Coincidence

It was warm, so Ted had unzipped his leather jacket, revealing his custom-made “Fuck Foucault” T-shirt (black with maroon lettering). His old jeans were tight around his stocky legs; his boots had been through swamps and dust storms, his helmet dangled from his hand. He paused for a moment after entering Rudy’s; he couldn’t see a damn thing. At least it was still dark, as the former Rudy’s had been in 2008.

Ted had cut his graying-reddish hair short recently, but his bushy mustache was his conversation piece (though his mouth could rarely be detected moving underneath it). Ted did not have Orville’s height; some ancestor must have thrown in a short gene. Ted accepted it. He knew who he was: a cuddly bisexual bear with intellectual leanings. He was not alone in his proclivities, and rarely had been. He just preferred a little distance and a little strangeness. His iPad was tucked inside his jacket; he could always sign in to Facebook if there was no one here to talk to.

As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Ted noticed a plump, white-bearded dude alone in one of the wooden booths reading a book. The guy was sporting a sort of grunge look. He was probably older than Ted, but that had never mattered—- Ted stopped his own thoughts, which were jumping ahead in spite of himself. He wasn’t horny tonight, just hungry and tired. Still, he could talk to a person, something he hadn’t done since Bay City a few days ago. The fellow had noticed him, he could tell.

Placida had to stifle a laugh. That mustache was over the top; it must be fake, like her beard! She felt a superficial kinship with him on that imagined account. He had some tough accoutrements, but he was not a toughie. He was probably gay. She’d heard that Rudy’s used to be a haven for such in its earlier incarnation. Old Haven. She watched him order a beer at the bar. A drinker. Maybe he wasn’t that much of a drinker. And now he was coming over to her. Of course he’d try to chat her up. Those Chads and Karens across the room playing pool would probably not be of interest to him, and there was no one else here except an older man and woman, a couple, at the bar, who looked to be in their seventies. It was a Tuesday night, Edwina’s night.

“Mind if I…? Ted asked, ready to plop down on the other side of the table. At the last second Placida remembered that he was seeing her as a man. She closed her book (John Ashbery's 'Double Dream of Spring,' noted Ted) and gestured in what she thought was an abrupt masculine manner, and said, “Allright.”

“Oh, wait. Can I get you a beer or something?” Ted wanted to be mannerly.

“Actually, I don’t drink. I came here for the ambiance.” She’d finished her bitter Shirley Temple, though, and wanted another. Ted scurried to get her another cranberry and soda. Upon his return he finally sat opposite her. “You’ve traveled afar,” Placida said, tugging on her beard just a little.

“...and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time,” Ted intoned. A smart-ass poetry-quoter, thought Placida, and then just decided to say it. She was a man at the moment, and could say anything. “Smart-ass,” she said. “Been here, done this, before?”

“I just rode my Harley across the continent from Vancouver to see a business friend. Sunlight Solar. But yeah, I’ve been to Rudy’s before, back in 2008. It was on Elm Street then.”

Placida was impressed, at least regarding the length of his journey. She held out her non-hairy hand. “Well, I just finished up a therapy session and had to get away from the computer. Uh, providing therapy, not receiving it. I’m Placido.” Ted shook the hand, subliminally noticing something, but not registering it consciously. What he registered consciously were "Placido's" kind eyes, just beginning to crinkle at the edges.

“Theodore Campion. Ted.”

Campion? What a strange coincidence, thought Placida.

— Macoff