Ahh, the story. About my babe-ah. The one thing I have been meaning to talk about, and just couldn’t. Because it was always too painful a story to tell.
My babe-ah. Bobby. He loved LSU. Cigars. Beer. Wine. And my mama’s Swedish Meatballs. He was this big,amazing man. He was my teddy bear.
He loved to tell the story of how we first met. He said I was a huge bitch, I said he was a dick. It was love at first sight. He took me under his wing. Taught me everything I know. About life. About wine. He taught me that you do what needs to be done to make your customer’s happy. PERIOD. If that means going out and getting them a Dr. Pepper, then you do that. And your tip will reflect that. And that you always try to make them feel important. Like they are your only table.
And then there was the night I got my heart broke into a million frickin’ pieces. He was there. He took me out and got me really shit-faced. Because that was all he knew how to do, that was the only way he knew how to help me.
And he was so much more than that. There is a picture of him that I will always regret not having. We used to do a ChildKind Dinner, at LunaSi. There was this beautiful child, being held by Bobby. And the absolute joy on both of their faces, was something I could never even hope to replicate. And that was Bobby. That was always who he was.
He was killed by a drunk-driver. It was a hit-and-run. I would like to think it was instant. That he didn’t suffer. I need to know that. For my own selfish reasons.
Because he didn’t deserve any less.