As you’re walking along the streets in the City of Light, you stumble upon a dimly-lit café which, by Paris standards, is a pretty normal occurrence. But for some reason, this one is really calling to you. When observing through the windows, you see a large crowd surrounding the bar, laughing and dancing to the jazz music pouring out of the band in the corner. The bartenders seem to be working overtime, constantly filling and refilling people’s glasses, swarming around the crowd like little bees searching for honey. A smoky haze maneuvers its way to the ceiling, thanks to the amount of smokers scattered throughout the small space.
You open the heavy brass door and step into the warmth of the bar. Snippets of French and boisterous laughter go in and out of your ears as you finagle your way through the dancing drunks, finally reaching your goal: getting to the bartender.
As you seat yourself in the last available barstool between two men at the bar, you finally get a chance to look around. It’s as if you’ve been transported back to a different time - most of the women are dressed like 1920’s flappers; their feathers and strings fling about with every move they make around their dance partner.
“Whatcha having?” the bartender asked.
[["Dry martini"]]
[["Gin and tonic"]]“The drier, the better, that’s what I’ve always believed,” the man next to you on the left says, raising his martini glass to you. “Very little compares to it. Hemingway, by the way.”
You smirk, thinking of what a coincidence it was that you are meeting someone with the name of Hemingway at what has to be a 1920’s themed bar. You tell him your name, and with a piqued interest, ask what he does for a living.
“I write. I’m the best goddamned writer in this joint. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, either,” he says, taking a sip from his glass. “If I’m not writing, I”m drinking. That’s a job in itself.”
You laugh, sipping your drink as well. He is definitely playing the part very convincingly. You turn to him, saying:
[[“What are you working on right now?”]]
[[“My favorite novel is probably The Old Man and the Sea.”]]“I’ve always preferred a Gin Rickey myself, but the good thing is that you chose gin. It’s the best spirit out there,” the man on your right remarks. “Scott Fitzgerald,” he smiles, sticking his hand out for you to shake.
You shake his hand while watching him down his drink, slam the glass on the bar, and holler, “Another!” to the bartender. You smile to yourself, thinking about how talented this guy is - dressing the part, perfecting the New York accent, and getting belligerently drunk? He is the perfect Fitzgerald. You come to the conclusion that this must be a 1920’s themed bar and that these people go above and beyond for their own...amusement? Sure. You go with that. Everyone has their quirk--
“Who’s this?” a woman asks, sliding right up next to Fitzgerald. Her blonde bob comes right to her chin, and her very short sequined dress shimmers under the dim yellow lighting.
“This, darling, is my new friend. Please, meet my wife, Zelda,” Fitzgerald says, handing her a drink filled to the brim.
“Come, come, drink with me!” Zelda exclaims, handing you another drink. “The night is so young, and you are too sober.”
[[Drink with Zelda]]
[[Stay with Fitzgerald]]“Ah, that is the question everyone wants to know. I have some ideas about this one old friend of mine...she goes by ‘Duff’ if you’re new here. Ha, I’ll be damned - there she is!” he shouts, waving towards a woman with a trail of men following her.
“Hello, chaps,” Duff croons, setting down her empty glass, to which the bartender hastily refills with more cognac. “Who’s this?”
You introduce yourself and notice that Duff is looking at you strangely.
“Your clothes...très chic! I’ve never seen pants like these in 1925!” she gushes, looking me up and down.
At this point, you start to wonder when this is to end - when does the charade stop and everyone reveals that they’re just highly-paid actors? You decide to settle it once and for all:
[[Check your phone for the date/year]]
[[Ask the bartender what year it is]]“What’s that about? Sounds boring,” Hemingway replies, motioning for another drink.
As you inform him about the general plot of one of his most famous novels, you start to realize that he has no clue what you’re talking about - and that //The Old Man and the Sea// was written in 1952. Starting to feel anxious, you ask Hemingway what year it is.
“What year? Hell, last I checked it was ‘25. And I thought I was a drunk,” he mumbles, taking another large sip of his martini.
A girl slides right next to Hemingway and whispers in his ear. “Duff,” he replies, giving her a long kiss. “Surely you’ve met Duff, or should I say Lady Duff,” he jokes, his voice slightly raising as his lips form a smirk.
“Oh stop, you know how I abhor that title. Just call me Duff - wow, where did you get those shoes? They’re the bee’s knees!” Duff exclaims. “I’ve never seen anything like them this year.”
