Page 45 of Panty Dropper

“Looks that way,” Hank confirmed.

I had no idea what to expect. “So, let’s hear ’em.”

“He wants us to wear burgundy ties, because of that shit he found out about our family crest when he was on that Ancestry dot com site.”

“Wait a minute… Are you sayin’ I have to wear a tie?” Jimmy grimaced.

Hank’s only response was a tightening of his jaw.

“What?” Jimmy shrugged. “I’m just not a tie guy.”

Hank tilted his head and his neck cracked, the way he did right before he got in the metaphorical ring with someone. “Jimmy, I don’t much care if you wear God damn yoga pants. I’m just tryin’ to tell you what Pop wanted for his damn funeral. Now can I get through this list without you runnin’ your mouth?”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair and held his hands out in front of him, a wide grin on his face. “Damn, Hank. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Hank shook his head and looked back down at the paper in front of him. “He wants the reception at Southern Comfort. He wants an open bar. Or, as he put it, ‘the drinks are on me,’.”

“Right, except they’re not on him. They’re on us,” I protested. “As the one who runs day to day operations, I’m in the best position to know exactly how much a reception full of grieving barflies could set us back in one afternoon. It ain’t pretty. I call for a veto.”

“Veto,” Hank seconded.

Jimmy lifted his hand in agreement. “Veto.”

We all looked at Cheyenne.

“Oh, veto.” She paused. “But what if…Sorry, I…uh…It’s none of my business.”

“Hell, yes it is,” Jimmy said. “Like Hank said, this is a family meeting, and you’re family.”

I agreed. “Say what’s on your mind.”

She nodded then pressed forward determinedly. “Okay. Well, since it was in his final wishes, what if we set a limit to the number of drinks?”

“Like drink tickets at a wedding?” Jimmy asked.

“I guess it does sound kind of tacky,” Cheyenne blushed. “I just thought there might be a way to find a happy medium.”

“And I think there is. It’s a good idea,” I said. “We don’t need tickets. We just make it one drink per person. We’ll announce that the first round’s on Pop. We could definitely absorb one round without feelin’ it too much.”

“Good,” Hank said. “Settled. Moving on. He wants a group photo taken at the reception and hung up behind the bar.”

“Aw, why not?” Jimmy laughed, throwing up his hands. “It’ll look like the world’s most hard-rode and formally-dressed softball team.”

“My suggestion would be to round folks up for the photo before we start handin’ out the round of drinks,” I said.

“Agreed,” Hank said, and flipped the page on the stapled sheaf of papers.

“There’s more?” Jimmy asked.

Hank smirked. “We’re just gettin’ started. Settle in. It’s gonna be a long afternoon.”

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