1
Obituary
Matt Spenser
It is with great sadness that we announce the unexpected passing of Matt Spenser on June 22, 2026, at the age of 68.
Matt was born on January 10, 1958, in Little Rock, Arkansas, to Brent and Marilyn Spenser, who preceded him in death. His family relocated to Tampa in the early 1960s, where he spent most of his life.
In 2011, Matt inherited Bill’s Bar from his father and continued its tradition as a friendly place to gather. Many of his closest friendships were formed with the regular patrons who frequented the establishment and appreciated his kindness, generosity with his liquor, and quiet presence.
A private and unassuming man, Matt rarely spoke about himself. Those who knew him well were aware of his service in the United States Marine Corps from 1976 to 1980 and of his deep loyalty to his friends. Matt never married, yet he touched many lives and considered some of closest friends to be “his children.”
Matt will be missed.
A Celebration of Life will be held at a later date.
2
Celebration
After the third speaker, Clare stopped listening. They all said the same thing – Matt was a great guy – yadda, yadda. I can’t listen anymore. These guys talk about how wonderful Matt was. Did I miss something? Right now, all I want to know is what bar will I go to now? I mean, it did take me several months to find this place.
“Hey.” It was Tom. “You okay?” He sat down next to her. Clare sat at her customary bar stool, twirling her plastic champagne flute. The celebration of Matt’s life was complete. Sixty years of a lifetime compacted into twenty minutes of reminiscing and champagne toasts.
Clare nodded. “Somewhat. I mean, it was so unexpected. Matt’s passing. We were all together here last Saturday and on Monday he was dead. A week later, here we are. It’s . . . I wasn’t prepared.”
“Um. I thought about how I never got to thank him for all he did for me. I hope he knew . . .”
“Hey, guys.” Randy walked up to them. “You still got a job here, Tom?”
Tom shrugged.
Clare asked, “Who owns this place now? Did Matt have children?”
Randy looked around at the people, mostly regulars, in attendance. “He never told me about any kids and no spoke today saying Matt was their dad. Hell, who put this gig together?”
“My bet is on this dude coming toward us.” Said Tom.
A well-dressed man approached them. He had greying well-coifed hair. Clare noticed his professionally manicured fingernails and figured him to be about fifty years old. And rich.
“Thanks for coming. I’m Matt’s lawyer, Bob Thomas.” He held out his hand and shook each of their hands in turn. “Are any of you Tom Waters?”
“That’d be me,” Tom straightened up.
“I need to talk to you about Matt’s will. I also need to talk to a Clare McDonald and Randy Downs. Do you know them?”
“That’s us,” Randy said as he motioned his hand between Clare and himself.
“Very good. You’re both mentioned in Matt’s will as well. Can you be at my office tomorrow morning?”
Clare and Randy shook their heads “no,” as Bob Thomas passed out his business card and said, “Good. Nine a.m?” clearly ignoring them.
“I work,” Clare said meekly. “I can’t make it until about four.”
“Yeah, me too,” echoed Randy.
“Okay Sorry. Let’s do four. You okay with four, Tom?”
Tom nodded. Bob stepped away and exited the bar. The three friends stood silently staring at Bob’s business card.
“Go figure. In his will.” Randy said.
“As I said to Tom, I’m not prepared for any of this. I can’t get my head around it.”
Randy put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.
3
Randy
Randy opened the door to his apartment and shouted, “Lucy, I’m home!” Nearby, he heard a soft meow and saw his best friend, Lucy, stretch her back.
“Hey, girl. I know I can count on you to wait for me.”
He emptied items from his pockets on the kitchen table:
Thirty-seven cents
A guitar pick
A brown worn leather wallet containing twelve dollars
A monthly bus pass
A business card for Robert Thomas, estate attorney
A wrinkled business card for Matt Spencer and the word “Sponsor” hand-written at the top
A piece of paper with the words “Buy cat food”
A three-year sober chip
A laminated celebration of life card with Matt’s picture
A receipt from the 7-11 for a four- pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer costing $6.99
Randy's hand lingered on the receipt before he turned it face down. He opened a can of cat food while Lucy sat patiently on her haunches and stared. When he finished filling her bowl, she eagerly attacked her food. Randy petted her head and scratched Lucy behind the ears as he stared at the receipt. The apartment was silent except for the sound of Lucy eating.
4
The Will
The next afternoon Clare met Tom and Randy at the entrance of Bob Thomas’ business office. “OK, guys, let’s do this.”
“What do you think Matt left us?” whispered Tom.
