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5. MRS. NO; The Barricades.

Saturday night, July 22, 2023. Cubby's Hole! We agreed to meet here. I get here early! The kids got here earlier. My slot is 7:15. Unless other players show up it could be over by 7:30. Some do; come in carrying instruments. I go and move my name to the 7:45, let them go ahead of me.

Oh well. I'll treat... whatever in the hell her name is... to dinner, and play, and we can go. Unless... she wants to stay. Whatever. I really don't care. I fed her that line, "Anywhere, as long as it's with you." It was just... a line; just how old men flirt. Not even that. Just something I said without any thought behind it.

But... now... I'm getting kind of... hungry for her. I like the way she looks. I like the way she talks, in spite of her... sometimes... nasty attitude. It's... It's not real, really. She's... just a typical... damaged... soul, like all the rest of us. None of us trusts anyone, and rightly so, in this freaked out... Human Phenomenon. Psycho-politics and terrorist wars, Coronavirus Pandemic, and... life in the twenty-first century. If you haven't gotten a little crazy you haven't been paying attention.

I like her. She's certainly made my life... more... interesting. I've looked forward to seeing her all last week, and this week. I was impatiently patient. Can you be impatiently patient? I just stayed focused on the coming of Saturday, today.

I made the mistake of telling Patreaca we were coming. She's all excited, watching me, watching for 'that little girl' she saw leaving that morning.

Holy crap! There she is! She just pulled in across the street in front of the music store. That car; she never did tell me what kind it is. She's getting out; phone to the hip pocket, look left, right, wait for traffic to pass. She's wearing that black top she had on when I met her. She looks... delicioius! I step out the door on the restaurant section. She sees me, grins, hides it, can't, grins again, cute little wave. She comes across the lanes and in between the parked cars and onto the sidewalk and... two kids yell something. She looks down the sidewalk to her right and her face registers confusion. I look to my left. The kids run up to her! They hug her. She hugs them.

"Where's your Mom?" she says.

The little boy and girl, nine or ten years old say, together,

"Gramma brought us!"

Now her face is really registering confusion, distress, something. She seems about to swoon as she turns her head enough to roll her eyes to look into mine.

"M-My... m-mother's... here," she says in a stuttering moan, repeats, "My... mother's here!" The repeat seems to be for her own confirmation of the fact; not to inform me.

Now my face must be registering something. She looks at me, a pained smile, reaches with her left hand, touches my shirtfront. I'm bringing up my right hand to take hers, but she drops it to the kids again. I look down the sidewalk, see a car door standing open, a woman locking the door and closing it. Up the sidewalk she comes, dark hair, cut like... whatever in the hell her name is's... nice dress, nice smile, nice shoes, nice purse. Her mother looks like her.

Before her mother can get near enough to hear it I hear... my friend... say, "Mom, what are you doing here?"

Girls and their Moms; there's a psychology dynamic. Like I say, the question is asked, not so Mom can hear it, but rhetorically, of the night sky!

The kids have taken her two hands, spread her arms to left and right, ready for a hug.

"Gramma brought us to hear the music!" the little boy says. The little girl has crossed in front of... her... and is looking at the bar section, that recessed door on the right of the building.

"It looks like a bar!" she says.

"It is!" the boy says. "Gramma says it's a beer joint!"

Beer joint? I haven't heard a bar called a beer joint in a while.

The older woman is here now and steps into the hug-arms, but they don't hug her back so much as just touch her.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" she asks.

"We came to hear the music," the older woman says, brightly, as if she's unaware of her daughter's distress. She can't be.

"Is this the singer you've told me so much about!" she says brightly, reaching to shake my hand. I take off my cat hat, shake.

"Yes, ma'am," I say, "Gary E. Andrews." I grip her hand gently, firmly. I'm assuming I am said singer. Patreace is in the window of the bar, behind her, grinning at me.

"Well we came to hear you and to have supper," the woman says. "I asked people and they said the food was good here! Let's go in!"

With that she heads to the bar door. Patreace scrambles away, out of the window.

"Uh, this entrance is to the tables, the... restaurant," I say, gesturing. I don't want them to go through the bar. It IS just a bar.

My friend looks fourteen years old. She's not making eye contact with me. She looks a little in shock! The kids lead the way, pull her along, in. I hold the door for... her mother. All the tables toward the front are occupied. One right here by the door isn't. They start sitting down. Four people; four chairs. I stand. Soon I figure I can slip off into the crowd, maybe over to the bar, maybe hide in the men's room. Does this place have a back door?

