Zilla liked when Ramon DJed. The crowds were in a better mood, which made her job easier. But also, he seemed to know the overall rhythms of the club. When her bar would get busy, when she’d need an extra bit of adrenaline with one of her favorite songs. When it was time to slow things down. She considered herself a low-frills bartender, but when he was working, she found herself almost dancing.
Club Earth was the only dance club on Sigma Station 11. Each station had limited space set aside for commercial development, and most of that was more utilitarian. So with Galaxy Burger, Ken’s Coffee, and The Officer’s Club (not actually an Officer’s Club, but a chain of bars that learned that catering to the Space Corps, and people who idolized the Space Corps was a decent business plan), Club Earth was a central part of the social life of the station.
Sampson, the club’s owner, had noted how many clubs of his youth were obsessed with space. Club Venus, Starlight, the Blue Moon. He felt it only appropriate that a club floating in the void of space should pay homage to Earth. Since many of the patrons have not even been to Earth, the name does feel exotic.
“But what kind of name is Zilla?” the guy asked.
The night was beginning to wind down, and Zilla was starting to breakdown the bar, handing things to Fletch to wash in back.
“It’s like Godzilla. You know, King of Monsters? My mom was kind of weird, but totally into that stuff. I’m lucky she didn’t call me Mothra.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a lot I need to get done.”
The music changed to a new hit song that everybody seemed to love. Ramon rarely played something like that this late at night, but the guy leaning on the bar hurried back to dance. Zilla glanced at the booth, and Ramon gave her a slight nod.
An hour later, the last song had played, the lights were on, and the last patrons were reluctantly leaving. Ramon was sipping a whiskey while Zilla finished closing up the bar.
“Good night?” he asked.
“What was with that guy?”
“He didn’t know his kaiju from his Kajagoogoo,” she said.
“Eye to eye.”
Ramon had been working there a couple of weeks, and Zilla was starting to suspect he was flirting. Or possibly, she was hoping he was. The bad things about DJs was that most of them were conceited assholes. The good thing was that they never stayed on the station long. Space bartenders and waitresses tended to be like Zilla, people who felt they’d exhausted their possibilities planet-side. Their lives in space much like they were on earth, but with smaller quarters, and less gravity. DJs, even the crappy ones, always seemed to be on an adventure.
Ramon smiled at her. Maybe she could have a little adventure?