bartender just coming off duty early one evening. Hank had joined Frannie at one of the outside tables at Little Woodrow’s before her shift started. Little Woodrow’s, a well-established sports bar, was known for their selection of craft beers, sporting events, attractive female wait staff…and more beer. “Why can’t I find someone decent? Am I doing this on purpose? You know, to get back at my parents?” She sipped on Diet Coke while Hank slipped a Shiner Bock longneck into a koozie, with a shot of Makers Mark nearby.
Hank downed the shot, his face contorting in a look of strained satisfaction. “I doubt I’m the one to give you advice. I’m working on restaurant management myself. And I’m certainly no shrink, but if I had to choose, I shoot for the picker thing.” He took a long draw from his beer. “Sounds easier to fix. Don’t know much about that passive-aggressive shit. Not sure I want to either.”
Frannie had given the idea plenty of thought, even thumbed through her Psych 101 book from Sam, and decided it was probably a little of both. She had dated a biker dude, complete with a goatee, bandana, and a 1990 Harley Fatboy. Joe was really a nice guy, but it wasn’t necessary to bring him over, on the bike , to introduce him to her parents. They could have gone many moons without that image floating through their heads. Shortly thereafter, she’d found a new name tattooed on Joe’s chest that just happened to be the same as his ex-girlfriend. Yeah, that was enough of him. And just after she’d spent a wad on black leather pants and some Ray Ban Aviators.
Then there was Aaron, the guy who had a cocaine problem. Except she didn’t know he had a cocaine problem until he disappeared for two weeks. To her, he had just dropped off the face of the earth. She was so naive and scared back then, thinking something horrible had happened to this seemingly nice guy who went to work every day wearing a suit and tie. Looked respectable—again, naïve—until about 2:30 one morning, when she got a call from someone who wouldn’t identify herself, to say Aaron had wrecked his car and was in a hospital in Sequin.
“Sequin?” Jarred awake from a dead sleep, Frannie had pushed herself up to a sitting position. “But that’s…over two hours away!”
“Yeah, and he wants you to come get him.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“But it’s the middle of the night. What hospital is he—?” She’d heard the click ending the call.
Between Harley Fatboy and coke-head Aaron, she decided to leave Southwestern Bell and managed to land a job at an accounting firm, which meant her salary allowed her to quit bartending. Although changing jobs, she did keep the boyfriend she’d had for a while. Brian was also a bartender at Little Woodrow’s, didn’t have a Harley, and only occasionally smoked weed.
She felt way ahead of the game, until the biggie…the crown of all disappointments in her parents’ book of dos and don’ts happened. She got pregnant. Yeah, they’d been together for a while and yeah, she loved Brian, but they hadn’t talked about marriage, and certainly not about having a baby. However, Mother Nature, or their lack of judgment, landed her with a bun in the oven. The pregnancy took, but the marriage didn’t. It wasn’t Brian’s fault. Neither of them were prepared for either situation. She’d gone to her parents for the pregnancy, and then the divorce.
The first time she’d ever seen her mother cry was during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. She had been eight. The second was her pregnancy announcement. And the third crying jag moment was the divorce, which to Frannie meant her mother considered her faux pas as devastating as Texas almost being blown off the map by a hostile Fidel Castro with a nervous trigger finger.
Why did it seem so difficult for her parents to give her the one thing she needed most? Support. That’s all she wanted. No financial help, nothing. Just their
Hank downed the shot, his face contorting in a look of strained satisfaction. “I doubt I’m the one to give you advice. I’m working on restaurant management myself. And I’m certainly no shrink, but if I had to choose, I shoot for the picker thing.” He took a long draw from his beer. “Sounds easier to fix. Don’t know much about that passive-aggressive shit. Not sure I want to either.”
Frannie had given the idea plenty of thought, even thumbed through her Psych 101 book from Sam, and decided it was probably a little of both. She had dated a biker dude, complete with a goatee, bandana, and a 1990 Harley Fatboy. Joe was really a nice guy, but it wasn’t necessary to bring him over, on the bike , to introduce him to her parents. They could have gone many moons without that image floating through their heads. Shortly thereafter, she’d found a new name tattooed on Joe’s chest that just happened to be the same as his ex-girlfriend. Yeah, that was enough of him. And just after she’d spent a wad on black leather pants and some Ray Ban Aviators.
Then there was Aaron, the guy who had a cocaine problem. Except she didn’t know he had a cocaine problem until he disappeared for two weeks. To her, he had just dropped off the face of the earth. She was so naive and scared back then, thinking something horrible had happened to this seemingly nice guy who went to work every day wearing a suit and tie. Looked respectable—again, naïve—until about 2:30 one morning, when she got a call from someone who wouldn’t identify herself, to say Aaron had wrecked his car and was in a hospital in Sequin.
“Sequin?” Jarred awake from a dead sleep, Frannie had pushed herself up to a sitting position. “But that’s…over two hours away!”
“Yeah, and he wants you to come get him.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“But it’s the middle of the night. What hospital is he—?” She’d heard the click ending the call.
Between Harley Fatboy and coke-head Aaron, she decided to leave Southwestern Bell and managed to land a job at an accounting firm, which meant her salary allowed her to quit bartending. Although changing jobs, she did keep the boyfriend she’d had for a while. Brian was also a bartender at Little Woodrow’s, didn’t have a Harley, and only occasionally smoked weed.
She felt way ahead of the game, until the biggie…the crown of all disappointments in her parents’ book of dos and don’ts happened. She got pregnant. Yeah, they’d been together for a while and yeah, she loved Brian, but they hadn’t talked about marriage, and certainly not about having a baby. However, Mother Nature, or their lack of judgment, landed her with a bun in the oven. The pregnancy took, but the marriage didn’t. It wasn’t Brian’s fault. Neither of them were prepared for either situation. She’d gone to her parents for the pregnancy, and then the divorce.
The first time she’d ever seen her mother cry was during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. She had been eight. The second was her pregnancy announcement. And the third crying jag moment was the divorce, which to Frannie meant her mother considered her faux pas as devastating as Texas almost being blown off the map by a hostile Fidel Castro with a nervous trigger finger.
Why did it seem so difficult for her parents to give her the one thing she needed most? Support. That’s all she wanted. No financial help, nothing. Just their
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