Mr. G starts his day around 6 a.m., so quitting time at Mr. G Enterprises is 3:30. For the last 10 years, he and several of his employees have gone to a little bar called The Ranch after work, had a few beers, and played a video game called Golden Tee.
The bar has about 10 bar stools and stepping back six paces from the bar leads to a collision with the juke box, the pool table, or the Golden Tee video game. The patrons are mainly construction workers, most of whom have worked for Mr. G at one time or another. The only flashing lights are the blinking Bud Lite sign and the clock, set on bar time, above the bar. It's a tiny bastion of masculinity.
The only women in the joint are those who serve beer and beer is the only drink available at The Ranch. Occasionally one of the guy's girlfriends will show up. More often than not, she'll be one of the bartenders. On any given day, there are 6-20 people at The Ranch and like a redneck Cheers, everyone knows your name.
Six or seven years ago, when Valentine and Viagra were old enough to baby sit for a couple of hours, I started going to The Ranch with Mr. G once a week, usually on Friday. Since I already knew most of the guys, I immediately became a sort of honorary regular.
Mr. G's fishin' and huntin' buddies, Blackie and John, showed up often and we'd already logged plenty of hours together at the lake or shootin' doves. John is the token Yankee, a big, gruff, Italian pool shark from New York. In the event a stranger came into The Ranch for a friendly game, elbows, raised eyebrows, and whispers of "The fin's comin' up, watch for it!" skittered from one end of the bar to the other when John picked up his pool cue.
Since Blackie loves to argue just as much as I do, and can't decide if he's a Democrat or a Republican on any given day, we always had a fine time shouting good-naturedly at each other. Talking about politics at the bar drives Mr. G absolutely round the bend, which made it even more fun for Blackie.
I met Mr. G's video golf buddy, KD, at the bar. Mr. G went to the restroom and after an appropriate amount of time had passed, someone walked up behind me and started massaging my shoulders. It was heavenly. Assuming it was my husband, I just sat there soaking it up until Mr. G came back and sat down beside me.
The massage, however, didn't miss a beat. My eyes got wider and wider and Mr. G held up both his hands, wordlessly announcing "it ain't me". He then collapsed onto the bar laughing with all the other regulars who were watching to see when I'd notice it wasn't my husband behind me. KD was the culprit of that little practical joke.
KD said he'd never seen anyone look so horrified in his life and he told the story to everyone who came in who'd missed it. That's how I met KD's buddy, Dave the electrician, who sometimes arrives with a monstrous parrot on his shoulder.
While the guys played video golf, Sammy and I would take the part of the gallery. Sammy always tried to give Mr. G his bar stool when I sat down beside him, because I always did. Mr. G always insisted he'd really rather not sit beside such a mean and cruel woman. Sammy allowed he'd rather not either. This song and dance become a ritual, always ending with Sammy keeping his seat so we could heckle the golfers.
Sid, one of the golfers who often lost, invited me to leave the gallery on numerous occasions. Each time I opened my mouth, Sid would mutter crummy, crummy, family as we'd gotten into a "quote John Wayne movies" contest early in our acquaintance.
Charlie was another matter entirely. He introduced himself as "the coon-ass from Louisiana". A former oilman now in his 80's, Charlie would walk in the door in his house shoes, yell "Hey, little girl!", and holler at Mr. G to get away from his girlfriend. Charlie would then slam Mr. G's vacated bar stool up against mine and hold out his cheek for me to kiss. Salutations completed, I'd ask about his wife, Nancy.
I don't believe Charlie ever started a sentence addressing me with out prefacing it with, "Listen hear, little girl". He had more knowledge of the Middle East in his little finger than at least half Paul Bremer's current team.
The group also included our next door neighbor, O, and his two brothers, Sid and Curtis. O and Sid made up the Golden Tee golf foursome and Curtis helped me and Blackie mix it up over politics. Any one of these three brothers could have been a stand-up comedian, but all of them together would put the Redneck Comedy Tour to shame. They are a scream.
About once a month, after the first 18 holes of golf, the brothers treated us to a live concert. O played the guitar, Sid played the harmonica, and Curtis told jokes when O and Sid took a cigarette break. Since I love to sing, I always helped out with the harmony and had a grand time. The last time we all sang together, we did such a rousing rendition of Larry Gatlin's I Just Wish You Were Someone I Loved in three-part harmony that O's latest girlfriend gasped and gave us a standing ovation while we all high-fived ourselves silly.
Other girlfriends, bartenders, and regulars rotated in and out over the years, but mainly it was just Mr. G, me, and these guys. I learned an incredible amount about men and one of the best things I learned was how much fun a group of men could be. These guys didn't bitch on and on about their problems and believe me, they all had plenty. They just blew off the problems of the day for a few hours, laughed a great deal, and enjoyed themselves.
Some days that is just what the doctor ordered. Don't Worry, Be Happy is more help than it might appear at first glance.
The Ranch became one of my favorite places. One Friday a couple of months ago, Mr. G didn't ask if I wanted to go with him and around 4:15 he called, laughing, on his cell phone. "Curtis and Blackie want to know where you are? They say to tell you they're waiting. Curtis has been listening to Rush Limbaugh again." I could hear them yelling at me in the background. "Did you want me to come get you?"
Last Monday after running some errands, Mr. G and I pulled up to The Ranch to have a beer and a golf game on our way home. On the front door was a sign that read, "Closed for Busineness".
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