It’s better than I imagined. Much better than the sunsets in Miami. It would hurt Dante’s feelings if I told him, so I won’t.
The silver-haired woman appears in front of me in about four seconds. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“Do you have a cocktail menu?”
She blinks at me. Behind her, the shelves hold whiskey, bourbon, vodka, tequila, rum, and about thirty varieties of beer on tap.
“Honey,” she says, leaning closer. “This is a biker bar. I can pour liquor into a glass and I can open a beer. Pick one. The concept of a cocktail menu has never entered this building. What will it be?”
“Vodka soda with a lime.”
She nods. “I can do vodka soda. The lime situation is questionable. Let me check.” She turns, opens a small fridge under the bar, and produces a wilted lime. She cuts a wedge off it, drops it in the glass, and slides the drink across to me. “That’ll be six dollars.”
I’ve paid more for bottled water in South Beach. I put a twenty on the bar.
“Keep it,” I say.
She looks at the twenty, then back at me. Her chin lifts a fraction and her eyes narrow. “Are you visiting?”
“In town for work. I’m a wedding planner. Doing a wedding on 30A in a couple weeks.”
“Oh, one of those fancy places.”
“The house is right on the beach and the bride wants rustic elegance.”
She winks at me. “Give them what they want, honey, and don’t argue with them.”
I grin back at her. I like her immediately.
“I’m Sheila,” she says.
“Benji.”
“Well, Benji. Welcome to Big Tex’s. The sunset’s better from the deck if you want to grab a spot out there. The food menu’s on the chalkboard. The brisket is legendary.”
“I’ll stay right here, if that’s okay. I like a good bar.”
She looks me over carefully, taking in how I’m dressed and the way I’m sitting on this stool with my legs crossed, back straight. I’m taking up exactly as much space as I want to take up, which is all of it.
“You need anything,” she says, “you holler at me.”
She moves down the bar to the next customer. I sit there with my six-dollar vodka soda and a spectacular sunset.
Okay, Florida Panhandle.
Maybe you’re not so bad after all.
Chapter 2: Mickey
The car show weekend is my least favorite weekend of the year and it’s not even close.
Front Beach Road is bumper to bumper, the strip turned into a rolling museum of American muscle. Camaros and Mustangs crawl past while their drivers drink beer and pretend traffic laws don’t apply today.
The cars aren’t the problem. The people are. Thousands of them, drinking since noon, spilling into the road like the rules don’t exist.
I’m in my cruiser crawling east on Front Beach at approximately four miles per hour, which is the speed of traffic when half the road is cluttered with spectators. They’re everywhere. Lawn chairs in hotel parking lots. Lawn chairs on the sidewalk. Lawn chairs in the median. A family of five has set up a full tailgate in the turning lane of a fast-food parking lot, complete with a cooler, and a toddler in a wagon who is having the time of his life. He’s one unsupervised second from rolling into traffic.
I hit my lights. Not the siren. Just the blues. The dad sees me and grabs the wagon handle and gives me a wave that’s half apology, half “come on, man, it’s a festival.” I give him a look that says I know it’s a festival and your kid is in a turning lane. He pulls the wagon back two feet and I keep rolling.