“Why are you whispering? And we won’t find out standing here. Let’s go.” Randy said impatiently.
The three friends sat in the reception area of Bob Thomas’ office awaiting. No one spoke a word. Clare kept looking at her hands. Tom drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. Randy rocked in his seat and hummed an unfamiliar tune until Clare touched his arm and shook her head to say, “No humming.”
Bob Thomas emerged from his office and beckoned them inside. They sat at a large conference table and waited for Bob to speak.
“Glad you’re all here. Saves me repeating the speech three times. Well, here goes. Matt wrote his will six months ago and, as I said yesterday, you’re all included. I’ll skip the beginning and get right to the meat. I leave to Tom, Clare and Randy the bar, free and clear. They can decide who gets to live in the apartment upstairs. The one thing they cannot do is sell it for at least five years. One other condition: They must find my daughter. Her name is Francis Langman. If they find her, they must offer her a share in the bar. If she doesn’t want any part of it, then my three friends can decide what they want to do after five years of ownership. That’s it. Signed, dated and notarized.”
Clare gasped. “We own the bar?”
“He had a daughter?” Randy’s eyes widened.
Tom cocked his head toward Clare. “Shit.
After a few more interchanges, Bob gave them basic information on Matt’s daughter, a copy of the will, the deed and the keys to the bar, and a ledger. They signed some prepared papers and Bob said, “Good luck. If you need anything, anything at all, give me a call.”
Outside, Clare gave each man a hug and said, “Let’s go to our new establishment and have a drink.”
“Maybe two now that they’re free,” smiled Randy.
Tom, still in disbelief, shook his head. “Shit.”
At the tavern Clare and Randy sat in their favorite seats and Tom poured Clare her usual scotch and Randy a club soda.
Tom looked at Clare. “I remember when Matt told us we were the two unhappiest young people he knew.”
“Yeah. Then he asked us what would make us happy,” Clare added, “and I told him I had a list, but I swear owning a bar was not on that list.”
“And I told him I wanted to go to bed and sleep the whole night without nightmares.”
Randy smiled. “When was this?”
“About six months ago,” Tom said.
“He asked me the same thing just about the same time.”
“You think he knew? That he was going to die, I mean,” Clare asked.
The three friends took a drink.
“We need to look for his daughter.” Tom stated.
“Yeah, well, we have five years,” Randy raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to new. . . whatevers.”
Clare and Tom smiled and tapped their glasses with Randy’s.
5
Clare
As Clare drove home after the reading of the will, her thoughts went back to the day she met Matt and Tom three years ago. It was a Friday and she had spent every weekend for the past year alone at home watching some insipid movie on the Hallmark channel.Sometimes she ordered pizza but most nights she heated up a frozen meal and ate in front of the TV. She read somewhere you should always set the table with silverware and napkins. She tried that twice and got depressed that no human was across from her. So now the TV rested before her, and she could at least talk to it without fear she might insult a real person.
On her way home from work that fateful day, she felt a strong urge to stop at a neighborhood bar that she had passed every day on her way to and from work. She pulled into the parking lot and sat in her car for five minutes studying the white two-story cube building. It had two windows, a nondescript brown front door and a small outdoor yellow light beside the door. The road sign read, “Bill’s Tavern,” and there was a marquee with “Cold Beer.” In one window a neon sign glowed “Open.” Not the most welcoming invitation but sufficient for this evening. No one walked in or exited the building while she sat in her car, nonetheless she decided it wasn’t a dangerous place.
When she opened the door, she heard, “Hi, Miss.What can I get for you?”
Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness.She noticed the bartender, darkly handsome, around forty-five, she guessed. He smiled at her and continued to wipe glasses with a towel. There was an older man in a red Aloha shirt at the end of the bar with a newspaper and a beer. Clare figured him to be in his sixties. And there was a couple in the corner booth cuddling and kissing. The slender bartender stood between a long, wooden bar and a mirror that reflected all the liquor bottles poised on a counter.
“I’d like a Dewar’s and water, please.” Clare sat on a bar stool.
The bartender fixed her request with speed, stuck a plastic straw in it, placed the drink on a napkin and pushed it toward her.
“Thanks.”
She rotated the glass with one hand as if to study it. A habit she had developed in college.
“Gonna drink it or take a picture?” he said.
She took a sip. “Good. Thanks.” She thought the bartender resembled Keanu Reeves but with long hair.
“You’re new here,” he said.
“Yes, I see it every day on my commute. Today, I stopped.” She looked around. “Nice place.”
He gave a small chuckle. “It’s a neighborhood bar. Usually, we cater to regulars who want to wind down after work. We got the game – you know the trivia game? It’s a popular thing. You ever played?”