"Oh, honey!" Mother says, "It's cold in here. Will you run and get my jacket out of the car?" She offers the car keys, busies herself with her chair, setting her purse on the table, invisible cookie crumbs on her dress front, as if to say, 'Of course you will!'. She doesn't look at... her daughter. Her daughter looks at me, mouths 'I didn't know'. I shrug, nod in affirmation. Surely this will be okay. She takes the keys, goes out.

"Well sit and tell me about this place!" her Mother says. The kids are looking at me with grins, expectation. This all makes perfect sense to them. I sit.

"So you're the legendary Gary E. Andrews," she says. She knows my name. It's stenciled on my guitar case. But it's standing way at the other end of the room. Legendary? I don't know if she intended it as a ridicule or just a reference to the fact that her daughter has apparently told her 'so much about' me. "What kind of music do you play? It's not all in the key of G is it?" She grins. I'm starting to not like her. She sounds like Miss No's Mother, Mrs. No. I smile.

"I have many songs in the key of G," I tell her, "but I sing in the key I play in." I make eye contact with each of the children. "Some people only play in the key they sing in," I gesture with both hands, first to the left, then right, to emphasize 'play' and 'sing', "so all their songs are in that same key," I explain, to the children. I glance at the lady, include her in. "But I find I can get comfortable singing in several keys. I don't know why people can't. It's common that people can't, or don't." I end looking at her mother.

"Gramma plays piano!" the little girl says, nodding at Gramma for affirmation. Gramma grins.

"How did you meet my daughter?" Gramma asks. I smile at the kids, look her in the eye.

"I was... walking home from here and," I start. She interrupts; another question.

"Don't you have a car?" she asks. Mrs. No. There's... suspicion... something... in her tone.

"I do, but I live near here and..." I don't want to tell her I like to have a margarita... or two... "so I walk down so I don't have to drive back. I like to walk. Don't you?" I say looking at the kids. Good kids! They take over the conversation, talking, telling, asking questions. The ruse only works for a while.

"So you were walking and my daughter was... here, somewhere?" Gramma's back.

"Yes," I say. "She pulled into a parking lot down the street and when I passed by we... spoke to each other. She asked me to play her a song." I look at the kids, try one more time, "...and song-writers never miss a chance to show off!" I say. The kids laugh. The kids take over. A moment's respite.

Oh! Uh... her daughter... 'What's'er'name' is back. She's out of breath. She has a tan jean-jacket, nicely color-coordinated for the dress.

"Just put it on the back of my chair, Ileace," she says. Eye-lease? Ileace? I'm spelling it how it sounds to me, how her mother pronounced it... I think. Not 'E-lise?' 'Ill-leace'. 'Il-lease'. 'I-leese'. Ill at ease. I see Patreace coming to my right. I stand up, let... Ill-at-ease sit down. She looks exasperated, flops a bit into the chair. It tips a bit. I have hold of it with my left hand, catch her right shoulder with my right hand. Her right hand comes up to mine, squeezes, quickly drops back down. Petreace has a pad, sets menus in front of everybody. She's ready to take the order, grins at me. Mrs. No picks up the menu. She's not ready to order.

"I'll give you a minute," Patreace says, looks at me, says, "Beer?" I think maybe I shouldn't drink but, I think twice.

"Yes," I say. Petreace grins, really big, like she's getting a kick out of whatever she can see in my face. I try to get control of my face. Some people come in the door. I'm in the walkway. I step around a bit behind the little girl, where I can see Ill-at-ease's face. I smile. She grimaces. I think it's a smile, under duress. It's funny, to me. Not to... Eye-leace. Ileace. I like her name. Petreace gets drink orders, touches me on the back as she turns to leave.

"How have you been?" I ask... Ileace, don't wait for an answer, say, "Have you finished that song you were writing."

The kids take over, 'You're writing a song? What's it about? Are you gonna play it tonight?' My children! I know I can count you when I need to.

"No," is all Ileace says. She glances up at me, goes on, "I... got a very... rhythmic first verse, but that makes it hard... to... write a second verse with the same... rhythm and rhyme and... melody." She seems stuck for anything to say next, looks at the table. The kids look expectant for more.

