My dad leaned over and said to me in his version of a whisper: “Those two are either on their first or second date.”
“Definitely first,” I said, turning and smiling up at him.
Red Door was pretty empty — not super surprising considering it was 8:30 p.m. on a Wednesday.
My dad wanted to take me out to celebrate my birthday, the big 16, despite having volleyball practice from six to eight — prime dinner time. I would have been perfectly happy anywhere, but going to Red Door and sitting at the bar instead of a table made it so much better.
It’s our thing: people-watching while he sips a beer and I sip a Shirley Temple.
Almost like an unspoken tradition.
The “tradition” usually isn’t at Red Door, though. Most of the time we walk across the street from his house to Jerry’s Bait Shop, which despite having a fish logo, is a place for beer not bait.
Jerry’s has been a staple in our family for as long as I can remember. Jerry’s porch has a mural wrapped around its walls — a big Jerry’s sign, fish and all, severely cracked with age, along with palm trees and half-naked women. The bar’s walls are full of liquor advertising, like the random Jack Daniels surfboard. Christmas lights are hung throughout the whole bar, and on some nights, they dimly light local bands who play on the stage at the front of the bar. On Wednesdays and Thursday nights, jam night, you can barely get a seat, and personal space is out the window.
Jerry’s is where my dad bartended for seven years before I was born — and started to again recently. It’s where my parents met.
It’s where I’ve been told, “Wow, you’ve grown so much since I last saw you!”
Or, “You probably don’t remember me — I haven’t seen you since you were this tall.”
Or, my personal favorite: “Oh my god, is this your kid — you look exactly like your dad.”
All by the people who hug or shake my dad’s hand whenever we go, and people I swear I’ve never met.
Since my parents split, my dad has always tried to make living at his house the best it can be, even if my sister and I don’t care how we’re living as long as we get to be with him. The problem with that, though, is he always wants to know everything about anything — which I understand. But also, I have a ton of homework piling up and I don’t really like talking about really deep stuff with anyone.
That’s why I love going out to Jerry’s. I get to see another side of my dad that I don’t see often enough. When he’s having fun, seeing his friends and introducing me to people. And I get a chance to be by his side without having to worry that he’s going to want to talk about something really important that’s going on.
At Jerry’s, it’s just music and faces I’ve never met.
One night, there were two girls and I can’t remember how many guys. The first girl was there for a little bit before everyone else showed up, but then her friend got there. She was in a lime green top and jeans — very glammed up and had loads of makeup on and chatting it up with the guys. Her friend, though, was sitting at the bar just sitting and listening to the conversation.
I leaned over to my dad, pointing to the girl in lime green, and said, “She made that girl come tonight and she only came because that girl made her.”
He laughed and agreed.
Every time, without fail, we do this.
Our perfect little tradition.