She shook her head.
“Well, we’re happy you came in,” the man at the end of the bar bellowed.
She raised her glass to him and took another sip. Her eyes focused back on the drink. The bartender stepped away. She looked around and noted a bowl filled with lemons perched on the bar. In the corner, a large screen TV hung from the ceiling tuned to a sports talk show.Nothing modern here, unpretentious, and clean, she thought. The place was acceptable to her.
When she finished her drink, she motioned to the bartender. “How much?”
She put the money plus a dollar tip on the bar and turned to leave.I’m pathetic. She took one step toward the exit and bumped into the burly man from the end of the bar. How did he do that? she wondered.
“Hope we didn’t frighten you off,” he whispered.
“No. Just gotta go. It’s been real.”
“I’m Matt Spenser, this here is Tom,” he pointed to the bartender.
“Nice to meet you both. I’m Clare.”
“Come back soon.”
“Get some snacks!” she said over her shoulder and thought, don’t be so bossy.
She lowered her head and walked through the door into the gravel parking lot. The sun had dropped below the horizon and a golden-grey sky lit her way. She pulled her suit jacket close to her, but it wasn’t because she was cold. No, it was a habit more than anything. Not much to see in the parking lot. Not even a palm tree. She thought, the place could use some curb appeal. I wonder how it stays open without customers.
Twenty minutes later she opened the front door to her home where she was greeted with silence. Instantly, she turned on the TV for noise. A look inside the refrigerator revealed a quart of unopened milk past the use by date, coffee creamer, yogurt, and two slices of American cheese. Guess I should go to the grocery store tomorrow. She ordered a pepperoni pizza and spicy chicken wings for delivery and waited while she watched an NCIS rerun.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. Just how she liked it.
6
Tom
Randy and Clare left to their respective homes and Tom locked up the bar, closed all the lights and took the stairs to his apartment above the bar. His mind could not erase Clare’s image and he thought she had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Until this day, he thought his eyes were sad, but Clare beat him, hands down.
If people asked him about his past life, he would tell them it was “eclectic.” He was prepared to explain that eclectic meant diverse, but no one ever asked. He also kept secret that he had served in Afghanistan.
Seven years ago, when he flunked out of college, he went home for the break. His father suggested he enlist in the army and Tom thought Why not? At least I would have a paycheck. He had no skills and no vocation. His Dad’s suggestion wasn’t a mean one, and, even though he could stay with his father, the army offered him a place to sleep.
Tom chuckled aloud recalling he had to look up Afghanistan on a world map because he didn’t know where it was.
After his tour ended and he returned home, he couldn’t get the sounds of war out of his head. He learned that if he left the TV on, even if he wasn’t watching, it kept the sounds of war quiet. So, the TV stayed on whenever he was home.
Tom grabbed a beer from his fridge. For the last three years he lived in an apartment over the bar. Matt gave him that. Let him live there rent free. Tonight Tom toasted the air. "For you Matt, you lucky son-of-a-bitch.”
He would never forget how he met Matt three years earlier. He just walked in to the bar one night and saw Matt sitting in, what he would come to know, as his favorite stool. Matt rose and moved behind the bar. “How can I help?”
Matt grabbed a bottled beer, uncapped it, and placed it in front of Tom. “You look like you need this.”
“Thanks, I didn’t think you were the bartender,” said Tom.
“Nope. I’m the owner. But my bartender left town chasing some skirt and I now have the delightful task of pouring drinks.”
Tom looked around the half-empty bar. “I can pour drinks.” He thought, How hard can that be?
Matt smiled and they shook hands. Tom started bartending the next day, and that, as they say, was how they became friends.
Tonight, Tom popped a sleep aid, but he knew it wouldn’t help.
He retrieved his notebook from the nightstand. Every evening after work, he would write notes about the people he encountered at the bar. Tonight, he opened his journal and wrote her name. Tonight, he wrote about Clare.
7
Randy
Randy had a routine. Every day after work, he would go Bill’s Tavern for a cold soda, thenhead home, peel off his construction covered dusty clothes, and step into the shower. Afterward, he would wander through his apartment wearing boxer shorts and drinking a soda.
But this night, he wasn’t in his construction clothes. He couldn’t get the idea out of his head that he was now the one-third owner of a bar. So he wandered through his tiny apartment wondering how his small life might change.
