"It is a matter of grave importance that fairy tales should be respected. A nation without fancy, without some romance, never did, never can, never will, hold a great place under the sun." Charles Dickens, "Frauds on the Fairies," 1 October, 1853
"There are no great men, there are only great challenges, which ordinary men like you and me are forced by circumstances to meet." U. S. Admiral Bull Halsey, The Congressional Record, 11 December, 1971
If you have good powers of observance you'll be able to figure out how these quotes, more than 100 years apart, relate to this story; and maybe something else too.
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On a fateful Friday, Charles Kane walked into the Rooster Bar with a scowl on his face. He had never gotten drunk in his twenty nine years, but that was likely to change tonight. He wanted to forget his wife of six years, Sugar Kane-Kowalczyk, known as Melissa Kowalczyk in business although her real name since she married Charles was Melissa Kane-Kowalczyk, but known only as "Sugar" to all of her friends.
More precisely, Charles wanted to forget – at least until he confronted her later– what Sugar was likely doing at the same time that he entered the Rooster Bar.
His first beer, not just of the night but in six or seven years, tasted as bitter as he remembered. He wondered how he could possibly get drunk drinking this horse piss given how difficult it was to get down if he let it touch his taste buds. "Maybe I should switch to something hard," he thought to himself, but he quickly nixed that idea since he needed to prolong his debauchery in order to help forget what Sugar was up to.
When halfway through his second beer at the bar his malaise wasn't dissipating, he saw a two person table open up and he shuffled over to it so as to be more inconspicuous since although he needed the noise of human activity, he didn't want human companionship, afraid that he'd ruin someone else's day with his moroseness.
Then he saw her; Norma Desmond. "What the fuck is the wife of rich attorney Joe Desmond, one of my long-time acquaintances, doing waiting tables in a bar?" he asked himself. However that question was not what disturbed him most about seeing Norma. He was disturbed because Norma was his secret crush, and had been since he met her about five years earlier. For reasons that he could not adequately explain she was his fantasy woman, the only woman besides Sugar who not only rang his chimes but played "Flight of the Bumblebee" on them. Despite his normal glibness, Charles always seemed to be tongue-tied in her presence, something that she seemed to revel in.
By profession Charles was a psychologist, with a master's in psychology from the University of Southern California. His specialty was body language, something that he had studied by observation since as early as elementary school, long before he studied it academically. He was one of the few true experts in the country on all aspects of body language including Kinesics (facial expressions and gestures), Oculesics (eye movement), Haptics (touching), and Provenics (spatial relations). His appreciative clients included law enforcement agencies, government negotiators, large corporations, and individuals with personal-relationship problems. He had a policy of not using his professional expertise in social situations and in his own personal relationships, and he had violated that policy only in the cases of his wife Sugar and Norma.
Sugar was ease to read; and that was the source of his discontent this night at the Rooster Bar. Norma, on the other hand, was one of only about half a dozen people since he started his psychology practice whose body language he could not properly read; for example, she was the only person in his experience whose eyes crinkled whether she had a joyous or fake smile. This enhanced the air of mystery surrounding her and probably intensified his lust for her.
Charles steeled himself as Norma approached his table. "Hi, Killer Kane," (her humorous nickname for him) she smilingly said, giving him a side hug in the process. "What brings you to the Rooster?"
Not wanting to reveal his reason for being there, Charles overcame his normal lack of eloquence around Norma and questioned her in return "More significantly what is a rich woman doing waiting tables at a bar?"
Norma laughed. "My brother Rick Blaine owns this fine establishment, I worked here during college to get spending money, he was two waitresses short tonight due to illness, and Joe is out of town on a trial, so I offered to help. My biological family is important to me," she chuckled.
"Wow; what a good sister; if it's not too much trouble could you bring me an order of onion rings – I promise a big tip," Charles replied with his own chuckle.
"Only if you promise not to kiss me with your onion breath," Norma giggled, pinching his cheek and then walking away.
"Shit – this thing has a mind of its own around her," Charles mumbled to himself as he tried to suppress his instant boner.
Charles was in a slightly better mood just from his quick interaction with his fantasy woman. It caused him to reflect on the peculiarity of how vastly different the only two women he had ever truly lusted after in his adult life were in physical appearance. Sugar was big, buxom, and blond whereas Norma was a petite brunette whose cup size would have been the highest grade on a High School exam. What they did have in common, however, were large (for their size) round asses and virtually perfect pelvises and thighs. He knew why he had lusted (at least until recently) after Sugar, but he was unsure why he lusted after Norma. Maybe it was the curvature of her back to her ass, the way that she flipped her hair out of her face with a quick neck movement, the power of her virtually black iris eyes, or her pheromones; mostly likely a combination of all of those.
