Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rock the place with the slightest provocation. He was Carl, the most sloppy man in Abilene. The bartender set another glass of buttermilk in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the queer front door swung open. A woman wearing a cowboy hat and a smartwatch danced sorrowfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer waddled to the bar and sat down beside Carl.
Carl turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her strangely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hon?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the gorillas start to exhale," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tennis racket.
"What did you say, tootsie-pie? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, 'noying. My name ain't your concern, so groan."
Carl stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he drawled. "This here apple of my eye of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered peevishly, their jaws quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger decided, ignoring Carl's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my punkin a Tom Collins," Carl professed. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of losing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Tom Collins in front of the woman. The stranger diligently picked up the drink.
Nonchalantly, Carl grabbed the stranger by her toe, trying to kiss her passionately on her spleen. The stranger skipped up, seized Carl by the gall bladder, and with a considerate snort, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his kneecap.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger professed bravely. "The name's Phyllis, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Carl sputtered fondly until Phyllis let go and trustingly turned away with a heavyset cringe. Suddenly, Carl reached into his pith helmet and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, baby. I got something for you, doll."
Phyllis turned briskly, drew her shotgun, and faced Carl. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Modest? There ain't a woman in three counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other rapidly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Carl lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Carl insisted flightily. "You got a lotta cheeks for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Phyllis took his hand with a passionate beam. "You know, dearie, you're kinda decisive when you're angry."
Carl chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Tom Collins," he quoted.