The Introvert's Lament

Loneliness.
Sometimes, I wish I knew what that felt like. Other times, I'm glad I don't. Nothing like the mind of a young man, free from his parents' grasp and every rule not followed by decent society.
I'm Chip, by the way. You probably haven't heard of me, but that's okay; the unsung heroes are usually the best ones. I know most of the best heroes have teams, too, but it's just DJ and I, sitting in the basement bar of a former castle a ways outside of Nu-Berlin. Nu as in took part in the Great Integration, where cities and the natural world were all but broken down then rebuilt together, forming sleeker, environmentally friendly buildings, often blending together with the landscape.
I swing the cam around for emphasis, and even the dark walls of the bar shine with that deep amber light, traces of the original stone and brickwork perfectly evident, their history etched for eternity. As I finish a single rotation in my seat, most of the bar's dozen patrons are shaking their heads at me. I knock back the rest of my drink without a care. They think I'm talking to myself but DJ doubles as a recording device, uploading straight to my corner of the Web.
I pat the pocket on the back of my shoulder, where DJ resides. The twin-spheres that make up its body vibrate at my touch, as it continues to play music softly. Inhaling deeply, I get out of the highchair, stretching as I walk my way to the bar.
"Barkeep! Another please," I smile roguishly. The keeper, a big Austrian fellow sizes me up as he cleans a mug. "Remind me, kid," He says thickly. I don't know what it is with Austrian accents. "Ginger beer! Neat," I say proudly, placing my empty cup on the counter to reuse should he see fit.
I admit as I take a swig of that sweet gingery burn that my social media coverage is odd. You don't see many heroes for hire, you know aside from the Avengers or Justice League. I go for the small stuff. The one on ones, helping people realize their Spider-Man kink as I dangle upside down for dear life, or helping little old ladies cross the street and then carry all of their groceries as they've bought.
I tried crime fighting once. I gave it up pretty quick after trying to stop some bank robbers last year. You know, the guys that overtook Central Bank with lasers? Well, getting shot put the fear of death in me. Not because the laser hurt so much, but from the look of sheer rage in my mother's eyes. Dad was angry, but at the same time I could tell he was proud of the scar.
I chug half the mug, belching to the wall. Of course one of the perks of not fighting crime is that I don't need to wear a mask, though they are pretty old fashioned. I ponder further stories to recount when the bar door flies open, slamming against the wall.
A small troupe walks through the door, clad in tight pants and puffy shirts. They immediately crowd the bar and I'm forced to make close friends with the corner. "Barista, quickly! Your strongest spirits! Our friend here is on the brink!" One of them shouts.
Oh no, send help!
Thespians.
"I'm dying!" someone swoons melodramatically over a barstool. This brings some laughs, others moan. The barkeep scowls, unamused. "That depends. You have money, you get drink, you don't, you get water, on ze house. Only thing free is the audience," he says sternly, polishing yet another glass.
I glance over to see the dying stay flopped over on their stool. I try and look away. The attention is all they desire. And free beer.
"What kind of establishment are you running here, sir?" The ring leader asks, practically spitting the last word. "The kind where hardworking people get refreshment, sometimes nourishment. We have excellent cook," the barkeep says, pointing to a sign behind him.
WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANY UNSEEMLY INDIVIDUALS AND/OR THOSE WHO SEEM UNABLE OR UNWILLING TO PAY.
I subtly look around the bar. No one seems to have tried the food here.
"Are you saying we don't work?!" some woman screeches before acting like she's about to faint.
"Judging by the performance, not very hard. It has no soul, no spirit, no meaning," the Barkeep replies tersely.
This starts an uproar of indignity, the whole group of them shouting and banging on the countertop. I feel my insides shrivel. I shift further away on my own barstool, shutting my eyes and downing the rest of my drink in a gulp.
A childhood song runs through my mind, steady undercurrent in the ruckus.
The one person I don't hear shouting is the barkeep. His voice is more of a grumble amidst the upset. Eyes still closed, I hear a bunch of slumps. Are they done shouting and have decided to swoon again? I open one eye to peek and sure enough, several of them are on the floor, laying against the bar. Taking a bit of a closer look, it dawns on me that I could have been like them – with more gusto I could be that kind of entitled and lazy, ultimately content with giving C rate performances for a moment of fame.
I wonder why they're here, so out of their element. I take a deep breath.
"Excuse me," I say in the near silence. No one hears.
I pause awkwardly. "Excuse me," I say louder. This time the barkeep acknowledges me with a glance. I clear my throat. "Excuse me!"
Still they lay there in faux-anguish.
After another moment drags on, the barkeep hits the bar hard enough to make everyone startle. Many of the thespians give him disgusted, if disinterested looks. He points at me. Some of them turn their heads my way.
Another awkward pause. "What is it child? What do you possess that can calm our dying humours?" a woman asks.
"Well," I say all too quietly.
"Well, I think the problem here is that you're all in the wrong establishment," many open their mouths to rebuke me. "I mean this bar, the Urchin's Oyster is unfit for those such as yourself," more angry looks. "However the Pearl's Demise is a cafe next door down and I think you'll find it much more to your liking," I finish, trembling. No one has yelled yet, this is good.
A moment of consideration passes before a couple of the not-quite-dying drag their almost-corpses towards the nearest window, only to realize it faces the wrong direction. The same blonde woman who addressed me sighs in exasperation before walking to the bar door.
She disappears, but only for as long as it takes me to blink. "The kid is right, to the café!" she announces, beckoning to her troupers. In seconds the floor is clear. Several actors exercise their faces with some nasty expressions for the barkeep before leaving.
The whole bar is quiet for over a minute once the strangers leave. After a while of playing with my empty glass, I make eye contact with the barkeep.
He takes my glass, inspecting it as though to distract himself. Once thoroughly finished, he nods curtly at me, and I know I've done a good thing.