“Slow night?” he asks.

The girl makes a face and takes his empty glass.

Okay, Travis thinks. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

She just shrugs, and so after a second more of uncomfortable silence, he orders.

She pours him a beer, and sets it in front of him, takes his money, and before he walks away from the bar again, she leans on it expectantly. Well, she don’t talk much, but she’s no ‘yours’, for sure. “I mean, you’re not having to run around a lot tonight.”

Rearranging the sipping straws in a glass beside her, the girl nods in agreement. And just about when he’s worked up the courage to ask if she’s mute—which that would be interesting—she stands up and walks away. Travis looks around to see if anyone is watching this—and where the hell is Phil?

The bartender comes back with an orange wedge. “You should try this.”

“An orange?”

She, rolls her eyes and reaches over to drop it in his beer.

Travis blinks. “Thanks.”

She looks morosely around the bar and absentmindedly scratches her tattoo. “I have to drink beer with an orange or lime—it’s the only way I like it.”

“Pardon?” Travis asks, looking at the wedge in his drink. He hadn’t actually expected the oracle to speak again, so wasn’t paying attention.

“Course I don’t drink on the job.”

It’s Travis’s turn to be silent.

“If it’s really slow, then there’s nothing to do. But if it’s crazy then it’s… well… you know—crazy.”

Travis sips his drink to hide his amusement—it’s not bad with the orange. Clearly, here is a person with whom he can discuss matters of contentment. Yeah, right. The glass isn’t half-empty or half-full; the glass just pretty much sucks. “Crazy,” he offers, instead. He reaches over to the pile of change that she unceremoniously dropped on the bar—not exactly near him—and pushes a single dollar over to her.

She eyes it, but doesn’t move from where she’s leaning. “Thanks.”

“I guess I don’t even really like beer.”

So, what’s in the glass sucks, too. It was time to have a little fun. Travis thinks for a minute.

“I used to hate it. I used to really hate it,” he starts, and then adds the real catalyst of entertainment, “My Dad used to make me drink it when I was bad.” He throws up scarequotes with his fingers around the word ‘bad’, to indicate that he never really was such. She examines him seriously with her dark eyes, but can’t get past his indifferent, beaming smile. She doesn’t exactly detect the demeanor of an abused child. “Really?” She sets her head in her hands and leans forward an inch.

Gotcha. “Oh yeah. Terrible thing. He was a great Dad, but that was his one failing I suppose. I don’t hold it against him. It was really shitty beer—like, he’d leave it out and let it go stale.”

Covering her mouth in horror, the girl can’t help but laugh. She gives Travis an apologetic look.

“No, that’s all right. It is funny.” He sips his beer and looks thoughtful. “For years, the sight of it would make me sick.”

“Why do you still drink it?”

Wistful, “It’s the irony, I suppose… I can’t live without it now—at least once a day. If I could get it intravenously, I probably would.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, it is the only way to get over the sense of punishment, you know? I just had to learn to like it—a lot.”

She seems frightened. “You should… see somebody about that.”

“Eh, what’s the harm? It’s not like I was born with an addiction to crack, right? It could be worse.” Travis takes another swig—a little larger than usual.

She goes back into staring mode, but clearly thinking hard this time.

Travis just wishes that John or Nick or Ian were here to take it to the next level. Where would they go with it? He wishes he had John’s inherent invincibility to embarrassment—something to really push the story over the edge. “I’ve learned to look at the matter objectively,” he tells her.

She looks at him doubtfully.

“I’m aware that it’s a problem,” Travis adds. “That’s being objective, see? I’m not in denial.” She nods apprehensively.

Travis feels the momentum of the first lie wearing off. He thinks for a moment and says, “What’s funny is when I go back to my folk’s house, I’ll take a beer out, and I’ll sit and drink it in front of my Dad. I’m really obnoxious about it too—lots of satisfied sighs and lipsmacking.” Travis stares at his compatriot, observing her reaction.

She’s visibly uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah. One time it made him cry. These days though, he just seems kind of uncomfortable around me.”

“Really, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Really?”

“Really. That’s very mean. I mean, I know what he did and all… but…”

“Hm. Maybe, you’re right.”

They sit in contemplation before she slowly wanders away.

“No.”

“There are these two races horses sitting in a bar.” Melissa shifts her posture to appear inattentive, but Travis can see through the gesture and continues undaunted. “The one race horse, Mama’ Good Gravy, turns to the other, Old Magic Hat, and says, ‘You know, the strangest thing happened to me the other day. I was racing and was dead last coming around the last turn, when I suddenly gets this really sharp pain in my ass!” Travis says it loudly, and a few of the bar’s occupants looks in his direction—more out of curiosity than anything. Melissa indicates that she would listen to the joke, but only if he quieted down. He leans in toward her. “So the other horse says, ‘You know, that is strange ’cause the same thing happened to me. I was in a race, and not doin’ so hot, when all of a sudden, right down the last stretch, I get a shooting pain in my ass. Felt like fire or somethin’ and I just bolted ahead of the pack on the outside and won the race.” Raising his eyesborws, Travis around the bar and back to Melissa in conspiracy, as if they are sharing a secret. “So this dog comes up to the two race horses. He says, ‘Say, fella’s, I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but hear ya’ talkin’. Thing is, same thing happened to me. I was in a race, and I was chasing the little bunny, you know, and fallin’ behind. But just like you’re sayin’ I get this sharp hot pain in my ass, ran like hell, and I couldn’t believe it! I won the race! I even beat the little bunny!’ Well, the dog nods and walks off, and Mama’a Good Gravy turns to Old Magic Hat and says, ‘What the hell was that? A talkin’ dog!’”

Melissa laughs.

“I love that joke,” says Travis, “’cause it just doesn’t go where you’re thinking it’s going to.”

“I was waiting for something about hot dogs.” Melissa chuckles and nods a little embarassed by her admission for some reason. “That is pretty good.” She takes a sip of her drink, and Travis settles down to the table and his own drink again. Looking around the bar for a moment, Melissa looks to the mirror on the other side of the room and catches an instant of emptiness in Travis’s expression as he looks down toward the table. “And you even managed to succesfully change the subject.”