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I’d gotten a call one day from Lauren asking if I’d like to help her tend bar at a fundraising dinner for hunters. She’d known I was always need of some easy cash, and after worked plenty of extravagant weddings pouring overpriced wine to plastic trophy wives in Santa Barbara, she figured I’d have no trouble cracking open dozens of Coors for old hillbillies.
Walking up to a faded old meeting hall at some fairground, Lauren waved to a leathery woman in leather and turquoise jewelery and a husky bearded gentleman with a long-sleeve camouflage shirt tucked into worn jeans. Both had the thick, stubby cigarettes a friend who smoked them used to call the working man’s choice.