"I've done that," I say, genuinely enthusiastic! "Finding another set of words to match both the rhythm and the rhyme-scheme... and the melody of Verse I to make a Verse II. It's a challenge. You can do it! Keep at it. It'll come to you! Then comes the Third Verse Curse!" I say, ominously, eyes on the kids. They take the bait.

"What's the Third Verse Curse?" they ask in unison. Their pretty little faces look like... Ileace. I squat, hanging onto their two chairs to steady myself, to be more on their level.

"That's when you're writing a song and you get a story started in Verse I, then you think of a clever place for the story to go in a Verse II, and you have a Chorus in there and its the main idea of the story, but then..." I raise my hands into claws...dramatically say, "You... can't... think... of a Third Verse to end the story with. It makes you crazy. So, keep an eye on Ileace for the next few days. If she starts to twitch..." I twitch my left eye, "and jerk," I kind of jerk my shoulders, "she might need to be locked in the garage until the dogcatcher comes! Or just until she thinks of a good Third Verse." The boy laughs; the girl doesn't. She turns to Ileace, says,

"I wanna hear your song!"

"I wanna hear it too!" the little boy says.

"It's a nice hobby," Mrs. No says, "but you end up playing in...", she looks around, says, "places like this."

I look around. This place has a little class. There's nice art on the walls. The windows are clean. The floor's clean. It smells good. It's not hoity toity fabulous but it's nice.

"Yes, I've played in some places that aren't THIS nice," I say, as I stand up. The first singer starts. It's that girl who sings well but doesn't enunciate well.

Petreace is back with their drinks and my beer. I look at the label. It's not the Corona with a slice of lime I usually drink. I thought she must remember, the way she asked, 'Beer?'

Instead it's a brand we talked about one night, called, "Sweet Baby Jesus", I kid you not! Petreace is smiling beautifully and taking the order from Mrs. No, who has lots of questions, wants to know if she can get it this way, doesn't want it that way, wants it just the way the menu says. She orders for the children. Ileace orders a small salad. Petreace turns to go away, murmurs out the side of her mouth,

"Run! Run away!"

I laugh, clear my throat to cover. The children are quizzing Ileace about how long it took her to learn to play. She says she's still learning. They ask more questions; Are my hands big enough? Does it hurt to push the strings down? Their friend's dad said it did. Does she like Glen and the Glendella's new song? Mrs. No is reading the story of Cubby's Hole, on the back of the menu. Ileace is lightening up, conversing with the children. The beauty of her smile is back. I like her face.

Cookie's on the ball tonight. Churning out the meals. The waitress is back, delivering meals to tables. Petreace comes from behind the bar... I've noticed... to help bring the food out of the kitchen, take orders if she needs help. It's kind of nice when everybody at a table gets their food all at the same time. About 7:05 they come to... our table, serve everyone at once. I stand out of the way, and while the waitress and Petreace are serving I touch Ileace on the back, throw my right thumb back over my shoulder, clumsy with the beer bottle in it, turn and walk down through the room. I go through the doorway to the bar. I had hung a shirt and my white hat, not a cowboy hat, just a man's white straw hat with a brim, by the cooler against the wall at the end of the bar. In the men's room, a good thing to do before you go on stage, I change into that hat and shirt, a bright, what the girl at the store called 'tangerine' orange, short sleeves, a collar. I'll only be up there about ten minutes, but still... I take off my 'cat' hat, put on my good guys white hat. I decided to give her a show tonight. I didn't know I was going to get one too. Mrs. No. She's... Ileace is kind of... her mother's daughter! Bitchy, witchy! I hope I'm wrong. Eye-leese. Her name's Ileace. I like it.

I come out just in time to hear the act before my slot finish. I walk on as he walks off, plug in and address the mic.
"Welcome!" I say, "To Cubby's Hole Open Mic Night!" like I'm an emcee, because nobody else did. I open with "I Can't Leave You Alone".
Applause is spontaneous! Genuine. Universal. I fake a grin, let them see my teeth from the back of the room. I look toward the back. Ileace has turned her chair out into the aisle to fully face my way. She's applauding, brightly grinning, leaning in and talking to the kids. They're applauding, nodding. Mrs. No is putting her hands together, taking them apart, slowly. I don't think they're making a noise. Her face looks like she's being polite. Her face looks like she's annoyed at having to be polite. Her face... its saving grace... she looks like her beautiful daughter.