“Don’t get the kid started on the year. Doesn’t even know what year it is,” Hemingway guffaws, finishing off his drink and immediately getting two more for himself and Duff.
You turn to your drink, trying to see if the answers to all of this were swimming in the alcohol. “It’s 2019,” you tell yourself. Just to make sure, you:
[[Check your phone for the date/year]]
[[Ask the bartender what year it is]] You reach into your pocket for your phone. It’s dead.
[[Ask the bartender what year it is]] “What year is it? Why, it’s 1925. Check it,” the bartender says, pointing to the calendar behind the bar.
You start to question everything now: Hemingway, Duff, the bartender, even this very real-looking calendar. What if it’s all...true? Is it really 1925?
“Hey, you,” Hemingway says as he stands, “we’re going to Spain in the morning. Come with us. We have an extra room. Duff here wants ‘the chic one’ to come with us, isn't that right?”
[[Agree to go]]
[[Decline and stay in the bar]]
“Good choice. C’mon, the car is here. We need to stop at Stein’s to get my luggage. I have some clothes you can borrow, but they probably won’t be as nice as your ‘très chic’ outfit,” Hemingway laughs, walking out into the street.
You follow him outside and look around. No 21st century cars line the road like they did before you entered the bar. Instead, a beautiful, cream-colored Rolls-Royce with a driver in front of it awaits you.
“Monsieur Hemingway and friends,” the driver says, opening the door for your party. As you sit inside the car, you take into account all that you see. Window shops, dozens of bars, and the buzz of people having fun - all of these things remind you of the ex-patriot Paris you’ve only been able to dream of.
“We’re here. Come on, she doesn’t like being disturbed this late,” Hemingway whispers, leading the way into a tiny apartment complex.
As you walk throughout the rooms of Gertrude Stein’s apartment, you gape at all of the famous works of art that clutter her walls. Picasso, Matisse, even Cezanne - famous works from these artists and more are everywhere, and in 2019, these paintings sell for millions and millions of dollars.
You stop to view some of the paintings in the corner of the room. Picasso’s portrait of Stein stands above you, and as you turn around to follow Hemingway, you run right into the muse herself.
[[Apologize]]“Well, that’s too bad, chap. I’ll see you around, then,” Duff replies, smiling, as she leaves for the door.
Hemingway shakes your hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ll see you back here soon - but only after midnight,” he says, throwing down a few bills on the bar. “On me. Goodnight.”
“Anything else I can get you?” the bartender asks. Not wanting to leave this strange world you’ve stumbled upon, you order another drink.
[[“Gin and tonic”]]“I’ve always preferred a Gin Rickey myself, but the good thing is that you chose gin. It’s the best spirit out there,” the man on your left remarks. “Scott Fitzgerald,” he smiles, sticking his hand out for you to shake.
You shake his hand while watching him down his drink, slam the glass on the bar, and holler, “Another!” to the bartender. You smile to yourself, thinking about how talented this guy is - dressing the part, perfecting the New York accent, and getting belligerently drunk? He is the perfect Fitzgerald. You come to the conclusion that this is just a 1920’s themed bar and that these people just go above and beyond for their own...amusement? Sure. You go with that. Everyone has their quirk--
“Who’s this?” a woman asks, sliding right up next to Fitzgerald. Her blonde bob came right to her chin, and her very short sequined dress shimmered in the dim yellow lighting.
“This, darling, is my new friend. Please, meet my wife, Zelda,” Fitzgerald says, handing her a drink filled to the brim.
“Come, come, drink with me!” Zelda exclaims, handing you another drink. “The night is so young, and you are too sober.”
[[Drink with Zelda]]
[[Stay with Fitzgerald]]“Ah, Stein, you've met my friend,” Hemingway slurrs while balancing two martinis in his hands. “He’s coming to Spain with me and Duffy.”
“Oh lord, you won’t be going anywhere tonight. Come, kid, you need a place to stay?” Gertrude asks.
[[“No, I’m alright, I should be heading back.”]]“Very well,” Gertrude sighs. “Just leave me with the drunks, as usual. Take the car back; it’s right outside for you.”
Hemingway shakes your hand, saying, “When you go back, and if you find him, tell Scott that I hate his new book. It’s too good.”
Scott...as in F. Scott Fitzgerald?
“No,” you think, “this is all just a dream.” You go to the car and look out the windows as the the driver whisks you back to the magical bar.
