Randy sat in his tight whities at the dining room table with a cup of black coffee, Winstons, and a 10-key. 

Every Sunday morning, Randy ran the numbers from the week and copied them onto xeroxed sheets he would later hand to his accountant. The boy and his friend ate Lucky Charms beside Randy, and the kids quietly wondered when they would get to go to the closed bar, play Asteroids, ride the mechanical bull, and use the gun to fill unlimited glasses of caffeinated sodas. 

It took a good hour and half for Randy to count and stack the bills, wrap the change, stamp the checks and fill out the deposit slips. He split the week’s take into two blue bank bags - one for home, one for the bar. 

“I’m gettin’ dressed. You boys be ready. Now you’re gonna need to stock before you start playing. Okay.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

By the time the boys had fronted and filled the coolers, it was 11:30 a.m. The boys figured out if they climbed a small wooden railing there was a sliver of board that would let them leap off of the balcony into the foam pit around the mechanical bull. They pretended they had been shot. They said they were Olympic divers. They shoved one another. They said they were going to be stuntmen. 

At noon, Randy poured a tomato beer and a shot of Wild Turkey. He sat at the bar, smoked, and watched the boys’ pratfalls. After a time, Randy got another tomato beer and a shot and told the boys, “Quit jumpin’ around, it’s rodeo time. Get up there on the bull, and let’s see what you dipshits have got.” 

The boys laughed and were tossed dizzy for the next hour. Randy sipped his beer, smoked his Winstons, and smiled.