Richard Alpert / Lost / Dat Bar
The story is always this: a new person walks through the front door, pauses and looks surprised.
The story is rarely, if ever, this: a new person (in this case a dark-haired man, not particularly tall, around his late 30's, maybe early 40's, clean-cut and handsome, dressed in a nice suit) walks through the front door, pauses, and looks surprised. And confused, as if he's wondering whether he ought to be surprised.
Whatever he's asking himself seems to have been resolved with the most mundane answer, the way that his expression smoothly transitions from confused to nonchalant. As if he's seen it all before (maybe he has, but he hasn't seen something like this), as if it were merely a minor obstacle--as if, really, getting a drink was the best idea in the world, and that he might as well take advantage of the situation.
Except the surprise which he has so expertly dismissed comes creeping back once he sits on a stool and looks behind the counter. There's no bartender. His smile, easy and charming (the one that's sold countless lies), holds no small amount of bemusement as he looks for a tender. People have drinks. They got them from somewhere. Where?
His smile, easy and charming, vanishes the moment he sees a passing waitrat.
[ ooc: usual warnings apply for impending sleep and work. but it's open forever! ]