The following days settled into something resembling a (very boring) routine.
Mattheus spent long hours alone behind the counter, waiting for someone to walk through the door.
Sometimes several customers arrived within an hour.
Other times, half the day passed without the handle moving once.
During the quiet periods, he played games on his phone.
His phone had an unlimited battery now, which was nice, but it was not connected to the internet of this universe, so he could only play the handful of games he had already installed (and could be played offline), and in a matter of days he had played them so often that he could complete the early levels with his eyes closed.
There was an upgrade that would connect his phone to the local internet (there seemed to be an upgrade for everything): for the low, low price of 10,000SP, Mattheus could connect his phone to the local internet of whichever universe the pub’s door was currently linked to.
Mattheus stared at the price for several seconds before closing the app.
“Ten thousand points to watch YouTube,” he muttered.
“I would rather be bored.”
Still, having YouTube would be nice.
Boredom was becoming a serious issue, and more often than not Mattheus found himself watching the door and silently begging someone—anyone—to enter, and when someone did, he remembered that the door led to Gotham.
Each time the person entering turned out to be just some ordinary guy, Mattheus offered a silent prayer to God (or rather, The Presence, a very real deity in this universe).
Tim returned several times over the following days.
Most visits were brief.
The kid would order a soda, sit at the counter for a while, and talk—or, more accurately, ask a seemingly endless series of questions while revealing very little about himself.
He wanted to know where Mattheus came from, how long he had been in Gotham, whether he owned the pub, why there were no windows, where the pub’s electricity came from, and why the entrance had not been there the previous week (they built the entrance last, Mattheus had said with an easy smile).
Mattheus answered what he could, lied when necessary, and distracted him with questions of his own.
Only once did Tim come hiding from some thugs.
The door flew open, and the boy hurried inside before slamming it shut behind him.
He was breathing hard, his hair was dishevelled, and there was dirt on one sleeve of his jacket.
“Protection—” he nearly yelled.
Mattheus looked up from his phone and walked over to lock the door.
Tim pressed his ear to the door, and after several moments of not hearing anything, he let out a sigh of relief.
“What happened?” Mattheus did not expect him to be honest, tho he thought he had a general idea of what happened.
“I took a photo,” Tim said after some hesitation.
“I—I was taking photos of some birds when I saw them, and they got in the shot.
They saw me and…” Tim shrugged.
Translation: you were stalking Robin and Batman, got spotted by the bad guys, and had to hide in my pub, Mattheus thought.
Tim remained hidden inside the pub for over half an hour, and once the danger had passed, he reached for his wallet.
Mattheus stopped him.
“I don’t want money this time.”
Tim immediately became suspicious.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing illegal.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
What sort of city was Gotham, Mattheus wondered, if even its rich kids learned to be this wary?
“I need a list of what drinks usually cost in American pubs.”
Tim blinked.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.
Beer, wine, spirits, soft drinks, that sort of thing.
Maybe some common brands too.” Mattheus gestured around the room.
“I’ve been making up the prices as I go.
Nobody has complained, so I assume I’m not robbing anyone, but having an actual guide would be nice.”
Tim stared at him from his stool.
“You’re running a business improvising your prices?”
Mattheus shrugged, and that seemed to ruffle Tim’s feathers.
“That is not how businesses work!”
“It is.” Before Tim could argue, Mattheus continued.
“There isn’t some official book that says a beer costs five bucks and a burger costs ten.
Every owner decides their own prices.
Most keep them close to the competition, some go cheaper to attract customers, and some charge more because they think the experience is worth paying extra for.”
Tim opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find a counterargument before his shoulders slumped and he admited defeat.
Two days later, he returned with a stapled report, and Mattheus stared at it in disbelief.
He had expected a list with some prices, not a professional-looking report!
It contained the average prices of beer, wine, spirits, soft drinks, snacks, and food.
Tim had even separated the prices by neighborhood and type of establishment.
There were handwritten notes about how much the locals in the area charged.
Mattheus turned a page.
“Did you interview people for this?”
Tim looked away.
“A few.”
