Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,63

"Always say you're seriously into engineering," Jade instructed. "People don't know what it is and they won't ask because it sounds mind-numbing."), we edged past the bouncer, a large black man who stared at us as if we were cast members of Disney on Ice who'd forgotten to remove our costumes. Inside, the place was stuffed with country music and middle-aged men in plaid shirts clutching their beers like handrails. Most of them stared open-mouthed at four televisions suspended from the ceiling broadcasting some baseball game or local news. Women, standing in tight circles, fiddled with their hair as they talked, as if putting finishing touches on a sagging flower arrangement. They always glared at us, particularly Jade (see "Snarling Coon Dogs," Appalachian Living, Hester, 1974, p. 32).

"Now we find Blue's lucky man," Jade announced, her eyes creeping all over the room, past the linebacker jukebox, the bartender pouring shots with a strange brawny energy, as if he were a GI who'd just arrived in Saigon, and the wooden benches along the far wall where girls waited with foreheads so hot and oily you could fry eggs on them.

"I don't see any melted Milk Duds," I said.

"Maybe you should hold out for true love," Leulah said. "Or Milton."

It was a running joke between Jade and Lu that I "had it bad for Black," that I desperately wanted to be "Black and Blue," make "the beast with two Blacks," and so on—allegations I refused to admit to (even though they were true).

"Haven't you heard the expression, 'Don't shit where you eat?' " Jade said. "God, you people have no faith. There. The cute one at the end of the bar talking to that malaria mosquito. He's wearing tortoiseshell glasses. Know what tortoiseshell glasses mean?"

"No," I said.

"Stop pulling down your dress, it makes you look five. It means he's intellectual. You can never be too far in the backwoods if someone at the bar's wearing tortoiseshell glasses. He's perfect for you. I'm parched."

"Me too," I said.

"I'll go," said Leulah. "What do you want?"

"We didn't drive all the way to this shantytown to purchase our own beverages," said Jade. "Blue? My cigarettes please."

I took them out of my purse and handed them to her.

Jade's pack of Marlboro Lights was the instrument (boleadoras) she used to ambush unsuspecting men (cimarron). (Jade's best subject—the only one at which she excelled—was Spanish.) She began by roaming the bar (estancias), singling out an attractive, beefy guy standing a little apart from everyone else (vaca perdida, or lost cow). She approached him slowly and with no sudden jerks of the head or hands, tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Got a light, hombre?"

There were two inevitable scenarios this opening evoked:

He eagerly obliged.

If he didn't have a light, he started a frantic quest to find one.

"Steve, got a light? Arnie, you? Henshaw? A light. Matches okay too. McMundy, you? Cig—know if Marcie has one? Go ask—right. Does Jeff? No? I'll go ask the bartender."

Unfortunately, if the outcome was #2, by the time the cimarron returned with fire, Jade was already on the lookout for more lost cattle. He'd stand motionlessly at her back for a minute, sometimes up to five or ten minutes, not doing anything but chewing his lower lip and staring straight ahead, occasionally mooing a dreary "Excuse me?" at her back or shoulder.

Eventually, she acknowledged him.

"Hmm? Oh, gracias, chiquito."

If she was feeling at home on the range, she tossed him two questions:

Where do you see yourself in, say, twenty years, cavron?

What's your favorite position?

Most of the time he was unable to answer either off the top of his head, but even if he answered #2 without hesitation, if he said, "Assistant Manager of Sales and Marketing at Axel Corp, where I work and I'm months away from a promotion," Jade had no choice but to butcher him and cook him immediately over an open fire (the asado).

"Unfortunately we have nothing else to talk about. Beat it, muchacho."

Most of the time he didn't react, only stared at her with drippy, red eyes.

"Vamos!" she shouted. Biting our lips in suppressed laughter, Leulah and I raced after her, hacking our way across the room (pampas), fertile with elbows, shoulders, big hair and beer cups, all the way to GIRLS. Jade elbowed past the dozen muchachas standing in line, telling them I was pregnant and about to be sick.

"Bullshit!"

"If she's pregnant how come she's so scrawny?"

"And why's she drinkin? Don't alcohol cause preemies?"

"Oh, stop hurting your cerebrums, putas," said Jade.

We took