Chapter 3 Tex
I wake up to the sound of sweeping.
It takes me a minute to place the sound.
My brain is still stuck in that thick, syrupy place between sleep and awake where nothing makes sense and everything sounds like it's underwater.
But there it is. The slow, rhythmic swish of a broom across hardwood, steady as a heartbeat, coming from somewhere below me.
I stare at the ceiling for a second and let that settle. Sixteen feet of storm surge. My bar sits maybe eight feet above sea level. Those aren't numbers I love.
But right now, someone is sweeping my bar, and there's only one person it could be.
I pull on jeans and boots and head downstairs without bothering with a shirt because it's July in Florida.
The AC is already struggling against the humidity and it's not even dawn yet.
The stairwell is dark except for the green glow of the exit signs, and I follow the sound of the broom down to the first floor.
He's in the middle of the bar. The overhead lights are off but he's found the switch for the neon signs, and the whole room is washed in this soft red and blue glow that makes it look like a scene from a movie.
He's moving between the tables with the broom, sweeping in long, careful strokes, collecting bottle caps and peanut shells into neat little piles.
He's wearing the gift shop clothes, the black sweatpants and the Property of Big Tex's Roadhouse t-shirt, and his blonde hair is sticking up on one side like he slept on it wrong.
Except I don't think he slept at all. There are shadows under his eyes so dark they look like bruises, and his face has that hollow, drawn-tight look that comes from a long night of not sleeping.
"Hey, Stormy! What are you doing?" I ask.
He jumps. The broom handle clangs against a table leg and he spins toward me with his whole body tense, eyes wide.
There's raw fear on his face.
Then he sees it's me, and he pulls it back, tucks it away behind that blank, careful mask he wears. But I saw it.
He doesn't speak. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. He just shakes his head, quick, automatic, and grips the broom handle with both hands like it's the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes drop to the floor. The apology is written across his whole body even though his voice won't carry it.
"What is it? Are you worried about waking me up?"
He nods.
I wave my hand at him. "Nah, don't worry about that. You didn't. Well, you did, but that's fine. I needed to get up. There's a damn hurricane coming. I was just wondering why you're swishing around down here so early in the morning."
The word comes out before I can stop it. Swishing. To a scared kid I picked up off the side of the road. I close my eyes for a second.
"That came out wrong. I didn't mean you were swishing around. I wasn't trying to imply anything." I rub my hand over my face. "Christ, I just meant the broom. The sound. The swishing sound of the broom. Swish, swish. That's all I meant. So, what are you doing exactly?"
He stares at me. There's no reaction. No offense, no amusement, nothing. He's looking at me the way you'd look at a foreigner speaking a language you've never heard.
"I can clean," he whispers.
Three words.
He says it so softly I can barely hear him. The first sound out of his mouth since I picked him up off the side of the road yesterday. The words come out rough and cracked, like a voice that hasn't been used in a long time and isn't sure it still works.
The way he says it — I can clean — like he's offering the only thing he's got. The one skill he thinks might be enough to justify taking up space in my building.
He's telling me, this is what I'm worth. Please let it be enough to let me stay in the middle of a damn hurricane. This is the best thing he has to offer, and he needs me to accept it or he's got nothing.
Damn.
It's not even daylight yet, and this kid is already breaking my big old grizzly bear heart.
He's clearly terrified. Standing in my bar in gift shop clothes with a broom in his hands and shadows under his eyes. He is absolutely scared to death.
Not of the hurricane. Of me. Of what I might want. Of what the price is going to be for a dry bed.
"Good to know," I say, keeping my voice light, because the wrong tone right now will shut him down and I might not hear his voice again for days. "And I appreciate the initiative, I really do, but it's five in the morning and I'm pretty sure you haven't slept."
"I—" The word catches. He swallows. Tries again, fighting it out like each syllable costs him. "I slept."
He didn't sleep. I can see it all over him. But I'm not going to push because pushing this kid is like pushing a stray cat. One little swat and I'll never see him again.
"Alright," I say. "How about this. You put the broom down, I'll make us some breakfast, and then we've got a full day of hurricane prep ahead of us. I could use an extra set of hands if you're up for it."