Tonight, he noticed the window sills and overhead fans had an inch of dust. I’ll tell the maid, he thought and chuckled. He stopped to look at the bedroom corner that held an empty music stand. A year ago he had found the stand in the garbage dumpster. He tilted his head and wondered, Should get rid of that old stand. No guitar, no music, no need for a stand. What was I thinking? Dumpster diving. God, that was a new low.
He sat on the sofa with his pet Lucy. She purred. He scratched her chin. “You’re easy,” he said. “Everybody should be like you.”
Five years ago, Randy found himself homeless in his hometown of Hartford. He knew he preferred warm weather to the cold of Connecticut, so he sold his guitar, bought a bus ticket, and headed south. He told his mother back then, “I mean, if I’m going to live homeless and outside, it might as well be in a warm place.”
His mom had no response, so, Tampa, Florida became his home. The first place he went after he got off the bus was Bill’s Tavern. A happy accident. Matt made him a sandwich and didn’t charge him. He went back to the bar every night for a week. Finally, Matt asked, “Do you need a job?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Cause you’re always here.”
“Do I bother you?”
“No, I like your company. But you’re eating me out of all the sandwich fixins’ and not paying me.”
Randy smiled and nodded. “Guess I could use a job. The bad part is, I don’t have any skills.”
“No problem. I know of jobs where they want people like you.”
“What? Dumb and poor?”
“Exactly.”
Within the week, Matt found him a construction job and a place to live, and he and Matt were lifelong buddies.
Randy scanned the TV channels with the remote. “Lucy, we got 1,000 channels and not a damn show to watch.” She looked at him, titled her head and licked her chest.
“Let’s go to bed, Lucy. We both had hard days.”
The two walked into the bedroom.
8
Clare
The day after the meeting in Bob Thomas’ office, Clare couldn’t stop thinking about Matt and how he came into her life. Clare smiled as she remembered her second trip to Bill’s Tavern.
Clare dressed in her “date” clothes—jeans and a blue striped tunic top. She put on minimal makeup, brushed her brown curly hair, and then gave her head a shake. She never considered herself a beauty but thought her tall, 5’8” slender frame, attractive. Speaking to her reflection, she said aloud, “Not too bad for 45. If you were 30, you’d look like shit.”
She arrived at the bar around six, waved to Matt who was in the same stool as before and Tom poured “her usual” without saying a word. There was something comforting about a man who knew what you wanted, even if it was just a drink, she thought.
Before she could take a sip, a man stormed through the door and yelled, “I need a cold brew.” He was tall- over six feet - with big shoulders. He seemed in good shape except he sported a pot belly and had three layers of dirt caked on his clothing, boots, bare arms and face.
The man sat next to Clare as Tom put a can of soda and glass of ice before him.“Hi.Name’s Randy. Randy Downs,” he said in a husky voice.
“Clare.” She couldn’t tell if Randy’s hair was blonde, brown or something in between with all the dust on him.
“Get that lady some Goldfish, Tom,” Matt yelled in his booming voice from his bar stool. “We want her to come back next week.”
“What about me?” laughed Randy, “I don’t rate Goldfish?I’ve been coming here for five years when all you served for food was a plastic straw in my drink.”
Tom placed two white foam bowls with pretzels and Goldfish in front of Clare and Randy.“Enjoy.”
“Classy with the plastic bowls, Tom,” Randy grinned. “So, Clare, I’ve never seen you here before. First time?”
“Second. I find the ambiance … calming.”
Matt put his newspaper down.“Leave her alone, Randy. She’s a nice one.”
Clare eyed Randy out of the corner of her eye. She figured him to be around the same age as her-about forty. He had a Robert Redford smile – started slowly as a grin and then broadened to reveal beautiful straight teeth. And his blue eyes twinkled. She had never seen eye twinkle in a man before. She thought, It’s possible I didn’t look long enough at any man to notice twinkle.
Matt folded his paper and stacked the sections in order.He walked toward them and sat on the stool next to Clare. “How was your day, little lady?”
Clare’s neck bristled at the little lady comment. “Fine. Busy.” Clare looked at Tom. “Another, please.”
Without a word, Tom filled her glass, placed it in front of her, plopped in a four-inch red straw, and turned away to enter something in the computer register. She took a sip, closed her eyes and savored the warmth as it slid down to her stomach.
She sighed. “Thanks for the snacks. How’d you know I’d be back?”
“Didn’t. Just thought it was a good idea. Hope you stay longer than last time, Clare. This place has some nice regulars and on Saturdays we even get a crowd. Yeah, pretty quiet now but in an hour, there’ll be some noise.”
Clare stared down at her drink.She gave the glass a turn and took another sip.
“This your place?”
