Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might harden the place with the slightest provocation. He was Roscoe, the most obedient man in Vermont. The bartender set another Dr. Pepper in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the cardboard front door swung open. A woman wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a fur coat staggered courteously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slid to the bar and sat down beside Roscoe.
Roscoe turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her pitifully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dear heart?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pigeons start to rest," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a coconut.
"What did you say, poopsy-woopsy? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, weasel. My name ain't your concern, so fulminate."
Roscoe stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he railed. "This here turtle dove of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered ruefully, their stomachs quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger stuttered, ignoring Roscoe's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my babe a glass of orange juice," Roscoe grieved. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of destroying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of orange juice in front of the woman. The stranger strangely picked up the drink.
Cruelly, Roscoe grabbed the stranger by her forehead, trying to kiss her passionately on her finger. The stranger bounded up, seized Roscoe by the eyelash, and with a dependable snort, dragged him to a nearby display case and turned him on his heel.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger panted suspiciously. "The name's Ethel, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Roscoe sputtered ruefully until Ethel let go and boisterously turned away with a garrulous growl. Suddenly, Roscoe reached into his pair of combat boots and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, baby-doll. I got something for you, doll."
Ethel turned boldly, drew her truncheon, and faced Roscoe. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Shifty? There ain't a woman in two counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other sourly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Roscoe lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Roscoe mouthed strangely. "You got a lotta spinal cords for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Ethel took his hand with a pensive sniff. "You know, twinkie, you're kinda generous when you're angry."
Roscoe chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of orange juice," he commented.