Rob Youler would tell you there were thousands of bars like Frosty’s in America.
They were like stars that blink out about once a day, but thousands still shine, in their dusty little way.
Frosty’s had Tough Tony, who was not that tough but scary looking, and Addy whose kid got a biomechanics scholarship and Darrel 214. Most people at Frosty’s didn’t remember what the numbers meant, but they were his area code growing up a long way away in Dallas.
Rob had a Tia on his mom’s side who made fantastic tamales, so Frosty’s had those on Tuesday night.
The tamales were so good Marv from Recovery Warriors AA group would come in to take a dozen to the 8 o’clock in the basement of St. Aloysious and say with a wink, “I’ll see you guys soon.”
There was Don G, who had some unpronounceable Albanian name, and Don Q whose first name wasn’t Don at all, and Nancy Fatlip, and Tunnelrat and Touchscreen Mike.
Rob liked his job at Frosty’s, didn’t love it, loved some of his regs and didn’t like others.
He knew he was in charge of one planet in a universe of neighborhood bars, all so different, all so the same.
It was quarter to nine on January Second.
The phone rang.
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