Tucson International Airport (TUS)

June 2004, Last Chance Saloon

"Do you remember me?" I ask.

"Yes, she says.  "You'd like a merlot." My heart sinks.  "How's your granddad?" She asks.

I could cry.  "Fran," I say, "I feel just terrible."

"Oh!  I'm so sorry!" Her eyes wet with sympathy.

"No, no, my grandfather is still doing OK.  I feel terrible because the last time I was here I asked you to break a twenty so I could tip you and then I left without tipping you!" I'm begging for forgiveness.  I hate the thought of kind and good Fran holding bitterness in her heart toward me.  It would be like Mother Teresa spitting at you.

"You did?" She asks, putting on that sweet smile and lowering her eyes to watch my glass fill.

"Yes!" I proclaim, "So take this, please!" I hand her a twenty dollar bill.

"No!" She says, humbly, waving a napkin at me, "Oh no!"

"Yes!" I insist, "This has been on my conscience ever since it happened. Please. Help me out."

"Well, OK." She blushes as she takes the money and I am released. Still loved by Fran! From then on, when she saw me coming, the merlot was in the glass waiting for me before I even got to the bar, and she always asked about my Granddad.

Tucson International Airport (TUS)

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!

Chicago O'Hare (ORD)

July 2004: Out-living My Expectations

My sister calls.  "How's Poppy?" I ask without saying hello. I expect the worst. 

"He's sitting up.  Reading the comics." She says.

"WHAT?" I raise my voice, "he's supposed to be dead!"  

I'm at PF Changs in O'Hare.  I'm drinking Merlot and eating squash soup. Just five hours earlier I was relaxing at home in the hammock with a book, the dog asleep on the bricks below me. The monsoon clouds were roiling along the mountains and some distant thunder rumbles were sounding promising.  Then I got the call, bought this ticket, re-arranged my whole life and left for the airport in less than 30 minutes. Poppy's dying, my sister told me. This is it. Get here now. 

The guy next to me at the bar looks over. 

"Well, that's good, but I can't believe it." I say, lowering my voice.

"I KNOW!" My sister sounds incredulous "We really thought this time was it."

I am suddenly filled with guilt.  I'm glad he's not dead.  He'll still be there when I arrive tonight. I am a little angry though.  The hammock, the book, the pooch and the thunder...not to mention the simple pleasure of being home for a weekend with nothing to do.

"I'm glad I'm coming home." I say.

"I know." She says.

"I'll be glad to see him," I say.

"You will," She says.