Rosemary For Remembrance

Posted on Tue 16th May, 2017 @ 12:59am by

818 words; about a 4 minute read

Stardate 70296.2, begin recording.

I'm usually the last one out of Orchids & Jazz at night, tired and often hungry. Tonight, I looked up the circular staircase to the loft area of Orchids & Jazz, the fifth version in only a few years. Who would have imagined that once I managed to achieve my dream, I'd have to move it all over the galaxy, even into a starship? A recent conversation played in my head, reminding me of why a jazz club, and why out here on the edge of the galaxy, though I certainly haven't shared those thoughts in a long time.

I've carried a mental picture of what I wanted my club to be, what it should look like and sound like, the food, the decor, everything about it. Finally I got to build it, only to have the entire station transported across the galaxy, and all of my plans come crashing around me. The next two versions were smaller but quite successful, before Starbase Protector recreated that first dream, just a it should be. And now ... Vanguard. Fifth time's the charm? Am I just feeling restless tonight, or is there something more to my mood?

Recessed lighting gave a brighter than Earth-moonlight glow to the lounge after everyone left tonight. Gray-green carpeting kept the atmosphere soothing in that light. The premium orchids I'd planned for nooks and crannies built into the bulkheads and forms around the room provide privacy to customers, but seemed a little spooky with no one else in the club. I want each table to be completely in its own world. But why? What's the point of all this?

Black faux-granite-top tables with silvery legs crouched below the orchids, looking a bit sinister. How silly of me to even think such a thing! It's only a closed restaurant. The first floor tables, with their built-in couches, covered in black faux-leather, sat in a semi-circle around the tables. In the second floor loft, though I couldn't see them, I knew smaller, cozier tables had two intimately placed black and silver chairs. It had seemed so important ... every little touch, every sight that met my eyes a perfect copy. Yet, that's all it will ever be, a copy.

The long bar presides near my rear wall, the beautiful wood from far away and long ago, backed by shelves filled with bottles of liquor. It cost a fortune just to find it, let alone move it here, but I had to have that very one. The beren wood is light-weight, practical because it's durable, water-proofed with a golden stain which brings out the intricate swirls of the natural wood. I can't help running my hand along the wood every time I pass, partly for the sensual feel of it ... partly in tribute to the past.

The lighting behind the shelves of liquor bottles helps foster the feel of the 1940s jazz era, though the music played ranges from the 1920s through the 1960s. I try so hard to recreate what I once loved, yet that's the most I can do ... recreate a place from my memory. I've replicated the bottles myself from those memories, only occasionally having to consult public archives. The alcohol served matches the bottles, all from the 1940s. Replicated also, but not in front of the customers, and synthahol, mostly. There are a few cut crystal bottles kept in a locked glass case, the real thing, as Caroline puts it.

Gleaming handles extend above the bar top, where water and soda can be added to drinks. No beer here and only Amber Falls ale, blended from honey mead and the finest barley ale I can supply to the wonderfully creative woman who also makes all the recipes for the restaurant. People can get beer and ale anywhere, but a large percentage of any population these days has a sense of nostalgia for the pre-warp, pre-Federation era. I play on that, profit from that, even though I don't agree with it. On the other hand, I love old jazz. Truthfully, am I any different from the others? Just because what I've built here came from a more recent time ....

Orchids & Jazz has come to life once more, almost as if it is truly a living creature. A small band shell at the opposite end from the bar is large enough to hold a six-person jazz band, and a platform next to it holds a baby grand piano with the warmth I want - just like my past. Good planning and lots of bribes paid off to bring me this. But what do I really have? A memory that's become concrete? Not even that - only the shell, the framework of that memory. The person I want to play the piano, to help me run the business, the person who would recognize all this ... not even his ghost lives here. There's no recreating the dead.

End recording.

 

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