First Sign of the Badger Read online

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  "Last call!" shouts the bartender.

  Mr. Go orders, "Rum and Coke."

  "That'll be four-fifty."

  Mr. Go pays five. He gathers the good. The tip is understood. "Okay, bye."

  The group is tired. The mouth didn't kiss. Excuses accompany him. "Damn. This night is dead. Nobody's doing anything." The mouth drunks a wristwatch. "Damn, it's late." Mr. Go makes it. He disguises sloshed.

  The mouth blabs. "Go! You're such a virgin. Have you ever had a date? I mean, you're kinda..." the mouth shifts. Shoulders are a dictionary, "stiff. You need to loosen up. You're too shy. I bet you you wouldn't even talk to a girl if she broke into your house naked to fix your sink."

  A barfly sits. A bar stool is a recliner. The workette wants a relationship. She is pretty. Her clock ticks. "God. I swear, Bill. If one more dick-thinker comes to hit on me I'm gonna puke on him. That's attractive, huh? Maybe the he'll at least go away. Why can't there be more gentlemen? That listen? Like you, Bill. But I guess all bartenders listen." Her lips fumble. A cigarette is half-lit.

  "Wanna lick my spoon?" Bill innuendos. He displays a spoon. It's an alibi.

  She fake heaves. Bill is amused. He has a thrill.

  "Bill, don't you think I deserve better than that? I wish I was androgynous."

  Androgyny is undiscovered. She's still yacking. "I mean, I'm... damn sexy. So all these slack-jaws... want in my panties. They come up with something stupid. 'Did it hurt? Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?... Angel!'--Go away! But they don't. They just keep going, and going, and going, and going--shut the fuck up." Bill checks the score. Attention span is crippled. "They're all the same. Pigs."

  "I bet you ten-dollars you won't go talk to that woman at that bar," says the mouth.

  "I get ten dollars to speak to that woman alone at the bar?" Mr. Go reviews the offer.

  "Yes, if you go there right now and try to pick her up. Tell her she's pretty."

  Mr. Go nods. "Okay, bye." He rises. He's walking.

  "Oh, God. Warning! Here comes another one. What's up with that hair? Jesus." The woman cringes. She ignores an approacher.

  Mr. Go taps her. He fancies earlobes. A moment passes. She's polite.

  Mr. Go is suave. "I think your earlobes are pretty."

  "Thank you," she's fake. Earlobes braces herself. There's no chance.

  Mr. Go drinks the mud puddle. The glass is returned. Digestion swirls the drinker. "Okay, bye." The mission is accomplished. He's going home.

  The woman is no virgin. This is new. He wanted nothing. The compliment grows. It's a turn on. She grabs a purse.

  Mr. Go says goodnight. "You owe me ten dollars."

  "I'll pay you tomorrow, you drunk dork," the mouth spits. The group is laughing.

  "Okay, bye."

  Earlobes interrupts Mr. Go. "Hey, what are... How? Where are you going?" The butterflies are nauseous.

  "I'm going home." Mr. Go. anticipates a response.

  She's flustered. The romance begins, "Can I come with you?"

  Mr. Go is pleased. "Okay, bye" is smiled. He continues out. Earlobes tags along.

  Mr. Go leads Earlobes. "So, those were your friends. You're pretty successful, huh. I mean, you look like it. What kinda haircut is that? It's interesting. Do you come here a lot? I'm in here every once and awhile. I haven't seen you before or I mighta talked to you."

  The journey is complete. Mr. Go is quiet. Goodbye is ugly. The door opens for Earlobes.

  "Thank you. You're such a gentleman." She steps inside. "Wow. This is a really nice car. It looks expensive."

  The date arrives. The apartment is prepared.

  "Wow, nice place. It's really clean. That's like a dream. Men are so messy when they live alone, or together. Like a pig sty." Intuition shakes Earlobes. She worries. "You're single, right?" She's noisy.

  Earlobes excuses the non-reply. Fear incubates. The beast is aborted. Pictures of people are absent. There's one photograph. His job is on a mantle.

  "That's where you work?" Earlobes reads the resume. She discovers cards. "Wow, you're the vice-president? Is this your phone number?"

  Mr. Go is not there. He's in the kitchen.

  She purses a card. Dibs are taken. A wallet-size is salvaged. An ex-boyfriend contaminates. She edits. The frame holds one-and-a-half pictures.

  Mr. Go arrives. He brings two glasses. He shares one. The purse is undressed. It's for comfort. He cares. They sit.

  "How did you get to be vice-president?"

  Mr. Go reminisces.