“Yep. My dad left it to me when he died 15 years ago. Everyone said to sell it, but I couldn’t. The place saved me in a way.”
“So, your dad was Bill, I’m thinkin?”
“Yep.”
A few minutes passed without conversation. Randy tucked his left thumb in his waistband, and leaned backward in his stool. Matt broke the silence. “Are you from here, Clare?”
For the next fifteen minutes, Clare explained how she moved to Atlanta after college, got married, divorced and then moved to Newport News, Virginia, for another job. She always hated how her voice became flat and matter-of-fact when she talked about herself. She rationalized that it conveyed intelligence, when she was really building a wall.
“Hey,” interrupted Tom, “I was stationed in Norfolk. Nice area.”
She caught Tom and Matt passing a look. Clare continued. “I moved back to Tampa last year when my mom fell and broke her hip.”
“Bummer,” commented Randy. “She okay?”
“She recovered from the fall, but, no, not okay.” Clare turned back to her look in her drink. “She’s in assisted living but you know how that is. You gotta be there on a regular basis …” her voice trailed as she noticed their eyes glazing over. She didn’t want to say how her sole purpose in life was to please her mother. She left out how lonely she was because the only relationship she knew was the one with her mother. No, she thought, best not to push them away just yet.
Matt tapped her shoulder as if to say, I understand, Tom walked to a back room, Randy gave Clare a nod and exited the bar, and Clare found herself alone. Again. Yeah, I consider my life boring, too, she thought. It was time for her to leave. Clare laid money on the bar.
“See you next week.” She announced, but no one responded.
Matt was absorbed in conversation with a customer, and she decided not to interrupt. As she put her hand on the door handle, she heard Matt’s foghorn baritone yell, “Don’t forget to come again!” Clare waved goodbye but didn’t look back at him.
9
The Reopening
By the end of the week, Tom, Randy, and Lucy had moved into the two-bedroom apartment above the bar. The “guys” cleaned the bar, emptied cabinets of old or unnecessary items, and painted the front door red. Clare bought two large planters, filled them with red geraniums, and placed them on either side of the front door.
The bar reopened the weekend after Matt’s funeral and all the “regulars” returned to occupy their favorite places. Each one told Tom they missed having a comfortable place to unwind, or they missed the game, or they missed the way Tom poured a drink. Though they didn’t make any money, the new owners decided to open again the next weekend.
“What will I do the rest of the time?” Tom asked. “I need money, you know.”
“This is just temporary, Tom,” said Randy. “I’ll still work my construction job and Clare will stay at the bank.”
Tom shook his head. “For how long, man?”
“I can’t leave the bank. I’ve got to pay my mom’s bills,” Clare protested.
“You hate that job, Clare,” said Randy, “and I hate mine. This might just be the opportunity we’ve waited for. Tom and I don’t have to pay rent and now we have the income from the bar. When we get it going again, you and I can both quit. Meantime, Tom will manage the bar and you and I will work here on the weekends.”
“Did you take a look at the bar’s ledger?” Clare put her hands on her head as if she was holding in its contents. “This place barely made a profit. Matt made just enough money to pay the bills. Honestly, I don’t know how it stayed open.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m willing to try. Let’s give it a shot for two weeks but let’s stay open three days, no four. Let’s have a football Sunday special and cook hot dogs.”
Clare drifted in thought. She hadn’t told her mother what was happening or even that she had inherited a portion of a bar. In fact, Clare hadn’t told anyone she knew. She feared her mother would call her a “slut,” and she didn’t want anyone at the bank to come into the bar. What would they think of her? Besides, she felt a gnawing sensation that any minute something would happen, and her life would return to its former self – lonely and afraid.
And so, Clare was a banker Monday through Friday until four and then she turned into a cocktail waitress Thursday through Sunday. There weren’t a lot of patrons that first week which was a good thing. Clare became comfortable carrying a tray full of drinks and learned the difference between draft and bottled beer. Sunday arrived. The guys, each sporting one of Matt’s Aloha shirts, opened the bar at noon.At 12:30 the place was still empty.
“This might have been a mistake,” Tom said giving voice to the thoughts of the three.
At that moment, the front door opened and in walked three regulars. “Where’s the special?” yelled one of them. Tom and Randy looked at each other and made a fist bump.
When they ran out of hot dogs, Randy hurried to the grocery store for popcorn. When they ran out of beer, Tom mixed highballs. When they ran out of Goldfish and pretzels at seven o’clock, they booted everyone out. “We have three days to restock and regroup,” said Tom.
“Did we make any money?” asked Randy as he rubbed his neck and drank a cold cola.
