The afternoon sun slanted through The Rusty Tap's grimy windows, highlighting dust motes that danced like tiny planets in their own lazy orbit. Marty wiped the same spot on the counter for the third time, whistling something that might have been optimistic if you squinted your ears. His neck brace sat at medium tightness—the sweet spot between paranoid and hopeful.
Devon crouched near the makeshift stage, adjusting Christmas lights around the ancient microphone stand. His baseball-themed open mic flyers covered every vertical surface like cheerful graffiti, each one promising "Step Up to the Plate and Show Your Stuff" in letters that looked like they'd been drawn with crayons and enthusiasm.
"Think we'll get actual talent Thursday?" Devon asked, stretching a strand of lights that had seen better decades.
"We'll get something," Marty said. "Question is whether it'll be entertaining or just loud."
Slugger hunched over his usual table, organizing baseball cards with the precision of a surgeon. The afternoon held that rare quality of possibility—the kind that made even a dive bar feel like it might be the center of something important.
Stacy hummed in standby mode, her lights pulsing in a steady rhythm that felt almost like contentment.
The front door exploded inward.
Jess "Namaste" Kramer stormed through the entrance like a yoga-pants-clad hurricane, her mat rolled so tightly under her arm it looked like a weapon. Her face blazed red beneath hair that had escaped its usually pristine topknot, and she moved with the dangerous energy of someone who'd reached their breaking point and kept going.
Everyone froze. Even Stacy's lights paused mid-pulse.
"Those fucking fascists," Jess snarled, slamming her mat onto the nearest table. "Those wellness-optimizing, chakra-denying, spiritually bankrupt corporate drones."
Devon's mouth opened, then closed without sound. Marty's hand stopped moving on the counter.
Stacy burst to life, blasting something aggressive and guitar-heavy at volume levels that made conversation impossible.
"TURN THAT DOWN," Jess shouted over the music, which only made Stacy play louder.
Marty lunged for the volume control, wrestling it back to conversation levels. "Jesus, Jess. What happened?"
She paced the narrow space between tables like a caged animal, her usual fluid grace replaced by sharp, jerky movements. "They shut me down. This morning. Centered Spirit Yoga Studio—nine years of building that practice, nine years of helping people find their inner peace, and they just—"
Her voice cracked. She stopped pacing, pressing both hands to her face.
"They shut you down?" Devon scrambled to his feet, Christmas lights tangling around his ankles. "Who shut you down?"
Jess pulled a crumpled notice from her pocket, smoothing it against the bar with shaking hands. "City code enforcement. 'Non-Compliant Wellness Establishment.' Apparently my studio was providing 'unregulated therapeutic services without proper licensing integration.'"
Marty squinted at the official letterhead, recognizing the same sterile design he'd seen on grant paperwork. "What kind of integration?"
"The kind where they monitor every breathing exercise, every meditation session, every fucking downward dog to make sure it meets their optimization protocols." Jess's hands clenched into fists. "I told them my students come to me for healing, not to be data points in some wellness algorithm."
She dropped into lotus position in the middle of the floor, eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing exercises started steady, then devolved into frustrated growls.
"Breathe in peace, breathe out—FUCK THIS SURVEILLANCE STATE."
Slugger looked up from his cards, expression gentle. "Sometimes life throws you a curveball, but you've still got to step up to the plate."
Jess's eyes snapped open. For a moment, the rage flickered into something that might have been gratitude.
"Thanks, Dave." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I just... I had students who depended on me. Mrs. Chen with her arthritis, Tommy recovering from his accident. They need real yoga, not some algorithm-approved stretch routine."
Marty found himself reaching for the herbal tea he kept behind the register—a peace offering he'd never made before. "Here. On the house."
Jess accepted the mug with both hands, her grip steadying. "They revoked my license like it never existed. Digital erasure. Nine years of building trust with the community, and poof—gone from the system."
Tasha appeared from her corner booth, laptop closed, expression sharp with recognition. "They did the same thing to your records?"
"Everything. Business license, tax filings, even my professional certifications. According to the city database, I never had a yoga studio." Jess pulled out her tablet, fingers dancing across the screen. "Look—try to find Centered Spirit online."
Tasha leaned over the device, her technical expertise immediately engaged. "Your domain's been redirected to a wellness compliance page. Social media accounts suspended for 'policy violations.' They didn't just shut you down—they erased you."
The bar went quiet except for the hum of refrigeration and Stacy's worried electronic murmuring. Marty adjusted his neck brace, paranoia creeping back in.
"So what now?" Devon asked.
Jess stared at the empty floor space near the entrance, her professional eye automatically measuring dimensions. "I don't know. Find a new space, I guess. Start over. Again."
"What if you didn't have to?"
Everyone turned to look at Marty, who seemed as surprised by his words as anyone else.
"I mean," he continued, gesturing at the open area, "what if you taught here? Before we open. Morning classes or something."
Jess blinked. "Here? In a bar?"
"Cultural preservation," Marty said, gaining confidence. "That's what the grant's for, right? Preserving community activities."
Devon's eyes lit up. "Yoga and beer. The mind-body connection meets the hops-barley connection."
"It's not about the beer," Jess said, but she was walking the space now, evaluating sight lines and floor quality. "The lighting's terrible, and the air circulation—"
"We can work with that," Marty interrupted. "Open the windows, bring in some fans. Hell, we've got more room than most studios."
Slugger raised his beer. "Spring training happens everywhere. Why not here?"
Jess stood in the center of the room, slowly extending into tree pose. Her balance was perfect despite the uneven floorboards, and for the first time since storming in, she looked calm.
"Seven to ten AM," she said. "Before bar hours. I bring my own mats, my own music. You provide the space."
"And maybe some post-workout refreshments," Devon added. "Protein smoothies, green juice—"
"We'll start with coffee and work up to smoothies," Marty said. "But yeah. You want to try it?"
Jess lowered her leg, studying their faces. "You'd really let me turn your bar into a yoga studio?"
"Temporarily," Marty said. "And only in the mornings."
She unrolled her mat with ceremonial precision, the purple fabric unfurling like a flag. "Okay. Let's try it. But I'm warning you—my students are serious about their practice."
"And we're serious about our drinks," Marty replied. "Should work out fine."
Outside, a small shadow passed by the window. Norman Pike stood across the street, clipboard in hand, making notes with the intensity of someone documenting war crimes. His disapproving gaze lingered on the unusual gathering inside the bar.
Stacy's lights flickered in a pattern that might have been warning, but Tasha was the only one who noticed.
"Namaste and Nightcaps," Devon announced, scribbling the phrase on a bar napkin. "Seven to ten AM. This is going to be amazing."
Jess laughed—the first genuine sound she'd made since arriving. "You're all completely insane."
"Best kind of people to be around," Slugger said, raising his beer again. "To new beginnings."
They clinked glasses—beer, tea, and Devon's inexplicable wine spritzer—while Jess stored her mat behind the bar like she was claiming territory.
"Tomorrow morning," she said. "Seven sharp. Come ready to sweat."
Marty loosened his neck brace one notch. "Looking forward to it."
Stacy played something that sounded almost like approval, her lights pulsing in a rhythm that felt distinctly like a heartbeat.
Outside, Norman Pike made one final note on his clipboard, then walked away, muttering to himself about proper zoning regulations and the decline of neighborhood standards.
Inside The Rusty Tap, something new was beginning.