I play "Lovely Devil". The attention is genuine. The applause goes on a bit. I like it! Ileace has stood up, is walking down the aisle toward me. Every head turns to look at her as she comes past them. I can see the movement of the crowd without taking my eyes off her. That black top she wore the night I met her; those eyes. She steps up to me says, "Are you gonna play, "Get To Me" for me?"

Her voice is on the mic, not loud, but, the crowd's quiet, and it comes across the sound system. I grin. I say,

"Darlin'," not 'baby', "every song I play is for you."

That comes across the mic too, even though I'm not talking directly into it. She grins, turns, walks back. Every head, every man, every woman is watching. I'm watching. I think I'd better start before everyone notices I'm watching. Hell! They ain't watchin' me. Oh! Sound guy is!

"Come on, baby, Get To Me.."

I finish. Applause. The sound guy signals, 'One more.'

I talk, tell the audience, "I promise not to say 'Come on baby' any more tonight, unless I'm whispering it in your ear, and you know who you are." It's just patois, but after I've said it I realize it's too... sexy... to have said with... Ileace and me in our... relationship... in front of you-know-who and the kids. Oh well. I say, "I lied!" and I play the second 'Come on, baby' song. It's uptempo, fast. It ends. Applause! I got a little into it, not paying attention to anything but my song. I go to tip my hat to get off the stage, and notice... Ileace... and the kids... are gone. Mrs. No is still at the table. Restroom? Maybe. I pack my guitar. I go out through the bar. Petreace is grinning.

"Good show, boss!" she yells. I grin back, stop abruptly, lift my Sweet Baby Jesus bottle, look at the label, look at her. She hides her grin behind the fingertips of both hands. I go down the aisle, set my bottle on the corner of the bar, go out the door and put my guitar in the trunk of my Malibu. Ileace's car is gone! Her mother's is still there. I go back in the bar side. Karaoke kicks off over in the restaurant side. I get my beer, come out on the sidewalk and over to the door into the restaurant side. I smile at Mrs. No, turn the chair the little boy sat in toward the far corner of the table, facing the windows, the farthest from Mrs. No I can get.

"Well, that was interesting," she says. "You just make up those songs yourself?"

"Yes, I...", I start, but she folds her hands, her fingers pointing like sharpened trees in a frontier barricade fence, pointing both directions. "Are you having sex with my daughter?"

It's a stroke of luck for the two of us I'm able to swallow my Sweet Baby Jesus instead of spraying it across the table, up the windows to the ceiling! I sit up straight.

"No, Ma'am," I say, "I just met your daughter and..."

"Did she sleep at your house last Saturday?" she asks.

"Yes." I say, correct it to 'No', try to form words to say it was two weeks ago. I hesitate, "Ma'am. She..."

"But you didn't have sex?" she goes on. "Why would you sleep together and not have sex?"

"She asked if she could sleep... on my couch," I tell her. "She seemed very sleepy. She'd had a couple drinks of wine and..."

"YOU GAVE MY DAUGHTER WINE?" she belts, loud enough to where I don't want to look around to see who heard it. Some guy singing karaoke is rocking "Wooly Bully".

"She asked if she could... I gave her about this much wine," I show my thumb and forefinger, "in a coffee mug. She fell asleep and I poured out about this much," showing again. "But she was sleepy. She asked if she could sleep on my couch. I said she could. She's... she's... not fourteen is she?"

"You thought she was fourteen?" she shouts! Or does it just seem like it?

A little louder; I don't think Cookie heard you back in the kitchen.

"I just teased her about being fourteen," I explain. "She looks very young. I... I see the resemblance between the two of you."

"No you don't!" she argues. "She's adopted!"

Oh! Point Mrs. No!

"Well it must be... the way you wear your hair," I stumble. "You look a lot alike."

She doesn't seem to have the next volley ready. I take a sip of Sweet Baby Jesus. Sweet Baby Jesus!

"Do you intend to have sex with my daughter?" she asks, sharpened barricade hands folded anew, fingernails wriggling dangerously. What if she springs across the table like a cat, claws at my eyes? I show up to work on Monday with four claw marks above each eyebrow and down my cheeks! We're on the eleven o'clock news! Everyone wants to hear the story!

"That is a..." I start to say, 'very personal question', but the words that come out of my mouth are, "very distinct possibility."

She's wriggling in her chair.

I try to... rationalize this... conversation. "I'm a man so naturally I find a pretty girl desirable. She's a... How old is she?"

