I knew from class that her last name was Stagger-Lee. It took me until about a week ago to discover that it was a hyphenated name. I originally thought her last name was Staggerly, like an adverb. But it’s not. It’s hyphenated. One of her parents is named Stagger, and the other, Lee. As their child, her last name is Stagger-Lee. Hyphenated.

About a week ago, though.

I also found out her first name about a week ago. Her first name is Untitled. I sat behind her and I heard her friend whisper, “Hey! Hey, Untitled!” And then she turned to her friend. And later, when they passed around the attendance sheet, I saw it in writing (which is how I discovered the hyphen). And right there, right above the space where I was to write my name, there it was: Untitled Stagger-Lee.

And Saturday, after talking to her for the first time, I found out her middle name, which is 1978. That makes her full name Untitled 1978 Stagger-Lee.

Saturday, though. I talked to her for the first time Saturday. She laughs like a car accident, suddenly and for no reason. Every sentence has a little giggle as a punctuation mark. Even her more terrible sentences, where the topic shouldn’t inspire one, even then she giggles. It’s endearing, really. To describe it now sounds like it may be annoying, but I don’t find it that way at all. I find it endearing.

I walked by her at the coffee shop. She was reading a book about Jerry Garcia called “Dark Star,” and, as I walked by, I instinctively doo-da-dooed the opening bass-line from that song: Doo-da-dooh, doo-da-dooh, dooh-da-doo-doo-doo-da-doo-da-dooh. And she looked up and smiled at me. I laughed, because she had caught me. Then she said something, but I don’t remember what it was. That’s how astonished I was by the car-accident giggle at the end of her sentence. I forgot everything that came before it. So, I chuckled as a response, like an idiot.

Then I said, “I’m sorry, and correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your name, ‘Untitled?’” She sighed, but with a smile, and then with upturned, flirtatious eyes, said, “Yep.”

The eyes excited me. I decided to be bold and I sat down. I said something lame to the effect of “I can’t go on with my day until I hear the story of your name.” She seemed so surprised by me sitting down that she didn’t know how to do anything else but oblige me.

Apparently, her parents are artists. I think that means they’ve got everything they need and they don’t look back. She was born in 1978, and her parents didn’t know what name to give her. They had a discussion about it in the hospital and decided that it would be best if they let the child name herself when she grew older. So, on her birth certificate, they had the nurse write, “Untitled 1978.” By the time she was old enough to pick out a name for herself, she had grown quite fond of Untitled 1978, and so, to her parents delight, that was the name she picked.

But yeah, her name is Untitled. I made a little joke about it to her; I said, “Do you always write your name in italics?” She laughed, which I took as a good sign, a good enough sign to ask her for a date. She smiled quite softly and agreed, after which, she giggled. I was crazy about her already.

So, we went out yesterday. I thought it appropriate that there was a full moon, the pale globe being symbolic for lovers and lunatics, if you’re the type to differentiate between the two. We went to a bar: The Lackadaisical Watch of the Sacred. It’s one of those chic dive-bars. All the customers are from the college except a small crowd of townies, and it is those townies that bring that dive-ocity to it; they are what you might call, “highwaymen.” Every few nights, one of the highwaymen will bash in the head of some drunken college kid - though, if you ask me, I think the owner puts them up to it, since it adds that level of excitement to the place and keeps the college kids with their college kid money coming back night after night after night. I know its what keeps me coming back, that chance that I might see some drunken idiot get his head bashed in.

I had some reservations about bringing Untitled to The Lackadaisical Watch of the Sacred. She’s what you might call a small girl, and rather peaceful looking. Oh, who am I fooling? She’s a little hippie-chick.

Untitled’s got jet-black hair, straight and long; rarely wearing it down, she keeps it in two loose pigtails, framing her face. She’s got black eyes that defy the light; like the mythical blackbody of science, her eyes are the perfect absorber of the electromagnetic spectrum: absorbing everything, emitting nothing; doll’s eyes that would be scary if not for her womanly smile. It’s her smile that does it to me. It always starts slow, but like a guitar solo, when the smile climaxes, your world is grooving.