On Monday Clare sat at her 9-4 desk with her eyes on a loan application, but her mind was on the bar. She reflected on her dual life – loan office by day, cocktail waitress and part bar owner by night. Talk about a split personality! And in the back of her mind, were numbers on a ledger.
She looked around the lobby and noted there weren’t any people in the bank. In fact, with online and drive through banking, there were fewer reasons for customers to enter the facility. Customers! She thought. That’s what the bar needs! More customers. Clare decided to research successful bars. She typed turn a bar around in the Google space and was rewarded with several pages of articles.
After work, she stopped at the bar and found Tom and Randy eating pizza.
“I think we need music,” she announced as she entered the doorway.
Randy smiled. “You mean now?”
“No, I mean when we’re open. For customers. We need music to bring in more customers. And food more substantial than Goldfish and pretzels.”
Tom swallowed his bite of pizza. “Nice idea, but how can we afford a band and food?”
Clara sat next to them at the bar. “Not a band. Just music. Maybe an open mic night. Can’t we pipe in music?”
The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Pipe in? Like elevator music?” Tom asked.
Tom gave Clare a slice of pizza and the three talked about hosting Thursday taco night. Clare said she’d cook if they figured out how to get music into the bar.
That Thursday, the guys set up a long six-foot table and arranged the foam plates and napkins. Clare put out the taco fixings. “Where’s the music?”
“Sorry. No time. Let’s keep the TV on for football.” Randy said.
“That’s it? Football?”
“Works for me,” Tom said.
Clare learned that Thursday night football and dollar tacos are a powerful combination. Randy appointed himself the unofficial host and greeted everyone who entered. He visited every table or booth twice and discussed football, politics, or music –whatever topic the customer brought up – just like Matt had done.
While the three were closing up, Randy said to Clare, “Tonight was the first time I saw you smile in, like, ever.”
“I smile.”
“No. Not really. But tonight you did. I sensed you might be enjoying this gig.”
Friday and Saturday were traditional nights for the bar and the regulars filled every seat to play the trivia game. Sunday, they provided hot dogs and football. This time, they did not run out of food or brew. Clare felt the curtain in her life lifting somewhat as she finished counting the cash. Now that’s a profit, she thought.
10
Figuring it Out
On Monday, Clare visited her mother after work and then stopped at the bar on her way home. Tom and Randy were watching football and drinking beer.
“You’re going to drink our profits,” she said to them. “Can I have one, please?”
Randy dug into the ice bin and handed Clare a beer. “How’d we do this weekend? I mean moneywise?”
“Well, if we keep having weekends like that one, we can pay Tom a salary.”
Clare raised the bottle to her lips to finish the last bit of beer. “I told my mother tonight that I owned part of a bar.I was so afraid she would call me names or think badly of me. You know what she said?” The men leaned toward Clare. “She said, ‘cool.’ That was it. She said ‘cool.’ I was shocked. Then she asked if I knew how to make a Margarita.”
“You’re so worried what people will think of you, Clare,” started Randy. “If you just enjoy who you are and not worry about other people’s opinions, you’ll be much happier.”
“Randy doesn’t care what people think of him. See how far it’s gotten him?” laughed Tom.
“Hard to do when that was how I was raised. I have to admit, this bar and giving people a place to go has given me pleasure. I like seeing them happy.”
“I suggest you take your mom a pitcher of Margaritas on your next visit. And, for the record, I like seeing you smile, Clare,” said Randy.
The three friends opened their bar for the weekend as planned. Tom set up the music playlist and, during the evening, Randy caught sight of Clare singing into a ladle as if it were a microphone. After closing on Sunday night, the trio sat in the upstairs apartment examining the ledger and assessing their new venture. Receipts were good, and they agreed they were attracting new customers with the changes.
“How you feelin’ about things, Tom?” Randy asked.
“Okay. Good. I trust you guys.”
Clare rested her feet on the coffee table. “Trust. We’re neophytes in the bar business, floundering around, and, yet, we trust each other.”
Tom opened a beer. “No matter what happens, I like my two new friends, and I’m having fun.”
“I think Matt knew we needed each other. That we needed to find a purpose,” Clare said.
“He knew we’d like each other,” Tom added. “And this place . . . this bar . . . it has. . .”
“Ambiance.” Randy interrupted remembering his first encounter with Clare. “Sometimes friends fall into our laps through unusual circumstances.As the Grateful Dead sang: Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”
They moaned in unison and then continued to talk and laugh. Lucy, the cat, lifted her head to look at them from her spot on the couch and sensed the ease in the group. Content with the situation, she licked her paw, sighed and put her head back down, but kept a half-open eye on them for the rest of the night.