Mattheus placed a hand on top of Tim’s head and gently stroked his hair.
“You are a brilliant little creature.”
Tim unconsciously leaned into the touch for a second before realizing what he was doing and jerking back.
He stared down at the floor with red cheeks.
Mattheus lowered his hand.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Tim said quickly.
“Just—don’t mess up my hair.”
“Of course.
Your carefully maintained bird’s nest must be protected.”
“It does not look like a bird’s nest.”
“It does a little.”
Tim scowled at him, but the blush remained, and Mattheus pretended not to notice.
Mattheus knew—or thought he knew—that Tim’s parents travelled frequently and left him alone far more often than they should.
The problem was that Mattheus had consumed far too much DC content over the years.
Comics, animated shows, films, games, online discussions and fanfics had all blended together inside his head until canon and fanon had become almost impossible to separate.
Had Tim’s parents genuinely left him alone for months at a time?
Or had that come from fanfics in which Batman adopted him earlier?
Mattheus could not be sure.
Maybe his reaction was because his parents were never around, or maybe rich families just weren’t big on hugs and head pats.
Either way, Tim’s reaction to that small gesture of affection stayed in the back of Mattheus’s mind (whatever the case, he decided, it won’t hurt to ruffle his hair from time to time).
He thanked Tim with a bright smile and gave him a free Sprite—properly chilled this time.
Business continued without any serious problems.
One customer had tried to cause trouble after refusing to pay his bill.
Mattheus had been reaching beneath the counter for his stun gun when Tony, who happened to be there at the time, turned to look at the man.
Tony listened to the man complain for perhaps twenty seconds before he placed his beer on the counter and smiled as he placed one broad hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Come outside.
We’ll talk.”
The customer looked at Tony’s thick neck, broad shoulders and reluctantly followed him out.
They returned several minutes later.
The man’s clothes were slightly rumpled, but he was otherwise unharmed.
He apologized to Mattheus, paid the full bill, and left a generous tip.
Mattheus did not ask what had happened outside—there were some things a bartender was better off not knowing.
The tips themselves had been another surprise.
Nearly everyone left one, and many were far more generous than Mattheus expected.
He had heard that Americans were obsessed with tipping, but he had not understood just how deeply it was ingrained in their culture.
In Spain, tipping was appreciated but hardly compulsory.
It was mostly limited to restaurants and bars, and even then, many people just left the small change behind (10, 20 cents).
A euro was generous, and plenty of people left nothing at all.
Mattheus had worked at the village bar during the summers since he was fifteen.
Most customers did not tip at all, nor had anyone expected them to, and no one had ever chased a customer down the road for a tip (his customers told him those stories and they left him baffled).
Apparently, some bartenders expected tips as if they were mandatory and became hostile if customers did not pay up, or paid too little.
Mattheus did not understand that attitude.
If someone worked for a business, it was the employer’s responsibility to pay them—not the customer’s.
America was a strange place—a profitable one, but strange.
Here, people tipped everyone: bartenders, waiters, taxi drivers, delivery workers, hairdressers,…
He was not complaining, but the entire system seemed insane (and terrible for one’s wallet).
Very few things happened those slow, boring days.
One afternoon, a customer came up a dollar short after ordering several drinks.
Mattheus glanced at the money and shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it.”
The man stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“It’s just one dollar.”
The man looked at Mattheus as though he had just forgiven a thousand-dollar debt and thanked him three times before leaving.
He returned the following day and the day after that, becoming his second most reliable client (Tony was the number one).
The almost-certainly-a-mafia-member visited nearly every day, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by one or two friends.
Mattheus had purchased several Italian beers specifically for him, which had earned Tony’s enthusiastic approval.
“Finally,” Tony had said after inspecting the selection.
“A little civilization.”
Tony alone regularly earned him more than a hundred SP whenever he visited, and many of his friends were similarly generous.
By the end of his sixth day, Mattheus had saved 1,100 SP after accounting for stock, food, ice, and other daily expenses.
If business remained steady, he might afford the bathroom in less than a month.
Then, on the seventh day, his streak of avoiding Gotham’s famous psychopaths came to an end.