Genes of a Different Sort

She was born the grand-daughter of a coal miner and the daughter of a terribly mean alcoholic. I say this to explain the uncanny ability she has to maneuver well in dim light and avoid a scrap. I understand that not everyone believes these types of traits are passed through genes but I know it to be so. Take the night that Beverly Stikes got laid out on Tempest Street.

Beverly had been shopping. She was feeling quite pudgy that day having eaten way too much over the holidays. Oh no, not the Christmas holidays – the ‘my life sucks so I might as well pig out’ holidays. She had gone shopping to lift her spirits with a gift of beauty; only, nothing seemed to beautify, just cost way more than it should or than she had. She left the stores and headed to Liam’s Place.


Liam’s was the local dive. Beverly needed a dive. She needed to feel she belonged somewhere and to someone. She phoned Karl to have him meet her for a drink, or two, and partake in some comfort foods. Karl was running late but Beverly wasn’t waiting. She ate and drank, then drank and ate, and then drank some more. She motioned to the waitress for the check…and that’s when it all began.


That morning Beverly had hurt the fingers on her right hand, all her fingers except the middle one; so, when she motioned the waitress for the check only her middle finger arose. It just so happened that the waitress’ boyfriend, Chuck, was at the bar…and had been there for quite some time. He mistook the signal for the check as a serious offense to his soon-to-be fiancé. At that moment, defending her honor became his life’s mission. Until that moment, he’d had no mission, or life for that matter.


“Who do you think you are? You no good bitscht,” he growled as he descended from his stool.


Chuck stumbled into the table of four next to the bar and mumbled a half-hearted, “Excuse me,” then continued his verbal assault.


“That’s my future fioncé”, he began again, as he shook his finger at Beverly, “and no one treats her with that kind of disrespect,” he turned his finger toward himself and tapped his chest quite hardily, “while I’m around.”


Chuck lurched toward Beverly and tripped on the chair where the woman at the table of four sat. He reached his hand down to steady his gait, only his hand slipped and he grabbed whatever he could to keep from falling. Unfortunately, he caught the woman by the hair. She screamed. Her husband, a local celebrity wrestling figure, jumped up.


“Hey Bud, what the hell?” he demanded. Naturally, the husband moved into wrestling mode and body slammed Chuck onto the table where Beverly had been sitting.


Now this is where those genes came in to play, because upon first inclination of an unfavorable situation, Beverly easily slipped from her seat unnoticed and quickly headed toward the door of the dimly lit bar. The bouncer, or doorman, as he preferred, saw Beverly rushing toward the door. He assumed from her flight that she was trying to run out without paying her tab. As she approached the door he pushed it slightly open for her and then, just as she was upon it, he quickly pulled it shut. Bammmm, she hit it hard. He opened the door and Beverly went down cold. There she was…laid out on Tempest Street.

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