11
Frances
The trio had been opening the bar Thursday through Sunday for two months. Their profits were decent and customers kept telling them they liked the new place.
One Sunday, Frances sat in her car and watched the people walk out of Bill’s Tavern. She glanced at her watch – seven o’clock. Pretty early on a Sunday for people to be going home, she thought.
Her mind drifted to one week ago when she learned about Matt. Her mother arrived at her business, unannounced and uninvited, and insisted they go to lunch.
“Mom, I can’t leave in the middle of the day.”
“Why not? It’s your business. Besides, this is important.”
“This is a one-woman operation, Ma. If I leave, even for lunch, there’s no business.”
“So? Put a sign on the door, forward your phone calls. Hell, I’ve been here ten minutes and the phone hasn’t rung once.”
With a deep sigh, Frances complied with her mom’s wishes, grabbed her purse and cell phone and the two walked to the nearby lunch cafe. After they ordered, Frances said, “Well? What’s so important?”
Her mom placed a newspaper, folded to the obituary page, in front of Frances. “Your father’s dead.”
“My father? All these years I’ve asked you who he was and you refused to tell me. It was always ‘not important’ or ‘he was a bum.’ Now, you want me to know him after he’s dead? Give me a break.”
“You can’t know him because he’s dead, but if he has any money, I want you to get your share. You deserve it.”
Frances eyed the obituary circled in red ink. “This him? Matt Spenser?”
Her mother nodded as the waiter brought their orders.
“I’ll think about it.” A few weeks later, out of curiosity, she drove from Orlando to Tampa to look at Bill’s Tavern. What a dump, she thought. Oh, well. Seeing as I’m here, I’ll check the place out.
13
Number Four
Francis walked through the door and saw three people talking and laughing. She cleared her throat.
“Oh, hi,” said Clare. “Can we help you?”
“I’m Francis. Matt’s daughter.”
The three looked at each other in silence.
Randy stood up. “Frances. Hi. I’m Randy. We’ve heard about you. I mean, Bob Thomas told us about you.”
“Yeah? Who’s Bob Thomas?” Frances’ face was stern.
“Shit,” Tom whispered under his breath.
Clare rose and extended her hand, which Frances took. “Nice to meet you, Frances. I’m Clare.” Clare noted they were both slender and about the same height. She thought she saw Matt’s brown eyes in Frances. “We first heard about you a couple of months ago at the reading of Matt’s will. He stipulated that we should find you and offer you a share of the bar. We thought we had five years… anyway we focused on reopening the bar. Sorry we didn’t look for you first.”
“Oh. He, uh Matt, knew about me?” Frances’ eyes widened.
Tom found his voice. “He mentioned you in the will but never told us about you. I guess he never told anybody.”
“Were you his best friends? I mean why did he give you three the bar?”
Randy shrugged. “We’re as baffled as you. Have a seat.”
The group discussed Matt, the bar, and finally, the will.
“I’m curious. How’d you find out about Matt?” asked Clare.
“Newspaper obit.” She looked around. “Can I have something to drink? This is a bar, right?”
Tom led Frances to the bar and Randy turned to Clare. “Do you think Lucy and I’ll have to move out? What if she wants the apartment upstairs?”
Clare touched his arm. “Let’s not think about that right now. Even if she wants it, she’s just one fourth owner. I hope she’s not confrontational. No, no. I won’t let her put you out in the street.”
Randy kissed her cheek and drank his cola. “Thanks. Lucy was worried.”
Frances approached Randy and Clare. “I’m surprised Matt thought of me in his will. I mean, I didn’t know he existed until recently.” She looked around. “I can’t help you much here as I have my own business to think about. For now, why don’t we keep in touch and you three do what you’ve been doing with this place? Just don’t ask me for money.”
Clare took a deep breath. Randy finished his cola. Before Frances left, they exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. That night, even Lucy slept peacefully.
14
Bob, again
One Thursday, not too long after Francis’ visit, Bob Thomas came into the bar and sat in a booth. He saw Tom cleaning glasses behind the bar and waved. Randy rushed over to him.
“Hi, Bob. Nice to see you again. Clare’s not here, yet. Banking hours, I guess.”
“I have some things to tell you. I was completing the property transfer and realized you hadn’t filed for a liquor license. So, I completed the liquor license with your names on it. I was surprised no one had come to shut you down. But maybe they didn’t know Matt had passed. Anyway, I also heard from Francis, Matt’s daughter. Apparently, she paid you a visit?”
