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2. Daddy Dan.

Andrea calls me Candy. When I came in, first time, Wednesday, thinkin' I'd have an Angus burger, while I could still afford one, thinkin' I still had a job, not knowing what the foreman was gonna tell me out on the sidewalk when we left, I was still wearing my shirt from the company that had just decided, without telling me yet, that they were laying me off. It says, "Andy", short for Andrews, my last name. They made the shirts; didn't ask me. They just gave them to us about the first of the month, some of that... entrepreneurial optimism I was talking about. She started callin' me Candy, and since it was right there on my shirt every time she stood across the bar from me, I figured she knew what she was sayin'. I could read it backwards in the mirror behind the bar. 'ydnA'.

I kind a' liked it though! Candy. Candy Andrews. Makes me sound cute, don't it? LOL

I come out of the kitchen as Andrea comes in, lean on the first stool here at the bar, look at the kid, layin' down in the booth again. Andrea comes out, down the bar, comes back, sets up another bottle of beer to me. I don't want it but I have it in my hand and take a drink before I can tell myself 'No'.

"Kid's a piece 'o work, ain't she?" Andrea asks, going about her business behind the bar, movin' this, touchin' that. None of the movements seem purposeful. She doesn't expect an answer. I don't give one. I start havin' questions but I ain't gonna ask 'em. Drugs? Drunk? I didn't smell liquor; just strawberries and sweat, and... Kid been... runnin' with the herd? What?

"I had great hopes for her," Andrea goes on. She's looking toward the little front windows, high up, neon beer signs there. They've used plywood to cover the bottom part of the windows, make it a saloon. "She's really good at math. Straight A's all through high school, all through school. Hung out, took a bunch of jobs for a couple years. Three years. Then she got serious. Couple years of college. Then... straight ta hell!"

I'm calculating, if she finished high school, couple years hangin' out, and went to college, twenty-two, twenty-three years old? And maybe some years after that.

"Did she drop out of college or finish?" I ask, regret it. Ain't none o' my damned bin'ness and I'd probably be better off not knowin' any more about this than I have to.

"Finished," she says, "Two years in... finished up in September... last September... 2022. Got her Associate's Degree in Accounting, came home and started stayin' out all night, gone for days, come home, not like this... never seen 'er..."

She can't seem to find words. Finds some, "...just... worn out... tired. Rest up and gone again. Never seen 'er like... today... though."

Her voice... kind of... catches in her throat. "This is what ya worry about," she says.

Andrea's still staring up toward the front of the bar. She whirls, goes back to the kitchen, comes back with a bowl of tomato soup, just as the front door opens. Same crowd from yesterday. Four men, two women, hard hats, work clothes, khakis, loud, boisterous. I'm gonna talk to some of them today, see if they know where I can find a job.

"Can you... can you feed her, Candy? I gotta... make some money." She sets the bowl at the end of the bar.

I don't hesitate. I like Andrea. "Sure," I tell her. She didn't wait for me to tell her. I take my beer, go back while Andrea goes toward the people coming in. They're all sitting at the bar. I look at the bowl of soup, spoon in it. I saw some cracker packages back there in the kitchen, go, fetch a handful, get a bottle of water from the cooler here, set my beer and the rest on a tray... eww! Dirty tray! Dried, crusty something! Next one down is too... ugh!... and go to the booth. Andrea left the two bar towels on the table, one damp, one dry. Good. This might be messy.

I set the tray on the table, away from the kid. I do the hands thing to sit her up. Her head lolls. No... cooperation. I'm... a little self-conscious, wondering what the hard hats are thinkin'. I hold her right shoulder, put my right hand on her left knee and spin her legs under the table again, slide my left hand down her arm, take hold of her left hand with my left. She's talking. I don't know what. I sit half assed on the end of the seat and push at her waist, pelvic bone, to slide her across the booth against the wall, slide in against her. She looks at me, glistening eyes half open, leans back, lets her head rest against the cushioned back of the booth. She pulls her hand out of mine, puts both hands on the edge of the table, brings her forearms in across each other and leans forward. I put my left hand on her chest again, fearing she's going to fall onto the table. Her right hand comes up, pushes weakly at my wrist.

"Stop it!" she says, with a little energy. "You be'er stop it!" she murmurs. The people are noisy but I worry that they heard her and wonder what the hell I'm doin'!

"How about a drink of water?" I ask, open the bottle, lift it to her lips. She purses her lips, lets me pour in a mouthful. She takes the bottle, left hand, right hand, gulps about two fifths of it, sets it on the table. She looks... or her eyes open in my direction... takes the lid from between my thumb and forefinger, twists it back on the bottle. Some bleary eye contact. She's conscious, at least... a little.