And her lips, her full, full lips; man, her lips! are just this dull-red, this lipstickless red, this natural dull-red, this smoldering-remnant-of-a-brick-oven red, this forest-fire-that-has-been-put-out-but-whose-effect-can-still-be-seen-on-the-sad-stones-of-the-valley red; man, her lips! And when they reach their climax, when her lips are spread wide and somewhat lopsided to the left, and just a little bit of her teeth, her white, white teeth shine through, and you get this full picture: black hair framing a face with blackbody eyes, twilight-red lips, and white teeth…oh, and that skin! her milky pale skin betraying her northern Atlantic heritage; a beautiful, beautiful example of the female species. A work of art. Untitled 1978.

Obviously, I had reservations about bringing such a creature to The Lackadaisical Watch of the Sacred. But we talked briefly about where we would go, and when I mentioned the somewhat dangerous atmosphere of the place, her smile brightened and she said without hesitation, “Let’s go there.” What was I gonna say, “No?”

We took a seat close to the door. The Lackadaisical Watch of the Sacred is a decent sized place. It’s a perfect rectangle, long and thin, almost like a diner but just a little bit wider. The bar runs the entire length of the room, and there is enough space for about two tables between it and the opposite wall. There is no dance floor, but there is, at the far end, a small stage about two feet off the ground and set into a little cubby hole in the back wall; I’ve never seen any band play, and the dart board the owner has put up in the cubby hole makes me think I never will.

There weren’t too many people in the bar. There were three highwaymen, the bartender, four college kids playing darts in the cubby hole, and the two of us. The highwaymen sat at the bar. I recognized two of them but the third was a stranger to me. The college kids were…well, they were college kids and we all look alike.

Untitled took a seat and I went up for the drinks. I got a Sierra Nevada on tap, and Untitled wanted a gin fizz. The bartender-I’d describe him but the only way to do it would be to say he looked like a bartender in a dive bar-didn’t know how to make it. I was going to get her something else when she walked up behind me and gave him the ingredients. “It’s easy,” she said, “You take five ounces of gin, add five heaping teaspoons of sugar, and splash in some lemon juice.” She waited while the bartender complied…I’d say he complied begrudgingly, because that seems to fit with what a dive bartender would do if some little hippie-chick was giving him directions, but I think her beauty threw him off, and so he simply complied.

When he splashed in the lemon juice, Untitled continued, “Now drop in one egg.” The bartender gave her a look at this point, and the highwaymen with their highwaymen eyes looked up from their drinks and checked out this weird but beautiful girl at the bar. Then they checked me out to see what type of guy she goes in for. They all chuckled when they were done looking at me. I would’ve said something, but I figured, “Hey, I’m the one she’s here with.” The highwaymen turned their eyes back to Untitled. I got a little annoyed when the three pairs of eyes all focused on her breasts.

“Now all you need is one tablespoon of Cointreau…”

I don’t know why I got annoyed. When I first saw her, I ended up focusing on her breasts for a while as well. They’re almost perfect, at least they look that way through the oversized sweaters she wears. They’re not too big, not too small. They’re definitely there, but they fit, you know? They don’t call attention to themselves, but when they get it, they keep it. They seem to be just a bit more than a mouthful. Anything bigger would be gratuitous. So I can understand why the highwaymen were staring, but still.

“Then add one teaspoon of orange rind, or if you don’t have that, orange flower water…”

She does have a wonderful body. Her breasts, as I’ve said, are just about perfect (I’ll have to wait for closer examination until I decide whether they are absolutely perfect), she has a naturally tight stomach (not the kind you get from exercise but the kind you get from good genetics), toned legs (she was a hiker, or at least her legs looked that way), and the best, almond-shaped ass I’d ever seen (it was all I could do not to grab it).

“Now just add four ice-cubes and mix ’till they’re gone.”

While the bartender mixed, she turned to one of the highwaymen and said, “I like your hat.” He was wearing a Stetson. “It’s a Stetson,” he said, “The hat of presidents, cowboys, and businessmen.” His friend added, “A symbol of integrity and style after nearly 135 years.” The third said, “An icon of American heritage and a legendary trademark of quality.” And the bartender, in conclusion, said, “Stetson, a legendary American brand.”

