wider in the middle, seldom takes his eyes off the floor, drives a twenty-year-old truck that blows white smoke out the left bank, and skims three to five hundred a week out of the cash drawer.
Which he uses to pay for his wife’s cancer medication and his daughter’s speech therapy.
Frank looked up as Daley and I came in. He nodded at me and wiped down the bar, then picked up a mop and began swabbing the floor. His shoulders sloped.
“How’s Betty?” I asked.
He dipped the mop in the bucket and then mashed the rinse lever. The smell of Pine Sol filled the air. “Better today.”
In all the times I’d asked that question, his eyes had never left the floor and he’d never answered differently. And yet over the years Betty had been in and out of the hospital a dozen times. In and out of ICU. Fighting one infection and then another.
Above him on the wall hung a poster of an idyllic island getaway and ocean vacation. Palm trees, island breeze, little drinks with umbrellas. Frank had never left Colorado. Neither had his wife or daughter. The edges of the poster were curled. It was a visible reminder of the vacation he would never take. I used to catch Frank looking into the picture. Now, not so much.
On more than one occasion—as he sipped too far into a bottle of bourbon—he replayed for me the memories of how his dad, as far back as he could remember, had smacked him on the back of the head and told him with spit puddling in the corner of his drunken mouth, “You’re useless. Never amount to nothing. Do us all a favor and just die now.”
Frank would stare out the window across the street, swig, swallow, wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist, and slam the shot glass down with a forced smile. “And he was right!” And every time he did that I didn’t notice the strength in his Popeye arms or tree-trunk legs, or the bravado in his voice, but the tears in his eyes.
The first few years he worked for me, he was rather fair and honest. That was before his wife got sick.
Frank wears his shame.
I sat in the corner on a stool and plugged Ella into the amplifier. Given the power in Daley’s lungs, I needed an instrument with some punch and bellow, and while I’d softened and even muted it in the enclosed room at Riverview, the D-35 had it. Daley stood to my right and slightly in front of me. Mike in front of her. Faded jeans. Button-down oxford. Hair pulled back and up. Her right sleeve was unbuttoned and came down to her knuckles, covering up most of the Aircast. The bling and bedazzle of a once-rising star were gone. She stood there stripped down. No pretension. No attempt to be some former version of herself. Daley stood there as Daley.
I tuned while she stood waiting on me. She looked back at me over her shoulder. “I’ll buy you an electronic tuner for Christmas,” she whispered, and smiled.
I tapped my ear. “Mine’s built-in. Like that sharpener in the back of the crayon box.”
A question rested on the tip of her tongue. I could practically see it sitting there, see her trying to swallow it.
So I answered, “The surgeon in Nashville must have done a really good job of reconstructing the ruptured membrane, because I can hear like Steve Austin.”
“Who?”
I plucked the low E-string on my guitar and tuned it down about two octaves, sending it severely out of tune. “Six Million Dollar Man.”
She laughed and the tension rolled off her temples, down onto her shoulders, and out the door where the pain of our past sat smoldering.
Some folks get nervous onstage. Sweat. Stammer. Stumble. Talk too much because the quiet scares them. Others are born to it. One of my favorite things about live music is the joy of playing with someone who, when they step onstage, forgets they’re being paid to stand there. Daley’s face told me she would have sung for free—in spite of the fact that Frank had quickly apologized and corrected his “mistake,” agreeing to pay her the customary three hundred
Which he uses to pay for his wife’s cancer medication and his daughter’s speech therapy.
Frank looked up as Daley and I came in. He nodded at me and wiped down the bar, then picked up a mop and began swabbing the floor. His shoulders sloped.
“How’s Betty?” I asked.
He dipped the mop in the bucket and then mashed the rinse lever. The smell of Pine Sol filled the air. “Better today.”
In all the times I’d asked that question, his eyes had never left the floor and he’d never answered differently. And yet over the years Betty had been in and out of the hospital a dozen times. In and out of ICU. Fighting one infection and then another.
Above him on the wall hung a poster of an idyllic island getaway and ocean vacation. Palm trees, island breeze, little drinks with umbrellas. Frank had never left Colorado. Neither had his wife or daughter. The edges of the poster were curled. It was a visible reminder of the vacation he would never take. I used to catch Frank looking into the picture. Now, not so much.
On more than one occasion—as he sipped too far into a bottle of bourbon—he replayed for me the memories of how his dad, as far back as he could remember, had smacked him on the back of the head and told him with spit puddling in the corner of his drunken mouth, “You’re useless. Never amount to nothing. Do us all a favor and just die now.”
Frank would stare out the window across the street, swig, swallow, wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist, and slam the shot glass down with a forced smile. “And he was right!” And every time he did that I didn’t notice the strength in his Popeye arms or tree-trunk legs, or the bravado in his voice, but the tears in his eyes.
The first few years he worked for me, he was rather fair and honest. That was before his wife got sick.
Frank wears his shame.
I sat in the corner on a stool and plugged Ella into the amplifier. Given the power in Daley’s lungs, I needed an instrument with some punch and bellow, and while I’d softened and even muted it in the enclosed room at Riverview, the D-35 had it. Daley stood to my right and slightly in front of me. Mike in front of her. Faded jeans. Button-down oxford. Hair pulled back and up. Her right sleeve was unbuttoned and came down to her knuckles, covering up most of the Aircast. The bling and bedazzle of a once-rising star were gone. She stood there stripped down. No pretension. No attempt to be some former version of herself. Daley stood there as Daley.
I tuned while she stood waiting on me. She looked back at me over her shoulder. “I’ll buy you an electronic tuner for Christmas,” she whispered, and smiled.
I tapped my ear. “Mine’s built-in. Like that sharpener in the back of the crayon box.”
A question rested on the tip of her tongue. I could practically see it sitting there, see her trying to swallow it.
So I answered, “The surgeon in Nashville must have done a really good job of reconstructing the ruptured membrane, because I can hear like Steve Austin.”
“Who?”
I plucked the low E-string on my guitar and tuned it down about two octaves, sending it severely out of tune. “Six Million Dollar Man.”
She laughed and the tension rolled off her temples, down onto her shoulders, and out the door where the pain of our past sat smoldering.
Some folks get nervous onstage. Sweat. Stammer. Stumble. Talk too much because the quiet scares them. Others are born to it. One of my favorite things about live music is the joy of playing with someone who, when they step onstage, forgets they’re being paid to stand there. Daley’s face told me she would have sung for free—in spite of the fact that Frank had quickly apologized and corrected his “mistake,” agreeing to pay her the customary three hundred
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