"She's twenty-five. She just had a birthday, May 10th," Mrs. No says.

Now you're effin' with me lady! May 10th is MY birthday! I look around. Is this a setup? Yeah, I don't know why anyone would go to the trouble of matching up our birthdays but... the damned CIA...Those guys...Ya never know!

"I teased her about being fourteen. She's so cute, she looked very young... until I got to know her better. Then I could see she's.. more mature. She told me she was twenty-five. May 10th?" I ramble. "She's a very stable and mature young woman, capable of making good decisions. I think she's..." I don't know what I was going to say.

"How old are you?" Mrs. No, back on the attack.

"I just turned twenty-eight," I tell her. I don't share the news. May 10th? Coincidence? Or there is a God and He's decided, 'This will be funny! Hey everybody! Watch Gary's face!" Point, God.

"She's been through a lot," Mother No says. "She got... tangled up... with that boy in high school. She was a junior when he was a senior. He graduated, went to Athens to college. She graduated and was up there with him for two years. He graduated college, dumped her, and she's been..."

'Miss No ever since!' I think to offer; don't. This is TMI; Too Much Information. Mom's a blabbermouth!

"...troubled ever since," She goes on. She seems to soften for a moment. I feel genuinely sorry for her distress.

"She seems like a rational young woman, mature..." I start, but don't repeat what I told... Ileace, 'capable of making her own decisions.' Obviously Mrs. No is making some decisions for her daughter.

This is really uncomfortable. Thinking of tipping my hat, saying 'G'night!' and walking out comes on the Pulldown Menu. The only other option is to say, 'Sweet Baby Jesus!' and turn the bottle up, guzzle it, and order two more! I find a third option. Sit there. Unable to see my own face.

Ileace! She's back! Coming in the door. 'Save me! Put bandaids on my bleeding eyes! I think your Mother broke a nail off in my forehead!'

She flops down in the chair the little girl sat in, opposite her Mother, gets up and scoots it closer to me, or maybe just squares it up to the table. Sweet Baby Jesus! I'm afraid to make any contact in front of The Inquisitor.

"What have you two been talking about?" Ileace demands. Her mother smiles benignly, but then seems... uncomfortable, unable to find an answer. She blushes. Oh woman! Thy name is Mrs. No.

"We were talking about the origins of Cubby's Hole," I tell her. This place... or... that place over there, was a bar, Clancy's Bar. Along came Prohibition and they couldn't make a living selling Demon Alcohol. The Clancy Brothers had been 'rounders', whatever that is, in their Mother's opinion, and their Mother told them no woman would ever put up with a rounder so they needed to learn to cook. Well, when Prohibition started they began selling food, cooking it in the house up the street, serving it in the bar. "There might have been some alcohol in the back or down the alley in the basement at their house. 'People must eat!' they said. 'People will drink! And people want entertainment!' so they presented all three. The Open Mic kind of continues that tradition; the entertainment part."

That's all a quote from the back of the menu, more or less. I remember from reading it a couple times in the last few weeks. I know her Mother read it earlier.

"Business got so good, they bought this place... a hardware store... next door," I gesture at the wall, ceiling, "and knocked a hole, that hole back there," I point to the doorway over to the bar, "and Clancy's got to be THE place to eat in Portsmouth. People came in from the country and ate here. People came across the river from Kentucky on ferry boats to eat here. Prohibition ended. They started selling Demon Alcohol again, but they kept cooking good food. They still use the Clancy Brothers' Mother's recipes to this day."

Ileace is blank-faced, listening attentively. I turn the menu to face her. She looks at it, reads a couple lines. I smile at Mrs. No. She smiles. She looks like Ileace.

"And both the Clancy Brothers married and their Mother was very proud of the women they married, and taught them to cook. Clancy's... this place... stayed in the family until January 3, 2003 when the next generation didn't want to keep it. It sold and the new owners, a woman nicknamed 'Cubby' and her husband, insisted the recipes come with the restaurant. There was some haggling, almost a battle in court, and then a settlement, and the rest is... hysterical."

She laughs. I love it when she laughs. Her face is relaxed, lovely. Mrs. No is smiling, with her mouth, not her eyes.

Petreace is here with the bill.

"I'll take that, Petreace. These folks were my guests tonight," I tell her.

Mrs. No protests, "You don't have to do that!", fumbles with her purse.

