned to follow her hourglass shape as if they were slapped.

Some hours later, conversations faded. Several of the celebrants had disappeared. Kevin departed, leaving Winnie alone with a wine bottle at the end of the table.

Maureen had said little during the discussions. She seemed content to drink blush wine and laugh at all the quips. No matter how far removed, every topic transformed into a sexual metaphor and turned the conversation to sex. Hilarity overcame everyone. I was relaxed by the laughter and jokes, by the beer, by the oxygen of the oaks, by the arching bridge in the distance, by the occasional glimpse of dolphins similarly arching up in the darkening waterway, by glances at Lana or Gina or Winnie, and by the friendly people just starting adult life. I faced Scott and Mike, but my ears often found the girls.

“Where’d Kevin go?” Maureen asked Winnie as she moved to the end of the table.

“He left,” Winnie said. “I don’t know what his problem is. He’s bored with everything. I’m afraid things aren’t working out between us.”

“That’s too bad,” Maureen said. “You’re a cute couple. What do you suppose is wrong?”

“I don’t know. At first, we were friends. We’d go out with a big group, then we’d always end up together. We liked to do the same things. But after a while, he became distant from me, like he was tonight.”

“He drank a lot more than everybody else,” Maureen said. “Maybe that’s it. Does beer usually make him quiet?”

“No way. It’s him. In the last couple of months, his whole aura has changed.”

“His aura?”

“Yeah. I’ve learned to see the glow around people. He used to have pinks and oranges. Now I only see browns. Look at Gina. She has yellow surrounding her tonight. And so do you. You seem happy.”

The two talked for over an hour. By then, my thoughts became thoroughly muddled. I often looked over to Lana at the crowded bar stand. She intercepted my stare four or five times and returned it like a mirror. She was a puzzle I must solve. What could she teach me?

In this moment, I grasped my need to know the Eternal that Lana was holding in her, yet apart from her, this perfect object that must be God; such an enormity and significance, attached to her, a power to know me, could only be known imperfectly, and by her allowing me, right here.

I turned back to Mike but listened to the girls.

“Kevin’s a big virtual reality nut now,” Winnie said. “He showed me one game that makes you weave your way out of a male stripper dressing room. You don’t lose if they capture you.”

“You have a system?” Maureen asked.

“No, I use Kevin’s company model, although I’m not supposed to.”

“At least you have something in common,” Maureen said through a shiny smile that I managed to get a glimpse of.

“That’s right,” Winnie said. “I can’t wait ‘til it’s released to everyone. I’ve been paying back my credit cards for a couple months so I have enough to buy it.”

They chatted about movies, and restaurants, a safe topic since everyone’s palate is certainly relative. When Gina joined them, Mike and I followed.

Lana’s argument with Reggie droned on. Finally, as their voices rose a bit too high, they left the bar patrons to their celebrations.

We followed out an hour later. In the parking lot, my new friends and I wove around the cars and over shiny puddles. I waited by Winnie’s car as she and Maureen arranged a shopping trip for the following weekend. I hunted for Lana, for that perfection I thought I could link to something eternal, outside her, by abstracting, but how? 

Next Week: Episode 5 - The Happy Hour Part Two: Analyzing the man

Copyright © 2022 Christopher Rogers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual events or localities or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.