Armpit of Nebraska

“I’m from the armpit of Nebraska,” said the man with the bolo tie and the curled mustache.

Miriam stirred her gin and tonic. “I like armpits,” she said.

The man raised his eyebrows. He reminded her of a guy, Armand, who she dated before the Last War. It wasn’t the bolo tie or the mustache that reminded her — every guy she knew had those. He had the same peculiar way of tilting his head while he raised both eyebrows. It was condescending and suggested a meanness underneath.

“You like armpits?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, not looking up. She preferred to be alone to play poker. She dealt out two hands to herself. Two pair winner, again.

“Well, not me,” said the man.

Miriam imagined the shape of Nebraska with an armpit superimposed. She imagined the hair and the smell of an armpit pervading the place and smiled as she dealt.

The man stared at the mirror behind the bar and nodded while twisting both ends of his mustache between his fingers. “Nebraska was the worst,” he said. His cockiness had disappeared. He turned to Miriam and pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows again, but pleadingly this time.

“Okay fine,” said Miriam. She sucked an ice cube into her mouth and crunched it between her left molars. That used to make Armand raise his eyebrows at her. Between crunches, she said, “What makes it so bad?”

“The other people. They’re all a bunch of hicks and burnouts.”

Miriam wore a necklace with a large heart-shaped locket, which she absent-mindedly rubbed with three fingers. Armand used to say it was her tell.

“You don’t like hicks and burnouts?” she asked the man.

“Well, no. And it’s not just the people. It’s flat there, and boring. Plus, there’s wind, and winter, and summer.”

“You’re from there. Are you a boring hick?”

“No. I’m not.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said with her fingernail picking her front teeth, “I’m going to move down to that stool at the end of the bar, as far away from you as I can get, unless you tell me something that’s not cliché and boring.”

“You’re an odd one, aren't you?”

She let his insult slide off her. She remembered how she would sleep on her stomach with her face in Armand’s armpit and the smell of sweat and sandalwood. He'd call her odd too, and she liked it then.

“Well,” she said. “Are you going to say something interesting? Quick, before someone else takes that empty seat.” It was the only joke people told anymore — a dark acknowledgement of how screwed they all were. She touched her locket and ran through a few more variations of the joke.

“If I can find parking.”

“If I can get a reservation.”

“Better line up early.”

The man chuckled and made five slashes on his notecard. Miriam’s was still blank. The man looked at it and pointed from his to hers. The way he held his finger — straight, with a tight fist — confirmed for her he was a mean one, and now an uncomfortable and scared one. When there were apps, Miriam could read a guy’s full story from a three-pong text chat. In person, it took her 30 seconds to decide — the rest was politeness and the rules.

He began his story. “The town where I grew up had a corner store with overpriced canned food and four-packs of toilet paper. The owner’s name was Lenny. He was a character.” He paused and buffered to see if his story was hitting home.

Miriam rolled her eyes. “That’s it? That’s what you think passes for interesting? Tell me what you have against armpits, or give me conflict, drama… anything!”

He started again. “Back home, everyone grew, canned, dried, butchered, and made what they needed — the day to day. Lenny’s Country Cupboard sold the stuff we couldn’t make ourselves, plus a few luxury items — coffee, chaw, and cheap whiskey.”

Miriam picked up her pencil and clicked it down on the bar without making a mark. “Poker is more interesting than you. Seriously? You’ve gone from ‘I hate hicks’ to a half-assed description of a country store.”

“It gets better,” said the man.

“I sure hope so,” said Miriam.

The man sipped his drink to buy some time. “We’d hunt and fish. One time, my brother and me caught this fish. Must have weighed 80 pounds. We hauled er back to the house, cleaned er, and threw er on the grill and didn’t even wait for the whole thing to be cooked — just tore pieces off it while it grilled. Man, I miss eating fish.”

Miriam had seen this self-sufficient user profile before. The pamphlets on passing an audition all recommended appealing to the woman’s desire for security and her sense of nostalgia for when men were useful, and the outdoors was safe. She understood the desperation, of course. But this one seemed mean. Mean man, mean babies.

“That’s one of the least original stories I’ve heard,” said Miriam. She shuffled the deck and picked up her glass and stood up.

“Well, if you think so. What’s yours?” said the man. His face was red and his eye twitched. He moved to twist his mustache but stopped himself and looked at Miriam straight-on. His tells were obvious.

“Do we still have to do this? It’s been, what, ten years since we lost the net?” she said.

Miriam hated that the auditions had replaced apps, but she wasn’t about to put in extra effort. She twisted her locket between her fingers. His tells begged for a second chance. Hers screamed it was out of her hands. For the algorithm to work, they both had to stick to the rules.

Miriam looked around the empty bar and clicked her tongue several times while running her hands through her hair. She shook her head and sat down. At his age, he was out of chances. How does someone get to be 50 and not even be able to tell a story? Someone should have blocked and reported him long ago, but too many people were too nice to him for too many years. They’d deactivate him tonight. It’s the right thing for future generations.

Miriam dealt herself a full house and smiled. “About damn time I got some action,” she said. She swiped left with her fingers over the blank notecard.