“I want it,” Untitled said.

I looked at her. She wasn’t smiling. And I realized that she hadn’t giggled after saying it.

The highwayman in the hat said, “Excuse me?”

“I want your hat,” she said again.

He stood up from the bar, turned so he faced us directly and said, “Well I can’t just give it to you.”

“He can’t just give it to you,” the others echoed.

“It wouldn’t be right,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be right,” they echoed.

“It’s a Stetson,” he said.

“A legendary American brand,” the bartended added.

“The hat of presidents, cowboys, and businessmen,” the others said.

“You don’t just give away a Stetson,” he said.

“No you don’t,” the others agreed.

“A hat like this,” he said.

“A hat like that,” they echoed.

“You don’t just give it away,” he said.

“No you don’t,” the others agreed.

“What do you want for it,” Untitled asked.

“What are you offering?” the highwayman responded.

“You gotta offer him something,” the bartender said.

“A hat like that, need to offer him something,” the others agreed.

“I’ll give you $15,” she said.

The highwayman laughed, and the others followed in chorus.

“A hat like this,” he said.

“A hat like that,” the others echoed.

“A Stetson,” he said.

“A legendary American brand,” the bartender added.

“You can’t offer me enough money for a hat like this,” he said.

“Not for a hat like that,” the others agreed.

“Well, that’s what I’m offering,” Untitled said.

“I don’t want your money,” he said.

“Money’s not good enough,” the others echoed.

“Not for a hat like this,” he said.

“Not for a Stetson,” the others added.

“A legendary American brand,” the bartender said.

“The hat of presidents, cowboys, and businessmen,” he said.

“A legendary American brand,” the bartender added.

“I’ll tell you what you can offer,” the highway man said.

“What’s that?” Untitled asked.

I got ready to wince.

“You can offer me your ass.”

I winced.

The bartender, with a punctuative flourish, put the now-ready glass of gin fizz down in front of us, and said, “That’ll be $13 for the two drinks.”

I looked at Untitled and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

She smiled.

Flirtatiously.

She knew where the conversation would go when she started it, and she walked the highwayman right into it. And now she was smiling. She was smiling such that the smile might have said, “You can have my ass if I can have your hat.”

I straightened up, prepared to defend her honor-or, at the very least, my own. But she put her hand on my arm as if to say, “Settle down a sec.” What was I gonna say, “No?”

“My ass, huh?” she said to highwayman.

“Yep,” he said, “Give me your ass, and I’ll let you have my hat.”

“Some ass for a Stetson,” the others said.

“A legendary American brand,” the bartender added.

“I don’t know if I can agree to that,” Untitled said.

“Well, that’s what I need to part with my hat,” the highwayman said.

She took a sip from her gin fizz. I tried to read her eyes, but the blackbodies weren’t emitting a thing. Perfect blackbodies.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” she said.

“How’s that,” he asked.

“Well, first of all,” she said, “I’m not a whore. If I were to trade you my ass for your hat, I might as well trade you my ass for some cash, which would make me a whore, and I’m not a whore.

“But,” she continued, “I am a gambling woman.”

The highwaymen all smiled wide. I started to sag against the bar.

“A gambling woman, huh,” he said.

“Like to gamble?” the others added.

“That I do,” Untitled said, “That I do.”

“So,” the highwayman asked, “What’s the gamble?”

“Nothing too crazy,” she said, “Just a roll of the dice.”

The highwaymen all smiled wide. I melted into the bar.

“And the stakes?” the highwayman asked.

“If I win, I get your hat. If you win, you get my ass,” Untitled said. She didn’t giggle.

The bartender produced a set of dice from under the bar, “Only dice rolled in here is my dice. Only dice rolled in here is my dice.”

The highwaymen all stood up from the bar and, cackling, pulled a table close and set it up as if there was to be an arm-wrestling match: two chairs opposite each other. The college kids came down from the cubby hole. They didn’t know what was going on, but they knew it would be good. I pulled Untitled aside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

“I want his hat,” she said with a smile.