“Yeah. She came, she left, we haven’t heard anything.” Randy said.
“Clare’s been sending me weekly reports on your income. Seems low but in keeping with what Matt brought in.”
Randy rubbed his forehead. “We’ve been trying stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Well, we had a few open mic nights that didn’t work out.”
“Why not?” asked Bob.
“One night we had this guy drooling on the mic and had to disinfect it before anyone else would take the mic. And then on another night, this guy ripped off his shirt to show off his muscles which made a woman lose her balance and fall onto a chair.”
Bob chuckled. “Was she hurt?”
“No, but Clare made us quit the open mic to avoid having a lawsuit.”
“Good thinking. I like your initiative. But the bar never did make a lot of money. Are you willing to keep experimenting?”
“Sure. I guess. We had pizza night last week but that didn’t go over too big.”
Bob smiled, “How do you screw up pizza?”
“Not hard. We ordered fifteen frozen pizzas and Tom stuck two of them in the microwave but forgot to remove the plastic wrapping. When he finally got the hang of heating them up, well… let’s say no one ate pizza.” Randy chuckled.
“Do you really want to try to make this place work?”
“Well, yes, I guess. Why do you ask?” Randy leaned forward.
“I think the building is worth more than you’ll ever get from this bar. Maybe you could sell the property, give Frances her share, and have enough for the three of you to live a good life.”
“Did Frances talk to you about this?”
“Yes, and no. I actually talked to Matt about selling the building before he… you know. But he was a stubborn coot. I was reminded of it when Frances visited me.”
Just then Tom approached the booth. “Want a beer, Bob?”
“No, just a coke. Thanks.”
When Tom left to get a soda, Randy whispered to Bob, “Please don’t tell Tom about selling just yet. I want to tell Tom and Clare together. We need to think about it. Okay?”
“Sure. No problem. But think fast. I have a buyer.”
“How much is your buyer willing to pay?”
Bob smiled thinking, I never got this far with Matt. “A million plus.”
When Bob left, Randy went to the apartment and made a list of pros and cons:
Pro
Lots of money
Free weekends
Lots of money
Quit job
Cat food for life
Con
No place to meet friends
Free weekends-could be boring
People wanting to borrow money
No fun
Randy tapped the tip of his pencil on the paper. There’s something else…
Lucy jumped up on the table and rubbed her face on his. Randy stopped writing, petted Lucy, and picked her up in his arms. “Good girl. There’s nothing like a cat rub.”
15
The Decision
“What do you mean, sell?” Clare asked Randy.
“You heard me. Bob thinks we can sell this place for a lot of money.”
Tom rubbed his hands on his legs. “What… what would we do? I mean, I’d have to leave the apartment. I’d have to find a job. I don’t know, Randy.”
“See?” said Clare pointing to Tom. “Selling would upset our lives. Besides, Matt’s will said we had to keep it for five years.”
The threesome fell silent.
Randy cleared his throat. “I guess we don’t have to sell. Bob said he was pushing Matt for a while but Matt refused. I just thought we should consider getting money for this place instead of struggling to keep the door open.”
Tom ran his fingers through his hair. “I thought we were having fun. I mean, I was having fun.”
Clare put her arm around Tom’s shoulder. “I enjoyed my time here, too, Tom. What about you, Randy? Is it a struggle or is it fun?”
Randy rubbed his chin. “I guess I thought I’d be able to quit my job sooner. The place needs more work than I imagined it would.” He shrugged. “It’s a struggle but fun, too.”
Clare smiled. “Then we don’t sell. We keep the place for now.”
They tapped their beer bottles in a toast.
Tom looked sheepishly at Randy. “Should we tell Francis of our decision?”
“Hell, no,” Randy laughed. “Well, maybe we can tell her next year.”
Clare said, “You know, we can always sell. If we decide next year it’s too much to run the bar and we’re not making money, we can sell. I don’t think property values will go down.” Clare looked at Tom. “What are you smilin’ at, Tom?”
Tom shook his head. “Just thinking about Matt.” Tom looked around the room—the mismatched chairs, the unpacked moving boxes. “He knew this place was worth more than money.”
Clare smiled.
Tom scratched Lucy behind the ears. “I think he gave us more than a bar. He gave us a place to belong.”
For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then Randy raised his hand. “So… who’s making the next pizza?”
Clare laughed. “Not Tom.”
Their laughter filled Bill’s Tavern, spilling out into the empty street.
And for the first time since Matt was gone, Tom, Randy and Clare didn’t feel like anything was missing.
