Jinbodgers, Chapter One

Currently seeking representation

This is the first chapter of the novel I’m currently sending around to agents.

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Jinbodgers by Lore Sjöberg

Chapter One  

Byron sat at the bar of a lavishly rustic Berkeley brewpub, an IPA in one hand and a paradox in the other.

He took a generous sip of beer, set down the pint glass, and picked up a screwdriver. He made a small adjustment in the inner workings of the electronic device he held in his left hand. Byron did not yet consider the device a paradox; he considered it a project.

The device looked a bit like an armored gauntlet and a bit like the leftovers from an electronics store that went out of business. Wires ran along a mesh frame. Metal and plastic modules were attached to the knuckles, palm, and a few other random spots. Two AA batteries were nestled into a plastic battery holder.

A brewpub, even an empty brewpub, is not the optimal spot for electrical engineering. Byron knew this, but he felt antsy on his day off so he came to the brewpub because he knew it would be open, he knew it would be empty or nearly so, and he knew it would have beer. Another major factor was the cute bartender in a ponytail and overalls, but he was doing his best to keep himself unaware of that.

Byron set down the screwdriver. The gauntlet was ready to test. He wanted to show it off to the bartender, but he wasn’t sure how to say “Hey, look at what I can do!” without sounding like a six-year-old about to go down a slide. He was relieved when she came over, wiping a clean pint glass with a clean rag, and asked “Whatcha up to? Is that some sort of VR thing?”

“Cooler than that,” Byron said. “Wanna see something you’ve never seen before?”

“Always,” the bartender replied with a wink.

Byron slipped the gauntlet on his hand, trying not to blush. He snapped the sleeve tight and adjusted each finger so that the mesh was even and the modules were balanced. He twisted a ring, pushed up a small slider, flipped a tiny switch, and finally held out his hand as if he were gripping an invisible flagpole.

A strange scent bloomed between him and the bartender, something like grape jam and something like motor oil. Byron was used to this; it seemed to happen with all his inventions. Byron didn’t know why, but it didn’t seem important.

Byron used his off hand to grab the glass containing the remaining portion of his IPA, and carefully poured the beverage into the circle outlined by his fingers and thumb. Just before hitting the table, the stream of beer splashed against nothing and floated in the air, just as if Byron were holding an invisible pint glass. Shifting his fingers slightly to keep the field steady, he looked up at the barkeep and grinned widely.

The bartender grinned and gave him a brief round of applause. “That’s amazing!”

“Thanks,” replied Byron. “I think I’ve finally stabilized it. I had to adjust the—”

The bartender interrupted, leaning forward and cocking an eyebrow. “Maybe you can teach me how to do it some time. I always wanted to learn…magic tricks.”

Byron’s smile collapsed and his shoulders sunk. He tried to keep his voice down and almost succeeded. “This isn’t magic! This is technology!”

The bartender frowned, stood up fully, and raised her eyebrows in suspicion. “It’s not a trick?”

“No,” Byron insisted, “it’s a digitally-defined localized force field!”

The bartender looked at gravity-defying beverage. Her eyebrows performed a complex dance of curiosity and skepticism, laced with unease. She had very expressive eyebrows, which was one of the reasons Byron had a crush on her.

“Can I try it?” she asked.

Byron’s shoulders dropped further. “No. It really only works for me. At least for now.”

The bartender’s smile faded. She looked at him as if he were trying to get 12 bucks change from a 10-dollar bill. “Is this some TikTok prank?” she asked. “Fuck with the bartender? You can turn off the camera or whatever, because I’m not falling for it.”

“How could this possibly be a trick?” Byron blurted. He took a breath and repeated himself more quietly. “How could this be a trick? There’s almost a pint of beer floating in the air right in front of you.”

Byron lifted his hand to bring the beer up to the bartender’s eye level, hoping a closer look would convince her. As he did so, he saw that the beer was starting to spin like a hoppy cyclone with notes of cocoa and red berries. As the whirling sped up, his fingers started to tingle and he realized what was about to happen just in time to not be able to do anything about it.

