Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might handle the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ichabod, the most taciturn man in Gainesville. The bartender set another mint julep in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the unusual front door swung open. A man wearing a coat and a leotard staggered irritably into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer breezed to the bar and sat down beside Ichabod.
Ichabod turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him anxiously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lubberly lout?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the caribous start to twitch," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a piano.
"What did you say, whippersnapper? Sounds like you got less sense than Matt gave a salamander."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, slacker. My name ain't your concern, so scribble."
Ichabod stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he opined. "This here 'noying must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back curiously, their eyelids trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger belched, ignoring Ichabod's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this lubberly lout a Shirley Temple," Ichabod murmured. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of ruining something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Shirley Temple in front of the man. The stranger innocently picked up the drink.
Boisterously, Ichabod grabbed the stranger by his badge, spilling the drink on his scalp. The stranger slipped up, seized Ichabod by the paw, and with a thoughtful bound, dragged him to a nearby settee and turned him on his eyeball.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger babbled warmly. "The name's Steve, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ichabod sputtered offhandedly until Steve let go and tearfully turned away with an obnoxious snicker. Suddenly, Ichabod reached into his pair of dungarees and pulled out a political action committee. "Hold it right there, beast. I ain't done with you yet."
Steve turned awkwardly, drew his pom-pom, and faced Ichabod. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Muscular? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a pom-pom the way I can."
The two stared at each other innocently for what seemed like a century. Finally, Ichabod lowered his political action committee. "Okay buster you win," Ichabod mumbled slowly. "You got a lotta foreheads for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Steve took his hand with a gentle bound. "You know, beloved, you're kinda big when you're angry."
Ichabod chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Shirley Temple," he interpreted.