“Yes, she did. In front of the whole class. And I kept talking without the microphone because the microphone was never the point. The point was the story and the story wasn’tfinished. I was twelve with a lot to say. Some things don’t change.”
Tex pulls out of the parking lot, merges onto I-10, and reaches for his phone on the dash mount.
“I made us a playlist,” he says. “For the drive. I’ve been working on it all week. It’s a mood list. You know how people make those playlists for a romantic evening? Candles, wine, Barry White? This is like that, except it’s two grown men in a truck on the interstate and instead of getting laid we’re going home.”
He hits play. The opening guitar of “Home Sweet Home” by Mötley Crüe fills the cab.
“Vince Neil is setting the tone,” Tex says. “You gotta let Vince set the tone.”
The songs roll through. “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” “Homeward Bound.” “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Every one of them about going home, being home, wanting home. Tex sings along to all of them, badly and with complete commitment.
Somewhere outside Tallahassee, the opening riff of “Sweet Home Alabama” comes through the speakers and Tex turns it up.
“We don’t live in Alabama,” I say.
“Yeah, but entire state of Alabama lives with us in Panama City half the year. Consider it a welcome home from our seasonal residents.” He drums the steering wheel. “Besides, you can’t make a going-home playlist without Skynyrd. That’s illegal in the state of Florida. I checked.”
“How are things going at the bar?” I ask.
“I’m glad you asked,” Tex says. “I’m going to start with the important stuff and work my way down to the trivial stuff, which means I’m starting with the smoker because Big Bertha had a situation last Tuesday.”
“What happened?”
“The firebox cracked. Right down the middle. I’m out there at five in the morning doing the morning smoke and I hear this sound like a gunshot, which as you know is not a sound I enjoy anymore, and I look down and there’s a crack in the firebox the length of my forearm. The whole left side. Smoke pouring out of it sideways.”
“Did you fix it?”
“I welded it. Stormy held the pieces together while I welded them in the parking lot at six in the morning wearing a welding mask I borrowed from Robert next door. Robert’s a retired electrician but he has a welding setup because in this part of Florida every retired man has either a welding setup or a boat and he chose welding. The weld held. Bertha’s got a scar now but she’s back in action. I tell people it gives her character. Stormy says it gives her a safety hazard. Sheila says if Bertha dies, she’s not coming to work anymore because Bertha is the only thing at the bar that’s been there longer than she has. I told her that’s not true because the pool tables have been there longer and Sheila said ‘the pool tables don’t feed people’ and she’s right and I dropped it.”
“How is Sheila? I’ve missed her.”
“Sheila’s great. She reorganized the liquor shelves again. Fourth time this year. She’s got opinions about alphabeticalversus categorical and the opinions change with the season. In winter she organizes by color because ‘the bar looks warmer that way.’ In summer she organizes by popularity because ‘nobody’s browsing in July, they know what they want.’ I’ve given up trying to find the bourbon. The bourbon has been in four different locations since January. At this point, I just ask Sheila where it is like a man asking his wife where his keys are.”
He shifts lanes and keeps going.
“Last week some guy comes in wearing one of those shirts with the flip-flops on it and asks Sheila if we have a cocktail menu. Sheila pulls her reading glasses down her nose and says, ‘You’re looking at it.’ Guy says, ‘No, like a printed menu. With descriptions.’ Sheila says, ‘Tell me what you like and I’ll tell you what you’re having.’ Guy says he likes something refreshing. Sheila makes him a dark rum and ginger with a lime and doesn’t tell him what’s in it. Guy drinks it in four minutes, orders two more, and asks for her number. She told him she doesn’t date customers and he said he wasn’t a customer yet when he walked in and she laughed so hard she gave him a free shot.” He shakes his head. “That’s the Sheila effect. You walk in thinking you’re in charge and you leave thinking she’s the most interesting woman you’ve ever met. She’s been running this game since before I could drive and I’ve never once figured out her system.”
I lean my head against the cool glass window. The highway opens up ahead, flat and straight, pine trees on both sides, the north Florida landscape that Benji drove every day to see me.
“You know what Stormy did last night?” Tex says. “He made your bed. He put on clean sheets and folded thecomforter at the foot the way they do in hotels. He put a mint on the pillow too. A single wrapped mint from the gift shop downstairs. I said ‘Stormy, it’s Mickey, not a Marriott guest’ and he said ‘it’s his first night home and it should feel special’ and then he went back downstairs and left me standing there looking at your mint on the pillow.”
He’s quiet for a second. Tex being quiet is notable enough that I look over to see what’s wrong.
“That Stormy,” he says, shaking his head. “I swear to God. He spent his whole life in places where nobody made anything feel special for him. Nobody folded a comforter for him. Nobody put a mint on his pillow. And now he does it for other people because that’s what Stormy does with the things he never got. He gives them away. He gives them to the people around him like he’s trying to fill up all the empty spaces he lived in by making sure nobody else has to live in them.” He clears his throat and adjusts his grip on the wheel.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. The honey bun wrapper is in my lap and the sweet tea is warm in my hands and everything Tex and Stormy have done is sitting in my chest next to all the other things I can’t speak through right now.
Tex knows. He turns up the music and we drive for a few minutes without talking and the not-talking is its own kind of conversation.
“Let’s discuss the bathroom situation,” Tex says after a bit. “Stormy’s starred location is coming up in about forty minutes. The Pilot gas station in Madison. How are you doing?”
“I could use a stop.”
“Then we stop.” He pauses. “Mickey, I need to ask you something and I need you to not be weird about it.”
“That’s a great way to guarantee I’m going to be weird about it.”
“What’s your bathroom situation? Right now. Today. In terms of what you need help with. Because I have been thinking about this for the last four days and I have prepared myself for every possible scenario up to and including physically holding your dick. If need be.”