His expression shifts. It's small, barely there, but I've been watching people walk into my bar for years and I know what it looks like when someone wants to be useful. He wants this. He wants to be needed.
He nods. Then, like it takes every ounce of effort in his body, he pushes the words out. "Yes... sir."
He spoke again. Twice in two minutes. We're on a roll now.
I point at him. "Okay, new rule. Every time you call me sir, there's a penalty.
First offense, you're doing the dishes tonight.
Second offense, you're cooking breakfast tomorrow.
Third offense, I'm picking out your outfit from the gift shop and you're wearing whatever I choose.
And I have seen what's on those shelves, Stormy.
There is a hot pink tank top that says 'Property of Big Tex's' and it has your name written all over it. "
He blinks at me, unsure if I'm joking. His mouth opens, then closes. I think I've broken him.
"I'm thirty-two years old," I say. "Not sixty-two. Sir is for my daddy, God rest him, and he's not here anymore. Just me. Tex. Or if you're feeling fancy, Big Tex. But not sir. Deal?"
He nods once, quick.
"Was that yes?"
"Yes, s—" He catches himself. The muscles in his throat work like he's swallowing glass. Goddamn, what has happened to this kid? "Yes."
He spoke three times and each one cost him more than the last. But he's talking. Whatever locked his voice down yesterday is starting to crack, and I'm going to stand here and be patient about it if it kills me. He's got a voice in there. He just needs some coaxing to let it out.
"Alright then. It's time for breakfast. We've got a big day ahead. Come on."
I head for the bar kitchen with its full commercial setup. Flat top grill, deep fryer, six-burner range, walk-in cooler. I fire up the flat top and start pulling food. Eggs, bacon, a loaf of bread for toast. Butter. The good hot sauce, not the tourist stuff with fancy labels.
Stormy follows me in and stands near the doorway like he's not sure he's allowed past the threshold.
His arms are crossed over his chest and he's watching my hands again.
I've noticed he does that. Watches hands.
Tracks them like radar, like he needs to know where they are at all times and what they're doing.
I file that away in the growing folder of things I notice about this kid and don't ask about.
"You like eggs?" I ask, cracking four onto the flat top.
They sizzle and pop and the kitchen fills with that good breakfast smell.
"Scrambled, fried, over easy? I cook a mean over easy.
The secret is butter. Unholy amounts of butter.
My daddy used to say if you can still see the pan, you haven't used enough butter, and the man died of lung cancer, not a heart attack, so clearly, he was onto something. Is that okay with you?"
He nods. Then forces the word out, quiet but there. "Yes."
"Over easy it is then. Bacon?"
Another nod, a swallow. Then, softer. "Please."
The words are coming easier now. Still quiet. Still costing him. But coming. That little 'please' guts me but I don't let on. I don't want to make him more self-conscious than he already is.
I lay strips across the flat top and they start curling and snapping.
"Here's the plan for today. We've got to board up every window on the front side of this building, and there are a lot of them.
I picked up plywood yesterday but we need to measure, cut, and nail it all up.
We also need to move anything valuable from the first floor up to the second or third in case the surge gets bad.
And at some point, we need to get your bike up the stairs. Can you help me?"
His eyes light up. "I can do all that."
Wow, a full sentence. We're getting somewhere now.
"I know you can. That's why I'm glad you're here.
" I flip the eggs. "You know, most people evacuate during hurricanes.
They pack up their cars and drive to a Holiday Inn in Dothan and eat vending machine food and watch the Weather Channel in their underwear.
And here I am, making over easy eggs for a stranger in gift shop pants during the apocalypse.
Fair warning though, it's going to be hot as Satan's armpit out there.
July during storm season is no joke. The humidity alone will have you wringing out your shirt every twenty minutes, and the storm bands are going to roll through and soak us.
Then the sun comes back out and steams us like vegetables. It's miserable."
"I don't mind the heat."
The words are coming out smoother now without him choking on every syllable.
"Good. Because the heat definitely doesn't mind you. It's really friendly down here. Real hands-on."