“But what if you lose?” I asked.

“I want his hat,” she said, still with that smile.

“Listen, I’m not gonna let this happen. We’re leaving,” I said, taking her arm.

She pulled herself away from me, and still with that fucking smile, said, “I want his hat.”
She walked away from me, over to the table. And though I was pissed at her, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her almond-shaped ass. I was about ready to run to the store to buy a Stetson hat in hopes that I might roll the dice.

She sat down on one side of the table and the highwayman sat at the other. I grabbed her drink from the bar, and placed it in front of her. She looked up at me with a smile. “Oh well,” I said to her, “It’s your ass and you can do with it what you please.”

The bartender stepped out from around the bar and stood like a referee over the middle of the table. “Okay,” he said, “Here are the rules. The little lady is going to be the one rolling the dice. What do you want, little lady, odds or evens?” She chose odds and the bartender continued, “So the little lady is going to roll. If it comes up an odd number, she gets the hat. If it comes up evens, she has to give him her ass and he can do whatever he wants with it for a period of one-hour, or until he’s satisfied, whichever comes first. Agreed?”

The two gamblers agreed. The bartender placed the dice into Untitled’s hand and said, “It’s all yours.”

She held the dice in one hand and took a sip of her gin fizz with the other.

The highwayman was all smiles, staring at her eyes. His friends were laughing loudly, pounding him on the back and saying things like, “Get that ass. Here comes the ass. Gonna get you some ass.” The college kids were all silent in amazement. They couldn’t believe their luck. And they couldn’t believe the story they were gonna get out of it. I just kept drinking my beer. I didn’t know what else to do. I could see my hand shaking every time I raised it to my lips.

“Any day now,” the highwayman said.

Untitled smiled - smiled fucking flirtatiously at him - then she kissed the hand holding the dice and let them fly.

One die hit the highwayman’s glass. I didn’t look at it because I was watching the other die. The other die rolled off the table and landed at my feet. Without looking at the dots, I put my foot on top of it, covering it from view. No one noticed. Everyone was looking at the first die.

“Well, that one’s a two,” the bartender said, “Anyone see the other one?”

Except for Untitled and her rival, everyone started moving around, looking for the other die. I pretended to look as well, keeping one foot planted on top of the missing die. The other highwaymen were scattering tables and chairs looking for it. The college kids got down on their knees to see if it rolled under the radiators on the wall. The bartender half-heartedly looked all around him, but he stayed near the main table for the most part. Untitled and her gambling partner just stared at each other, both with big old smiles.

After about five minutes of looking, the bartender said, “Well, it looks like the other one is lost.”

“What does that mean,” I asked.

“It means one of two things,” the highwayman said with a smile, “It means we use the one die we have, we use the one that is in my favor as the judge, which is the fair thing to do, or we call it a wash, which is the scoundrel thing to do.”

“No it doesn’t,” the bartender said, “This is my bar, and it means whatever I say it means.”

“And what’s that,” I asked.

“It means your girlfriend has to give this man her ass. The die we have is evens, and she chose odds. She loses.”

The highwaymen broke out in evil laughter. The college kids all laughed as well, though a little more nervously. I kept my foot on the die.

The highwayman stretched his hand across the table and said, “My name is Billy DeLyon, and it sure is gonna be a pleasure to have your ass, lady.”

Untitled stood and took his hand in hers. She smiled that fucking flirtatious smile!, and said, “Pleasure to meet you Billy. I really want your Stetson hat.” Then, with her free hand, she pulled a small pistol out from under her sweater and blew that poor boy down.

It happened in slow motion for me. I saw her pull out the pistol, but I didn’t register the fact that it was a pistol. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she was doing.

The sound of it, though. The sound of it shook me out of it. And Billy DeLyon’s blood splattered all over us. She shot him right in the face and his blood splattered all over us. Nobody moved. The bartender, the other highwaymen, the college boys, me; none of us moved. We were statues as Untitled walked around the table, picked up the Stetson hat, and walked out of The Lackadaisical Watch of the Sacred. Her almond-ass looked beautiful as she walked out the door.

I picked up my foot.