Staring is rude. Mother said so, teacher said so, padre said so. We all learned that lesson at about the same time we learned about not pointing and not making faces. And some of us were even told to stop making things up. Well, wild-eyed Billy didn't get good parenting. That's obvious enough. He just keeps staring at Kevin with those bullfrog eyes of his.

Now I really don't know if Billy is his name. I don't know that it isn't. But I am as sure as anything that it's less rude to make up a name than to just call him a dimwitted shithead who keeps staring at Kevin. Damn, he is still staring. And I say so to Kevin.

"Everything okay?", says Kevin, matter-of-factly, now facing wild-eyed Billy, not two paces away. Wild-eyed Billy just sits there, his back to the bar, slumped forward on the edge of his stool, bobbing his big head in a slow palsy. He is dumbfaced and seemingly not registering.

I take a good look around. No one in the bar seems to have noticed a thing. I don't supposed that a man staring goonishly would constitute unusual behavior in a bar. No, I don't suppose so. The rest of the patrons--and there are many--are minding their own businesses. Most are seated in the side of the room to the right of the door, in tiny tables spaced close enough for maximum discomfort and elbow jostling. Some are eating, some drinking, most listening to the Jazz quartet on the bandstand against the far wall. The band is playing a Monk tune. It is only around eleven o'clock.

Back here, on the short end of the bar, just people drinking. All except wild-eyed Billy. He just stares.

"Is there a problem?" says Kevin, not repeating himself.

A pause. And in a curiously thin, nasally whine, wild-eyed Billy finally stirs, "Not with me." I am not so sure--his hand-combed hair unkempt, his snub-nose red, not to mention that shabby, pale yellow beer stained sweater. It's made of alpaca wool, is all I think he's thinking. And that goddamn stare.

But Kevin is nothing if not persistent. "Are you sure?"

Wild-eyed Billy stops his head bobbing, sits up, and works on his lips as if chewing a spent piece of gum. That's his way of thinking. Then triumphantly he says, "I'm not wearing the earring."

And you can tell he is proud, proud as a child who finds an earthworm underneath a rock.

"No you're not," says Kevin, not hesitating, "do you want to?"

"HELL NO! I'm straight!"

"Me, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah"

Now as stupid as he ever looked, wild-eyed Billy works on his lips overtime. He screws his face sourly. Damn, thinking is hard he's thinking. Finally, he says, "How are you going to prove it?"

"I'm not," is all Kevin says. And this sets wild-eyed Billy back. His eyes wander off. He checks his hands, he checks his pants, he checks the ground beneath him. His right foot taps the floor. He waits. Then he rears back, consumed in a moment of raucous laughter. Half standing from his stool, wild-eyed Billy extends his hand to Kevin for a handshake--a hard, manly handshake.

And just as he sits back down, he turns his bullfrog eyes...and he stares...at me!

"Hey, I don't have any earrings!" What else can I say?