Actually, he was glad he'd been fired; he'd needed a reason to search for a better job. After all, he was thirty-five years old, and he could do better than working for ten dollars an hour making tacos.

Six hours a day four days a week of making tacos was more than he could stomach, especially when he had to report to that punk kid. 'The punk', as Bill frequently called him behind his back, couldn't have been more than twenty-two years old.

Anyone in his position would have a few drinks before work. What right did the punk have, telling him he couldn't drink before he arrived at work to make stupid tacos! What he did before work was his business!

Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more Bill Etcher was glad he got fired. His only regret was that he didn't punch the punk's teeth in before he left!

He got out of the truck adjusted his overalls and guided his overweight body to the entrance. He pushed open the old wooden door of the tavern, stomping up to the bar.

“Bill, you're looking more bothered than usual. What's the matter?” asked the large woman with the bleached blonde hair who worked behind the bar.

Bill leaned against the bar. “I got fired.”

“Here let me get you a beer, I'm sure you can use one,” the woman said.

“Thanks”

A brown bottle with the cap removed was set down in front of Bill, who drank it down in three quick swallows.

“Get me a couple more, babe.”

The blonde set two more beers down in front of Bill – and ten minutes later, two more.

An hour and a half after entering the bar, Bill finally decided it was time to head home.

He climbed back into the old Ford pickup and headed for home. He was feeling much better and knew stopping at the tavern had been the right choice.

He pulled into the driveway next to the trailer they'd lived in for the past two years and stopped with his rear wheels on top of the small bush his wife had planted the previous fall. Bill did not remember the name for the stupid bush only that it was supposed to have red flowers; so far it had had none.

He stumbled up to the door and tried to push the key in the lock. After repeated attempts, he gave up and pounded on the flimsy white door.

Marsha was a scrawny woman with long stringy hair. She never smiled, long ago realizing the mess her life was. She came to the door and opened it, and Bill shoved his way in. “The locks broke; my stupid key wouldn't work,” Bill grumbled as he dropped into a faded blue recliner with cigarette burns.