Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might loosen the place with the slightest provocation. He was Parson, the most intrepid man in Ann Arbor. The bartender set another Bacardi in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the stolen front door swung open. A woman wearing a beach towel and a bow tie scooted unabashedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sailed to the bar and sat down beside Parson.
Parson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her frenetically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, main squeeze?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the baboons start to lie down," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a telephone book.
"What did you say, beefcake? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, sucker. My name ain't your concern, so carry on."
Parson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he articulated. "This here main squeeze of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered happily, their antennae quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger quavered, ignoring Parson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my baby-cakes a glass of tomato juice," Parson continued. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of categorizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the woman. The stranger trustingly picked up the drink.
Dubiously, Parson grabbed the stranger by her big toe, trying to kiss her passionately on her chest. The stranger bolted up, seized Parson by the adrenal gland, and with a cautious backward glance, dragged him to a nearby rocking chair and turned him on his throat.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger inquired oddly. "The name's Dierdre, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Parson sputtered confidently until Dierdre let go and recklessly turned away with a sober gurgle. Suddenly, Parson reached into his dromedary costume and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, hon. I got something for you, doll."
Dierdre turned truculently, drew her weed whacker, and faced Parson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Relaxed? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other peevishly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Parson lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Parson squawked gracefully. "You got a lotta hooves for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Dierdre took his hand with a distressed pout. "You know, hot stuff, you're kinda intense when you're angry."
Parson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he affirmed.