With the number of calls dramatically reduced, June found herself at a loss at what to do with her time. The constant calls always kept June busy and going out was something she kept to a minimum. Now, June spent more time with Mavis and The Tailor. Although she rarely saw The Tailor, Mavis made her visits enlightening. Quite often, Mavis had June deliver laundry to various businesses within the district. This helped June to meet new people and build her connections within the community.
One place June delivered laundry too often was a small Irish pub called Dublin. Located on the ground floor, at the entrance of a large department building, the pub attracted mostly business people from the nearby office buildings. June found it a comfortable place to visit and so unlike the Redback Bar and Grill. Given the status of the suburb the people there were much friendlier and kinder and this didn’t go unnoticed by June. The divide between those with money and those without June witnessed more so than those who never left the affluent suburb.
The owner, Paul, was a charming older man and quite often he and his wife, Rose, work behind the bar together. June loved her conversations with them both. Paul often made patrons move so June could sit at the bar to keep him company. There, he would lean against the counter and tell her all about his youthful days, while Rose rolled her eyes. June often humoured Paul, and there was often many a laugh at his expense. In the two weeks after not having the mobile phones, June had made many new friends. She wasn’t looking forward to when she went back to doing her job.
At the pub, there were the locals who June met and the occasional visitors, who would sometimes join in on their conversations. June developed a special bond with the pub and the people there. The older men often looked after June, treating her like a princess, and it gave June a place of belonging.
One afternoon as she sat at the end of the bar, Paul wiping glasses nearby, several customers along the bar were discussing Special’s. Two people in particular. A young man in his late twenties, wearing a grey suit, who worked in one of the office buildings nearby and an older man called Ted. He was in his late sixties, with thinning white hair, wearing a brown knit jumper. June sometimes saw him there, always wearing the same clothes.
“You’d think they’d have worked out a way to eliminate them all by now?” the young man said.
“Never going to happen. It keeps both sides from doing anything stupid,” Ted told him.
“When you say both sides what do you mean?” June asked. Although she often steered clear of conversation about Special’s, June only included herself when comfortable. She had heard Ted talking about Special’s before and knew he was neutral in the matter.
“Good versus bad,” the young man, replied.
“No. I mean country versus country. There is no good versus bad,” Ted told him.
“No good or bad. Why do you say that?” The young man asked.
“The young lady is not drinking alcohol because she thinks it is bad for her. I drink it because I think it is good for me. Which is good or bad?”
“Well, alcohol has a proven record for being bad physically for the body and mind. So, it would be bad to drink it,” June answered the question.
“Physically, yes, but emotionally and mentally. What I’ve seen and done in my lifetime, alcohol helps take the edge off,” Ted replied.
“But if you’re using alcohol as a means to cope emotionally or mentally, wouldn’t you be better to see a doctor and get medication to help?” the young man asked.
“So, you’re saying drugs are good and alcohol is bad?” Ted asked.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying, neither are good,” the young man replied.
“But if you had to take medication that improved the quality of your life, then that is good!” June told both men.
“If the medication was illegal or unavailable or unaffordable, you may have to use another alternative. If alcohol is that alternative, and it helps. Is it still a bad thing?” Ted asked them both.
June considered before replying, “Each person’s circumstances should be individually assessed.”
Ted laughed, looking over to Paul for another drink.
“You would think that but it doesn’t happen. You say they should eliminate the Special’s but without them we’d be back where we were ninety years ago during the War of Wars. Good or bad, each has their purpose for existing.”
“Nothing you say can change my mind. They’re nothing but a group of vigilantes, created by mad men,” the young man replied. He finished his drink before standing and left the bar. There was no talk for a moment before June said, “He’s wrong. Those born with their powers didn’t ask to be born that way.”
“True. I’m sure if he were tested he’d find he’s carrying a dormant gene; like the rest of us. But they’re gutless, rather believe they’re immune because they weren’t born a Special. The lucky ones they call themselves. You’re never going to convince them any different about Specials.”
“They’ll always disagree, regardless,” June said.
Ted let out a loud laugh, “You got that right girl. Paul, another orange juice for the young lady please.”
Back at the apartment that afternoon, June contemplated the talk about Special’s. Although she tried hard to never let other people’s opinions bother her, it often made her plight even harder. It was difficult being in a body she hated, trying her best to become the person she desperately wanted to be. On top of that, she was a Special and although her powers were limited, it still sometimes ate at her she was imperfect because of this power.
When the feelings of hopelessness set in, June found it hard to shake. The prospect of not having to answer any calls over the next few weeks was a relief. But it also gave June the time to dwell on her personal situation. Something she tried hard not to do. In the quiet apartment, June busied herself preparing dinner and baking a cake for dessert. While she kept herself busy, she could focus on staying positive.
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