Page 47 of Bringing Home the Bacon
How in the world did I end up here?
Yesterday, I was fighting off the cold of New York City, feeling more alone than ever. Today, I’m sitting in a bar in Fork Lick, NY, with three burly farmers, and we’re all wearing matching striped holiday pajamas.
“Tiddy’s Bar, huh?” I say to the guys after a sip of beer. “Isn’t this a family-friendly town? You’d think they’d come up with a more appropriate name than that.”
“The owner’s last name is Tiddy. It’s his bar. What can ya do?” Alex shrugs and cracks open another brew.
A few minutes pass in easy silence.
“It’s bold of you guys to head out in public wearing these jammies. Really speaks to your confidence in your masculinity.”
“It’s really just about never disappointing our grandmother,” Ethan says. “When I suggested we change into our civilian clothes before heading out, she looked like Baabara had just died?—”
“Lord help us when that day finally comes,” Alex grumbles.
“Will never happen,” Sam says. “Baabara is immortal.”
“I’ve got to meet this sheep!” I say jovially.
“Oh, you will,” Ethan says ominously. “Anyway. Gran wants us to keep the jammies on? We keep the jammies on. It’s the least we can do.” He takes another swig of beer. “Thanks for going along with it, Bacon.”
“My pleasure. It’s nice getting an up-close look at the inner workings of a big, happy American family.”
“Ehhhh,” all three guys say at once.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Bedd man grunt,” I joke.
“I’ll take this one,” Alex says. “‘Ehhhh’ means we’re big and we’re American but can’t say we’ve always necessarily been happy.”
I nod. “Understood. It’s gotta be a rough road when you lose your parents so young.”
“That it is,” Ethan says. “Sounds like you know a little something about that too, though.”
“I do. My story’s different. But yeah, I do.”
“The way I see it, all we can do as a generation is try to do a better job than the one before us,” Ethan says.
“Hear, hear!” I clink my beer bottle with his, and we drink.
Alex shifts uncomfortably on his barstool. “What the hell, man? Mom and Dad did a great job. It’s not their fault they fucking died.”
“Simmer down, dude. I’m not saying anything against Mom and Dad. They did do a good job.” Ethan pauses. “For what they knew at the time.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Alex is getting heated now.
“It means… don’t you ever wish our family talked more when we were growing up?”
Alex huffs. “Our house was nonstop talking. Constant noise.”
“No, I think I know what Ethan means,” Sam chimes in. “Dad was never the type to talk about his feelings. Or concern himself with ours. Mom either, really. I mean, I never doubted they loved us, but they didn’t exactly express stuff like that.”
“Except to each other,” Alex says.
“Except to each other,” Ethan agrees.
Sam places his empty beer bottle on the table. “You know I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t think I had any semblance of emotional intelligence until Diane came into my life.”
“Same for me with Lia,” Ethan says.