The gauntlet made a noise like a mylar balloon popping in the hands of a muscular and determined toddler. The beer flung itself all over the bar top, all over Byron, but especially all over the bartender. Byron froze. The airy expanse of the brewpub was silent. A puff of periwinkle smoke arose from the gauntlet, now pockmarked with a black residue.

The bartender stared him down, eyebrows soaked in ale and furrowed in fury. This did nothing to quell Byron’s admiration for her eyebrow versatility, but it was terribly intimidating. Byron could see her years of professionalism wrestling with her desire to throttle him.

She spoke through clenched teeth. “I expect a tremendous tip.”

“Yes ma’am,” Byron said.

*  *  *

Half an hour later, Byron and his closest friend Kay were walking along the sidewalk, away from the pub. Byron stayed just a bit further apart from her than usual, to spare her the scent of the increasingly funky remnants of a nine-dollar pint of ale.

Kay had showed up to the bar just as he was slinking out of it, and they were now walking to his place. To Byron, the closest thing to a silver lining in this whole situation was that Kay hadn’t showed up in time to see the beernado strike. Nonetheless, he told her the story. She might be the only person on Earth who would believe his side of it.

“You knew she was coming onto you, right?” Kay said. She lowered her eyelids halfway and spoke in a deep, sultry voice. “Teach me.”

“Yes,” Byron lied.

“No you didn’t. It doesn’t matter now anyway. Few successful relationships begin with a face full of pretentiously bitter beer.”

Kay was shorter and wider than Byron, but not much so in either dimension. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt, and her hair was in an ostentatious pompadour with shaved sides, a style she called “The Elvis Lesbi.”

Byron looked down at the gauntlet. It was so much scrap now. Once a gauntlet gave out, it was unrecoverable. Every burnout meant building a new glove from scratch. He didn’t know why, but he really hoped he’d figure it out soon.

“And after all that,” he said glumly, “she still thinks I’m a stage magician.”

“Aww, are you sure?”

“I heard her call me ‘Criss Anus’ as I was leaving.”

Kay attempted to coo soothingly again, but couldn’t do it while chortling.

“I show people in person and they think it’s a trick,” Byron said. “I make a video and they think it’s CGI. Why can’t people see what’s in front of them?”

“You have to admit, ‘look but don’t touch’ is pretty sketchy.”

“Nobody else knows how to wiggle their fingers right.”

“Can’t you teach them?”

“Well, I don’t…… It’s kind of….”

“Do you know exactly what you’re doing, and why?”

“Yes,” Byron lied.

“No you don’t. Anyway, why do you care if people believe you? Just keep working and eventually you’ll get it. Then you’ll have plenty of attention.”

“I don’t want attention, I want recognition. I want people to see me as an inventor, not some weirdo.”

Kay stopped walking and turned to him. She clasped his shoulders. “Oh, Byron. Look at me. Look at me! Someday you’ll be recognized. Celebrated. Buildings will be named after you. And I want you to know that when that happens, you’ll still be a weirdo in my eyes.”

“Thanks,” Byron said. Kay generally wrapped her compliments in sarcasm, but he appreciated the sentiment nestled within. Usually.

“The Bay Area’s full of geekfolk,” Kay said. “Why not join a club or something?”

“I’d love to, but I’m a geek among geeks. If anything, geeks are meaner than normal folks when they think they’re being conned. One whiff of chicanery and they’ll turn on you like a pack of wolves with extensive Funko Pop collections.”

“Did you know I used to roadie for Whiff of Chicanery?”

“I may have to join the ranks of the non-weird anyway. I’m running out of money to buy parts and equipment. My cupboards are nothing but a shrine to ramen and peanut butter, and my car’s treads are so smooth I can see my face in them.”

“Try showering in cheaper beer.”

“I need funding, which means I need someone to believe me. Preferably someone with a massive bank account or Steve Ballmer’s phone number.”

“You work at a networking company, right?”

“Yeah….”

“So network!”

“That’s not what that—”

“I know. What I’m saying is that your company wires up some of the biggest tech events in the Bay Area. Have you considered scampering away for a few minutes to glad-hand some digital bigwigs?”

“Yes,” Byron lied.

“No you haven’t.”