"Can you eat some soup?" I ask her. No answer. I dip the spoon in, fill it, think better of that, empty it and just put the coated spoon up to her lips. "Open up," I say, and she does. I put the spoon in, wipe it on her upper lip. She closes her mouth, works her lips and lower jaw.

"Ass 'snot chin oodle," she mutters.

"I didn't see any 'chin oodle' so I went with tomato," I tell her. "Here. Take another bite. I fill the spoon, take a chance, she opens her mouth, takes it.

"S'ot," she says.

"Hot?" I ask. I spoon a little onto the back of my left hand. It's not too hot. I spoon at it in the bowl, to cool it a bit more.

"Do you want crackers crumbled up in it?" I ask, pick up a pack. I wipe my hand with the wet towel, see the dirt Andrea washed off... Carryin' On Caryanne, or... however they spell it.

"Hell no," she says, without enthusiasm. Her eyes open. She reaches and takes the pack of crackers I'm holding, opens it, takes one out, dips it half in the soup, puts it in her mouth. She looks at me. I don't think her eyes can focus.

"S' your name?" she asks; I think.

"Andrea calls me Candy," I tell her.

"Candy?" she says, with what I take to be an interrogative tone. "Like... candy? Candy."

She takes the spoon out of my hand, dips it in the soup, pulls the bowl over in front of her, takes the spoon to her mouth. She misses, dribbles some down her chin. I offer the dry bartowel, dabbing at her chin myself. Her left hand comes up, takes it. She totters in the seat. I put my hand on her chest to steady her. She pushes under my wrist with her left hand, the bar towel, says, "Stop it!"

I scoot away from her a couple inches. She looks sideways at me, goes on to get the other cracker out of the cellophane, dip it in the soup, take a bite, get a spoonful. No dribbles.

She continues, seeming completely occupied by the soup. I look around, rather than stare at her. She's a very pretty girl, or could be if she wasn't so... effed up.

I sneak glances at her, look at her temple, the hair on the side of her head. There's a piece of pecan tree leaf there. I pick it out, lay it on the table where she can see it, look and see I only got half of it. I feel like reaching to... pick out the rest would be... intrusive. I think she looks at piece on the table, looks at me, back into the soup. I look away, give her some... privacy. I scoot away, sit at the end of the bench. She's eating the soup more quickly now, dipping crackers, takes a sip of water, guzzles another quarter of the bottle. Thirsty. Dehydrated maybe. I get up and go to get another bottle. I'm sure she's dehydrated. Those pretty lips look dry. Her eyes look a little... I don't know... dirty, like maybe she hasn't washed her face... in a while.

Andrea's busy with her crowd. Two more come in, a man, a woman, greet the others, like they've been expecting to see each other here. Good. Working. Makin' money. Somewhere. I wonder where and if they're hiring.

I come back, sit on the opposite side, push the water across the table to her. She finishes the first one. Goes back to the soup and crackers. I sip my beer, look around. Her bike's kind of too close to the door so I get up, go and get it, bring it back, park it by her side of the booth. I sit on the other side again.

She stops, looks at the bike, asks, "Where's my backpack?" and almost immediately says, "Oh. Ne'er mind. I didn't have it with me."

She finishes the soup. I peep in the bowl. Very empty. She sits, folds her hands, intertwining fingers, head hanging, like in prayer, but... snoring a little. I wonder if I should lay her down again, but there are too many people in here now, really, for that. I take the empty bowl, empty bottle, leave the leftover crackers, the full water bottle, take the tray, my beer, and go to the end of the bar. Andrea comes away from her crowd.

"She ate pretty good," I tell her, point at the bowl, empty cracker wrappers, empty water bottle. "I think she's sleeping. I'm afraid she'll fall and hit her head." As we watch the girl lays her head on her forearms and seems to be stable there.

"Thanks Candy," Andrea says. "I don't know what to do with her."

I get the impression she's not just talking about right now, but, in life in general. The crowd calls for another round. Andrea goes to serve them. Cash register ka-ching! Kid stays sitting, head on arms. I sip my beer. I take the tray, empty the wrappers into the trash, crush the bottle, put the lid back on, put the bottle to the recycling, put the bowl and spoon and tray in the sink. There are a lot of other bowls and plates and silverware in the sink. Must have had a good lunch crowd. I draw hot water, soap, wash them up. I take a peek at the kid, stable, come back and bring the stack of trays and wash them. They needed it. Some had obvious food crusted on them. Couple more bowls, spoons. Wipe down the sink, stove, wash the pot, hang it.

I dry my hands, go stand at the end of the bar again. Kid's leaned back against the back of the booth again. This is not good.

