Grandpa to ask if Dad was there. Grandpa said he had no idea where Dad
was.
"When y'all gonna get your own telephone?" Mr. Freeman asked after I
hung up.
"Mom disapproves of telephones," I said as I placed the dime on his
coffee table. "She thinks they're an impersonal means of
communication."
My first stop, as always, was Junior's. It was the fanciest bar in Welch,
with a picture window, a grill that served hamburgers and french fries,
and a pinball machine.
"Hey!" one of the regulars called out when I walked in. "It's Rex's little
girl. How ya doin', sweetheart?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Is my dad here?"
"Rex?" He turned to the man next to him. "Where's that old polecat
Rex?"
"I seen him this morning at the Howdy House."
"Honey, you look like you could use a rest," the bartender said. "Sit
down and have a Coca-Cola on the house."
"No, thank you. I've got kites to fly and fish to fry."
I went to the Howdy House, which was a notch below Junior's. It was
smaller and darker, and the only food it served was pickled eggs. The
bartender told me Dad had gone to the Pub, which was a notch below the
Howdy House—almost pitch black, with a sticky bar top and no food at
all. There he was, in the midst of a few other regulars, telling one of his
air force stories.