Two men drink beer on a balcony in a high-rise pressed close to another vertical apartment complex. Bob declares himself a champion of the spit, his loogie’s arch challenged by none. Dick, indignant, denies the possibility, saying that no spitball has soared further than his. So they stand, grown men, hacking and hawking, until a substantial mass collects in their gullets.
Across the narrow alley twin globules of saliva streak in the dusklight, like small comets, to splatter on the next building. Bob cries triumph, just as Dick pumps a fist in victory. Oh, hells no! They stare at each other for a moment, the calm before the storm breaking out into a voracious and vociferous disagreement. The screech of the badly greased glass sliding door open startles them, and the laser glare of Bob’s irritable wife cowers them. The door rattles shut, and the men, muted, resign themselves to watching the sinking sun over their beers.
“Little boys and their spats,” she mutters, lowering her ample bottom onto the well-seated couch and returns her attention to the nature show detailing the lives and times of oysters.