The Rosebud was a little red shack of a bar on the outskirts of town, and Estelle was the owner and bartender. Her honky-tonk was just like the rest: tear in the beer, an occasional fight, sawdust on the floor, dim light, pool table and juke box, so-n-so cheating on so-n-another. Estelle had regulars, of course, and she got on with most of them fairly well, but she was sweet on Bobby, and every Wednesday through Sunday, at about 5 o’clock, she caught herself glancing out the window, looking for the dust billow in the parking lot that would announce his Ford pick-up. Estelle didn’t think Bobby had a problem, just a really nasty wife-- and kids who didn’t pay him any attention.
One evening, like so many others, they were the only two in the Rosebud.
“Estelle,” he said, “I bet you I can kick the ceiling of this place.”
“The ceiling’s low, but it ain’t that low. And let’s face it, Bobby; your legs ain’t that long neither.”
“Are you calling me short, Estelle?”
“Naw. I’m just saying I don’t think you can do it.”
“Free beer says I can.”
“You’re on,” she said.
Bobby slid off his stool, squatted low, and then, like someone had lit firecrackers in his boots, his legs flew out in front of him. The tip of his right boot made a white mark in the nicotine stained ceiling.
“Ha!” Bobby said. “And you thought I couldn’t.”
“Aw, Bob,” said Estelle. “I never doubted you a minute.”