You are in need of a stiff drink after your escapades throughout "1925 Paris." Perhaps the jet lag mixed with the few drinks you already had prior to stumbling upon this bar has made you dream things up. Once you take your seat again at the bar, you flag down the bartender and order.
[[“Gin and tonic”]]“Bartender, we need more gin!” Zelda shouts, completely oblivious to, well, everyone around her. Zelda hops up onto the bar and starts swinging her legs to the beat of the music. “So, where are you from? That outfit is certainly not “Parisien” by any standards - which is why I love it,” she tells you, inviting you to sit next to her.
As you talk with her about your hometown, Fitzgerald comes back around, joining in on the conversation.
“Well ladies, I think I’m going to leave with Eliot and his chaps to this other cafe down the street. I need more book ideas; Gatsby isn’t going to cut it, I’m afraid,” Fitzgerald says, looking aimlessly around the room.
“Fine. We don’t want you here anyways,” Zelda snaps, turning to her drink and chugging it.
Fitzgerald sighs and picks up his hat, kissing Zelda’s cheek before leaving with a few men.
You turn to Zelda and ask if she’s okay.
“He hates me, I’m sure of it. I knew I’d never be good enough,” she cries. As you comfort her and try to calm her down, the band starts to play a very upbeat and fast-paced song, to which Zelda immediately perks up and wipes her face of any sadness.
“Oh, I love this song! Dance, dance with me!” Zelda shouts, pulling you up to stand on the bar.
With the combination of the drinks, the smoke-filled air, and the loud music, you start to feel queasy. You slump back down, feeling the need to talk to someone that wasn’t nearly as drunk as Zelda.
[[Check your phone]]
[[Talk to bartender]]
“Take it easy on our friend, my love. We wouldn’t want to impose,” he says gently. Unimpressed with this answer, Zelda dances off into the crowd.
“So, I’m sure you’ve heard of my flop of a book. Tell me, honestly, what do you think of Gatz?” Fitzgerald asks, taking a sip of his drink.
Once you realize that he’s talking about //The Great Gatsby//, you light up, praising it and saying that you read it in high school. You begin to dive into comparing the book to the Baz Luhrmann film adaptation when Fitzgerald interrupts you.
“I’m sorry, did you say, ‘school’? They’re teaching my book in schools? Why, that’s quite impossible. It just got published last month,” he remarks, looking confused. “And what’s this about a, a movie, you say? Nobody told me they were making a movie out of this...you are quite hilarious, you know that, right?” he nervously laughs. “I’m going to use the bathroom, but don’t go anywhere. I need you to tell me what my next book will be about!” he says, chuckling as he walks off.
You also laugh, but deep down, you know that something is not right. This charade has gone on for far too long. As you try to sort through your thoughts, Zelda appears next to you.
“Oh honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! Here, drink this,” she says, handing you another gin and tonic.
[[Drink with Zelda]] Lost in Paris
Welcome to Brianna Facciani's interactive fiction piece created for her Writing for Digital Media class.
This piece was heavily influenced by Woody Allen's film, //Midnight in Paris//. It constitutes a Fair Use under Section 107 of the U.S. Copyright Law.
To play, enter the [[Lieu du passé bar]].You reach into your pocket to find that your phone is dead.
[[Talk to bartender]]“You alright there? Need some water?” the bartender asks.
As you nod in agreement, he slides you a glass.
“Nobody can keep up with the Fitzgerald’s, not even the Fitzgerald’s themselves,” he says, cleaning up the bar.
You tell him that you’ve never seen such dedicated people who would get so consumed into playing the roles of 1920’s writers, which makes the bartender display a confused expression.
“Playing? What the hell are you talking about?” he asks. “That is //the// Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald. You just met //the// F. Scott Fitzgerald. No phonies here.”
While you try to take his words in, you are suddenly yanked by Zelda back onto the bar. Moving too fast, you accidentally kick your glass of water and slip on the ice cubes, making you tumble down off of the bar and onto the floor.
[[Wake up]]You jolt awake, the sunlight streaming in your cracked eyelids. You are sitting on a park bench near Gertrude Stein’s old apartment, where several tourists can be seen taking selfies in front of it. Ambulances whisk past you, along with cars, bikes, and hundreds of people. You see your friend, Sarah, running towards you.
“Thank goodness I found you! I had to track your phone. Where did you go last night?” she asks.
“That,” you say, “is a very long story.”
[[Lost in Paris]]