May 2004, The Last Stop Saloon
"My grandfather is dying," I say to the bartender. She tells me her name is Fran.
"I'm so sorry." she says.
Three merlots (my flight was delayed) and a chicken quesadilla later, I ask Fran to break a twenty, "so I can give you a tip," I say.
She counts out five, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen seventeen, eighteen nineteen and twenty and pushes the bills toward me. Fran has the kindest face. I could fall in love with her. That's not the merlot talking either.
"Thanks!" I say and proceed to shove the cash into my wallet with great effort. Somewhere over Las Cruces the flight attendant hands me a plastic cup of water, and I realize it. Of shit! I didn't tip Fran!
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