The Fellowship of the Hangers On had planned a campaign meet and greet with even more of their members at a townie dive bar across the street. It sat right next to the train tracks, had a parking lot made of sand, and mismatched beach furniture on the patio.
The owner was a Republican supporter, which probably would shock a lot of regular patrons since usually Republicans try and shut these eyesores down. But this guy was smart and kept refilling the Republicans’ drinks and (?) pockets until they turned a blind eye.
The Congressman told me to invite my parents for drinks, and when we arrived, they already had their cocktails in hand, trying to not look out of place in the honky-tonk with sticky floors.
Clearly Peter and I had been drinking; clearly, my parents were pissed (and not the good drunk kind). Their irritation fueled our defiance, and we ordered more drinks. My parents couldn’t stay angry at Peter though. Mr. Personality could do no wrong in their eyes. As a sign of her undying love, my mother has never failed to mail Peter an Easter basket.
Over the course of the evening, we ended up talking to the owner of the bar. Nice enough guy, thrilled to have the bar at capacity on a school night. Encouraged my mom to come back on the weekend (she smiled politely) and when Peter and I were back in town. Unaware of our real age, he followed up his invitation by joking,
“But you two better be twenty-one. I’ve had some problems here in that department!”
Peter and I just laughed loudly in response, and I pinched my mother’s back, so she knew to be cool. She didn’t turn states’ and became an honorary member of the gang.