I look at the big arches in the wall. The wall's painted a light green. The arches are still red brick. At some point someone's put cinder blocks into the arches, closing them up, but the bricks are still there, three big, lovely floor to ceiling brick arches. I imagine the place when it was first built, wonder when. I noticed from across the street that Broken Places is just half the building, or less, big two-story brick, wonderful tall windows upstairs, brick arched. Alamo-style peak centered on the front. That other half is boarded up, the double doorway, and part way up the windows on the ground floor, like this half, leaving just the narrow 'windows' at the top. Looks like it may have been one... store at some time.

Two more men come in, go to the last booth back by the Ladies room. Andrea comes out to serve them. It's dark back there. They order mixed drinks. She tells them they can turn on the lamp. One of them says, "That's okay." She comes back behind the bar and fixes the drinks. Back to their booth. She takes a stroll by her kid, goes on up and in at the front end of the bar and resumes conversation with the crowd. They're still boisterous, teasing each other about personal matters, boyfriends, wives, trucks and cars, Ford versus Chevy argument, work. Lots of friendly banter. I turn and sit on the stool and sip my beer.

Someone spills a beer on the bar. I grab two bar towels out of a stack under the bar there and head down outside the bar, lean between two guys, lay a towel in the spill. Andrea retrieves a wet one and I take mine up, use the other towel to more thoroughly dry it. Andrea lays the wet one on the bar and cleans it up. I back out, careful not to drip on the people, and head back to the kitchen, rinse the towels in the dishwater, wring them out. When I come out I'm looking down to see if I got beer on my pants or shoes. I look up and I notice one of the last two men to come in, there's a big one, facing down the bar, and a smaller one, sitting across on the other side of the booth. The smaller one is turned toward the wall, but twisted back, looking over his shoulder, back down... toward the kid! His companion is there, on the opposite side of the table, but leaning across, looking around the smaller one and talking... low... conspiratorially.

The little one gets up. I look away, take a drink of my beer, look back and he goes down to Carryanne's booth! He sits down on this side!

Shee-it. This is trouble! I head that way. He's trying to talk to her. She lifts her head, murmurs. I step over beside her bicycle and he looks up at me.

"The lady is a little tired. Please let her rest," I say quietly to him.

"Well me and the lady are talkin'," he says, a tone and volume that grates on me, "and you're buttin' in."

That brings the heat into my chest. I don't know what to say next. I simply stare at him, too long. My knees begin to shake. I steady myself. I'm suddenly aware the place has gone quiet behind me. He glances that way, returns his glare to me.

"This is the bartender's daughter," I explain, quietly, "the lady who served your drinks. That's her mother and," and while I'm searching for more words to say, Andrea comes up on my left, levels the shotgun, just over his head, by my reckoning, and says,

"And this is her Daddy, Double Barrel Dan! He don't say much but when he does people listen... as long as they still have ears."

She growled it, low, menacing, clear, right there by my left ear. Andrea scares me! No [naughty word removed]!

The guy looks defiant, but that drains out of his face by degrees.

I turn and go over along the stools, make eye contact with each of the people sitting there who are watching Andrea, walk back to the end of the bar, let Adrea and... Dan... finish up this conversation. I lift my bottle but my hand is shaking so I don't try to drink. I set it back down. When I look back, the man is on his way to rejoin his friend, gives me a dirty look. I look away. As I step over to lean on the end of the bar, I see the big guy is leaned back in the darkness of the booth, but... I'm sure... he is looking at me. He looks away when I look at him.

Andrea's on her way back behind the bar, shotgun pointing at the ceiling. The hard hats start talking again, but low voices, not boisterous.

I'm on my way to the 'bathroom'. Out in the alley I take a few deep breaths. I take a piss on the far wall, see people driving, walking by both ends of the alley, about equidistant from me. Broken Places is right in the middle of the block. Long block.

I zip up, look up, blue sky, white clouds, rusty fire escape on Broken Places, see the back of the building, yes, twice or more as wide as Broken Places, same tall arched windows upstairs and down, built as one building. With those big arches in Andrea's place open, it might have been a feed store, a saloon, something. Windows up there are dirty, tall, elegant arches, like in front. The counterweight for the fire escape ladder is encased in a metal box, but the metal's rusted open for about four feet at the lower end. I can see the weights on a chain through the rusted out holes. They hold the ladder up by the platform up there, a wide door, like the front door, about four feet wide, but this one with many panes of glass.

It's four-thirty eight.
I should get the hell out of here.
I should get my ass on home.
I should just walk up... or down... the alley, walk around front, get in my truck and...
I should...

I go back in. Back into the Broken Places Bar & Grille.