He also briefly reflected on their different personalities. Sugar was flirtatious and mercurial. Norma was subtly sultry and straightforward.
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With a slightly improved mood due primarily being able to watch Norma's fine ass wiggling around the establishment and her frequent trips to his table to hastily amicably chat with him, Charles decided against getting shit-faced drunk. Although he kept ordering beers from his favorite waitress of all time, he poured most of the brew into the planter boxes containing live plants around the periphery of the bar. It was fortunate that he was not drunk, but alert, when after he had been there about ninety minutes a swarthy guy in a hoodie entered the bar, just as Norma was bringing him another stein.
Charles got off his chair just before Norma arrived and while trying not to stare at the new "customer" whispered to Norma "This is no joke. I know from his body language and his appearance that the guy in the hoodie – don't look quickly – is likely a suicide bomber. When I jump him get everyone out of here and forty feet from the entrance and call 911 for both police and EMS."
Norma's smile quickly turned to a frown. Charles didn't have to be a body language expert to note her combination of surprise, concern, and terror. "Do it," he mumbled as he squeezed her elbow.
Charles was a big, strong, quick dude. As an undergraduate his senior year he was a second team All-American lacrosse player at national champion Duke. He moved with the speed of a midfielder to a position behind the hoodie and with both of his hands squeezed the hoodie's right hand. Charles quickly determined that he was correct in believing that the actuator in the hoodie's right had was a dead man's switch so that he needed to keep his grip on it since if it was ever released the vest bomb would detonate.
As soon as the hoodie hit the floor with Charles on top of him Norma repetitively screamed "Bomber, bomber, get the hell out immediately." At first the din in the bar merely subsided. After a few seconds, and seeing Charles on top of a guy on the floor, the exodus started. Norma ran up to her brother Rick Blaine and yelled "Call the cops, bomb squad, and EMS on your way out."
The bar was cleared in less than two minutes. Norma went outside and yelled at the throng congregated near the entrance "Get forty feet away – if it blows you're not safe here."
Norma bravely ran back in to see how Charles was doing. While he had the hoodie under control for now, the guy was struggling mightily and seemed to be almost as big and strong as Charles. Even a one second slip of Charles' grip would result in his death and the bar's demise. "Norma – when the paramedics get here have them inject this guy with a knock-out drug, and have the bomb squad enter as soon as they arrive."
"Got it," Norma responded.
"Now get the hell out of here and don't come back in," Charles snarled.
Although it was probably only a few minutes, it seemed like hours to both Charles and Norma before the paramedics and the first wave of police got there. When Norma told the paramedics what Charles needed they pulled a syringe out of a kit but said "We can't do anything until the bomb squad gets here."
"It may be too late by then; my friend can only hold that guy off for so long," Norma screamed.
"Sorry, lady, we can't do it," the male paramedic said.
As Rick was trying to talk to the paramedic to convince him to help Charles, Norma snatched the syringe out of the paramedic's hand, avoided the one cop trying to stop her, and ran back into the Rooster Bar.
"Where do I inject him," she frantically asked Charles, who was sweating profusely but still maintaining control.
"Pull back his hoodie and see if there is an exposed blood vessel in his neck and inject there," Charles breathlessly responded not bothering to ask why Norma had the syringe and not a paramedic.
Norma did as asked, saw a large easily accessible blood vessel, and emptied the syringe.
"Kneel on his head for a minute or so," Charles gasped as the suicide bomber spasmed.
Norma again did as asked. Within about sixty seconds the bomber stopped moving. "Now get out and bring the bomb squad in as soon as they get here," Charles ordered. Again Norma complied.
About ten minutes later the bomb squad got there. Two suited squad members entered the bar. Charles quickly told them the situation; they confirmed that it was a dead man's switch still clamped in the bomber's right hand, and squeezed by both of Charles' hands. After a minute or two of observation they cut several wires then told Charles "You can let go now."
Charles' hands were cramped, and his entire body was soaked with sweat, but he otherwise felt great. Relief to be alive can do that, combined with a distraction so grave that he didn't have time to think about his wayward, lying wife.
When the bomb squad gave the all clear, a half dozen cops burst in, arrested the still unconscious bomber – whose vest had been removed and placed in an explosive ordinance disposal vessel – and offered to help Charles – whose knees did feel a little weak – out of the bar. When he exited an excited cheer went up through the crowd and Norma avoided the crime scene barriers and ran up to Charles and threw her 100 pound body into the arms of his 100 kilogram one, fortunately not knocking him down as she planted kiss after kiss on his sweaty face, lips, and neck. A smiling police woman gently chided "get a room" as she separated them and led them to the command vehicle on site.
As they were walking toward the command vehicle, a tall guy in a rumpled suit stepped in front of Norma and said "Sorry ma'am, but I'm going to have to arrest you for illegally administering a controlled substance."