"You can leave a tip," I tell her. "That was great service, Petreace!" I say. "Cookie's on the ball tonight!"

"Yes! He is!," she says. I hold up my beer label again. She grins too beautifully to hold a grudge. I have to grin.

I look at the bill. Forty-seven dollars and seven cents! Holy crap! I poker-face it, lay the bill back in the tray, pull out my wallet, thumb out three twenties and a five. I lift the tray to Petreace, say, "Keep the change," smile at her, ask, "Would you take this?", hand her my Sweet Baby Jesus bottle, "I have to go for a walk before I'll be fit to drive."

Petreace goes. I stand. The... ladies... stand. They go out the door. I pick up Mrs. No's jacket off the chair, take it out, overtake them out on the sidewalk, over by the bar door, drop it on her shoulders.

"Would you all like to go for a walk with me?" I ask, actually intending the question for Ileace.

"In this neighborhood? At this hour? I think not!" Mrs. No says, indignantly. "And you shouldn't either." That last was directed at Ileace.

"I drank a beer. I'm not ready to drive," I explain. "I go for a walk." I only drank about half that beer.

"I'll walk Mom to her car," Ileace says. "I'll be back."

"Okay." I'm smiling like a Cheshire cat. I start to say, 'It was nice meeting you' but she's not waiting to hear it, so I don't. It wasn't.

I wait, pretend not to watch. There's a lot of talking down on the sidewalk by her car. Lots of arms, gesturing, some pointing, a couple... abrupt turns away from each other, turns back. I stop watching.

I hear several, "Mother please!" exclamations. Just two, actually.

Finally I'm glancing that way as Mrs. No turns, steps off the curb. The curb's about eight inches deep along here. I noticed before. Ileace kind of jumps like to catch her Mother, like she was falling. I don't know. Mrs. No straightens up, looks my way. Ileace is coming. I hear, Mrs. No say, "A condom won't protect your heart!" I think that's what I heard. That sounds like something she would say.

Her Mother gets in the car. Backs up, pulls forward, backs up, pulls forward, backs up, pulls out on the street. Ileace is beside me by the time her Mother goes by. A little Evil Eye and a dismissive wave, I think I see. I raise my arm, grin. I hope the devil's ready for her when she gets home.

"Well, thank you for coming," I say. "And for wearing that top. You were the prettiest girl in the room tonight."

"Damn!" she says. "I'm starting to like the way you flirt."

"No flirt, Ma'am," I say. "Just stating a fact. Everybody saw you, looked at you, agreed with me; prettiest girl in the room. We voted while you were gone."

She takes my left arm, says, "Let's walk." We walk. We don''t talk. I may never stop walking as long as she holds onto my arm. We end up walking up the hill and around Greenlawn Cemetery. It's quiet. Spring... or summer... blossoms sweeten the air. There are lots of blooming trees in the cemetery.

The night's traffic has gotten to where it's going. Occasionally one goes by. It's quiet. There are two people walking a dog ahead of us. They turn left on Kinney's Lane. We turn right, go to Baird Avenue. It's dark. We stumble on rough sidewalk, in the dark, first me, then her, then me again. We go out and walk in the middle of the red brick street. We cross 17th Street to the sidewalk, down to Grant Street, and head back to Cubby's. I think I'm 'well' enough to drive. I only had half of one Sweet Baby Jesus.

"Would you like to come to my place?" I ask her.

"I would," she said. "Mom's probably calling the exorcist right now."

"Soooo," I start, "does that mean you're coming or... you would... but Mom's calling the exorcist? If they come to my apartment they'll... want to do a ritual there." She laughs.

"I'm coming," she says, still hanging onto my arm. "Do you want to ride in my fancy-smancy car?"

"I drove down tonight," I tell her, gesture toward my Malibu.

"Oh!" she says, "I didn't even see it. I walk her across the street, watch her get in, close the door until she can take it in hand and close it herself.

"See ya there," I say. "Oh, if you'll back in your headlights won't shine in peoples' apartments. It's a little neighborhood courtesy."

She drives off. I cross back. Petreace is at the bar door. She comes out to the passenger side of my car, says,

"That's a hell of a tip! Do you want some of that back? Your Mother-In-Law... I mean... the woman left 15%." She laughs.

"No!" I tell her. "I want you to start saving to buy your daughter a guitar!"

She laughs, says, '"Yeah! Yeah! I will!", goes in. I get in and drive into the night, visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.