Blue Steel Balloons

In the way of these things, instead of debating where to eat after a long day, we picked a person who would chose. An address went around by text message and the satnav led us to a nondescript bar some miles from our hotel. It was part of a homely mom and pop chain of only a hundred or so branches in less than twenty states. Four TVs showed different sports channels in the traditional of US bars, except in this case they had the sound up. Music played, I think, and we stacked ourselves along a narrow table in the middle of the noisy bar so that try as I might, I couldn't speak to anyone or hear the conversation. The waitress asked what sides I wanted.

"Not for me, thanks."

"Just wings?"

"Yep."

"Sure?"

"Yep."

"He's wierd, he's foreign. I'll take his fries," said a voice at my left.

I peered over at the TV and outside, in the fading lights, I saw balloons. There were dozens of balloons, all brand new, shining steely silver, with blue and white stars, some stripes, but predominantly blue. Metal blue balloons inflated until they are fit to pop and dancing in the blustery wind like so many shiny pogoing punks  bobbing up and down pinging their stiff strings like diddly-bows. Around the unit was an ironwork fence, painted smooth to give the ironwork a faux-plastic look. It had a line of curlicued, ball-topped spear tips on top of it and woven in and out there were tibbons. Yellow ribbons, not of the please-come-home kind, but police ribbons of the someone-is-never-coming-home kind.  The store itself was black inside in a strip-mall island of bright lights and bustling. A car passed, slowing, then it sped up again. The balloons pogoed some more in the wind. There was snow on the ground which was harsh in the street-lighting, piled against the faux-plastic fence so that its blunted spears looked stacked ready for battle. The concrete around the store was pristine. Brushed clean. I saw more ribbons, these were yellow, further out. I saw that the store wasn't dark at all, the windows were lined inside with black plastic so that no one could look inside. White light leaked around the edges of the blackout and shadows slid back and forth along those cracks of light.  The waitress slipped a diet cola in front of me. Followed my eye. Looked away. 

"Oh yeah." The voice at my side penetrated the lull in the noise like a retort, feigning surprise. "That's that place."

There was a stutter in the assault of noise. Faces looked up and scanned the long line of us on our high stools with dissapproval. The hubbub re-focussed away and got louder. No one looked at what I was looking at. No one bought into the bid for drama. The penny dropped. The taste slid off my chicken wing like a stunned calf falling. The other store was one of a chain that I use. Somewhere where asking for wholemeal isn't a crime or wierd. Somewhere where a semi-retired cop might try to make conversation with a man who has had problems, in the past, to ease him around, try to help, and be shot right in the face for his trouble. That's not wierd around here either, apparently.