Jinbodgers, Chapter One, Version 2.0

Thanks, Beta Readers!

I got a lot of great feedback from my beta readers (Thanks, folks!) and I’ve revised the first chapter of my novel-in-progress Jinbodgers. If you’re interested in comparing and contrasting, the archives contain the first draft.

Byron sat at the bar of a lavishly rustic Berkeley brewpub. Every level surface was made from stained wood and was built in a chunky, asymmetric style that gave the impression that most of the pub had been hand-whittled by someone who referred to tobacco as “tabacky.” Most things that couldn’t be made of wood were made to look as if they were made out of wrought iron, whether they were or not. This included the hurricane-lamp shaped light fixtures with their frosted glass to hide the fact that their light came from LED bulbs and not, say, whale oil.

The pub didn’t have kitschy fishing nets or wagon wheels on the walls. This was Berkeley, where that sort of TGI Friday’s crap didn’t bring in the college students or the quirky creative types with more beer money than talent. Instead, the walls were covered in the most authentically irregular, discolored brick façade money could buy. 

At first glance, the establishment seemed like a place where lumberjacks might gather to lighten their wallets on payday. And yet, somehow, in the twenty-odd years since the pub opened, not a single lumberjack had set foot in it.

What you wouldn’t expect to see there is a mad scientist working on his latest invention.

Byron was mad (in the American sense) when he came in, because someone had called him mad (in the British sense) in the comments of a YouTube video he had uploaded. The video was recorded by and featured Byron himself, demonstrating his latest creation: an electronic gauntlet that could make huge waves in a bathtub from two feet away. He had only gotten four comments on the video, and only the one from his best friend Kay had been positive. Of the other three, one called him a fraud, one called him a scam artist, and the other said “you must be mad if you think anyone’s going to fall for this.”

The pub was nearly empty. A student was going over his notes at the back of the main room, occasionally stabbing a fork into something the pub had the gall to call “poutine” even though the cheese was artisanal chèvre. Byron was perched on a wooden stool, putting the finishing touches on his invention. This was a new prototype, an upgrade to the poorly received bathwater pusher. The only staff in sight was a bartender in a ponytail and frayed but clean overalls.

Byron had come to the pub mostly because it had good lighting and he knew there wouldn’t be many people there this time of day. The fact that the bartender was very attractive and very friendly wasn’t his primary motivation, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

Byron took a generous sip of ale, set the pint glass down again, and picked up a screwdriver. The IPA and near-solitude had softened his mood, and he was now much less pissed (in the American sense) but becoming slightly pissed (in the British sense). He made a small adjustment in the inner workings of the electronic device he held in his left hand. The device looked a bit like an armored glove 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.

Byron himself was dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with a grey sweat jacket over it. He had decided on his sense of style in high school and didn’t see any reason to rethink it. His brown hair was curly and defied most attempts to style it permanently, so he kept it on the short side and let it be the mop it yearned to be. The ale had reddened his cheeks a bit, but not enough to hide the handful of freckles his face retained from childhood.

Byron set down the screwdriver. The gauntlet was ready to test. He wanted to show it off to the bartender, but he didn’t want to say “Hey, look at what I can do!” like a six-year-old at the top of a slide. He was spared having to make a decision by the bartender coming over and asking “Whatcha got there? Is that some sort of VR thing?”

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

“Always,” the bartender replied with a wink. “Your name’s Brian, right?”

“Byron. Byron Cobb.” Byron slipped the gauntlet on his hand. 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. He didn’t know why, but it didn’t seem important.

Byron used his off hand to grab the beer tumbler, still mostly full of deep brown IPA, and carefully positioned it so the lip was just over the circle outlined by his fingers and thumb. Then he started to pour.

The bartender gasped in horror as the liquid dived toward her immaculate bar top, but less than an inch above the surface the stream of beer splashed against nothing and floated in the air. Byron held his hand up; it looked for all the world as if he were holding an invisible pint glass, albeit a slightly irregular and inexplicably wobbly invisible pint glass. Shifting his fingers slightly to keep the field steady, he looked up at the barkeep and grinned widely.

The bartender 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 over the bar top 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. “It’s not a magic trick,” he insisted. Byron had been accused of being a stage magician many times, and all things considered he’d prefer to be called mad. Sometimes madmen change history. Stage magicians rarely did, at least not the ones who admitted to being stage magicians.

The bartender laughed and stood up again. “It’s okay, Houdini, I won’t give your secret away.”

“I swear, this isn’t magic. This is technology! It’s science!’

The bartender raised her eyebrows, examining the floating beer suspiciously, as one might examine a piece of candy gifted by a toddler. “It’s not a trick?”

“No,” Byron said. “It’s a digitally shaped localized force effect.”

“Really?” said the bartender warily. “You invented this?”

Byron felt his smile returning. “Yep. This is my latest iteration. If I can figure out how to manufacture it, you might be pouring beer into one of my gloves this time next year!”

“Okay, that’s really cool. Can I try it?”

Byron’s smile retreated and his shoulders slumped. “No, you can’t.”

The bartender looked at him as if he were trying to get 12 bucks change from a 10-dollar bill. “Why not?”

Byron let out a long, heartfelt sigh. “Because it only works for me.”

“You just said everyone was going to have one in a year.”

“Well, it still needs a bit of work. The finger movements are very delicate, and—”

 The bartender’s eyes widened. “Wait, is this some TikTok prank? Fuck with the bartender? You can turn off the camera or whatever, because I’m not falling for it.” She looked around the immediate area, searching for a phone camera pointed her way.

“How could this possibly be a trick?” Byron blurted out, more loudly than he intended. 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 moved his hand a little closer to the bartender, hoping a closer look would convince her. He noticed that the beer was starting to spin like a hoppy cyclone with notes of cocoa and red berries. That was concerning. He looked for the empty pint glass, but he had pushed it away with a bit too much theatricality, and now he couldn’t reach it without moving his gloved hand, and he knew from experience disturbing the floating liquid while it was spinning like this was a very bad idea.

“Um hey,” Byron said in a slightly panic-shaken voice. “Do you have a…” Byron knew what he wanted, but in this stressful moment his brain refused to hand over the word “bucket.” He used the next-closest word that he could think of. “Do you have an um trough?”

“A trough?” scoffed the bartender.

“Not a trough,” he said quickly. He still couldn’t think of the word. “A…small trough. With a handle.” The beer whirled faster and his fingers started to tingle. He desperately wanted to move the floating IPA anywhere else, but the delicacy of the situation forced him to keep it at eye level with the bartender. 

“You should probably move away,” he said.

The bartender, in preparation for another objection, opened her mouth wide and took in a deep breath. It was not the worst moment she’d ever chosen to open her mouth wide—that involved a babysitting gig she had as a teen—but it was certainly the worst moment that day.

The gauntlet made a noise like a mylar balloon popping in the hands of an Olympic weightlifter. The beer flung itself all over the bar top, all over Byron, and especially all over the bartender. Byron froze. The bartender froze. Byron saw in the mirror behind the bar that the student in the back froze as well. 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. 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.