Danny Boy's

     Small business owners are the heart and soul of this country. Someone very important said that one time. Look it up. They risk their livelihoods wagering on a dream. In some cases, hard work and dedication can be rewarded with success, wealth, and a bit of local fame. Daniel "Danny Boy" Cavanaugh, son of Doyle and Eileen Cavanaugh, was one of these cases.
     Born to Irish immigrants in 1924, he was a quiet, thoughtful young man who grew up humbled by his family's "Even the shirts off our backs" approach to generosity despite living in desperate poverty. A strict Irish Catholic upbringing left him disciplined, and his father worked himself to the bone to afford to send him to school. Danny was the first Cavanaugh ever to receive a high school diploma and his father was proud of him until the day he passed away.
     Shortly after graduating, Danny left for college at his family's request. He worked in kitchens full time to afford tuition, and saved enough for a semester of business school every year or so. All things told, it took ten years to finish his degree. During this time, Danny met the love of his life, Anne Wallace, and they were quickly engaged to marry.
     Upon receiving his business degree, Danny sold all of his earthly possessions to put up against a business loan,  purchased the restaurant he worked in for the last decade, and started living the American dream. After a year "Danny Boy's" had already become a local treasure.
     Danny Cavanaugh passed away in 2009 at the ripe old age of 85. He opened thirteen Danny Boy's restaurants in his time and he considered every single employee family. He was a great man and I consider myself lucky to have worked for him briefly before he died and left the empire to his entitled prick of a son, Danny Cavanaugh the Second.
     You can't call him Junior, mind you. It's the Second, no matter what the DeVry degree hanging in his office says. If there's anything you need to know about the man, that's it right there. We call him Deuce. He thinks it's because of the "the Second" thing but it's really because he smells like shit.
     "What the fuck ever," you find yourself thinking, "What about the dead people from the last chapter?"
     Is it so unfair of me to give a little exposition in between cliffhangers? To paint a little picture for you?
     Fine, barbarian. We'll do it your way.

     I woke up to soaked sheets for the second time that day. Vomit this time. No pee smell. Must have dreamed that part. Could be worse. No grandparents either.
     I sure didn't dream last night's suicide attempt, as evidenced by the assortment of semi-digested pills glued to my face by my own bourbon-scented bile. I felt like death. Is that ironic? I can never tell.
     Better luck next time, I guess.
     A smarter man than me would have gone to the hospital. That's because most people smarter than me have health insurance. Here in my world you just treat it like any other hangover: drink some Gatorade, splash some cold water on your face, and get your ass to work like the rest of America.
     So that's what I did, and less than an hour later I tossed a garbage bag full of ruined sheets in a dumpster and left for my shift at Danny Boy's.

     In the five years since Danny The First passed away, his son successfully drove twelve Danny Boy's locations into the ground. The last remaining bastion of hope for the company was the first location purchased by the late Mr. Cavanaugh. It's not a bad place, I guess. It's not like the food was awful, Deuce just had no idea how to run a company or hold onto employees or bathe.
     "You look like shit warmed over,"  I heard the second I walked into the restaurant.
     Deuce's wife Julie is a terrible bitch, by the way.
     "Late night," I lied.

     Four hours, nine tables, and thirty dollars in tips later, I was hiding from Deuce behind the building, taking my sweet time to finish what would be my only cigarette of the shift when Tom burst out of the back door, slammed it, and gave it the middle finger.
     "I swear to god, tomorrow's the day, Alex. Tomorrow I start murdering," he muttered as he pulled a lighter and a half-burnt joint from his apron.
     Tom's a cook. We hang out.
     "You look like shit," he followed, fighting with his lighter against the October breeze.
     "I tried to kill myself last night," I admitted.
     He mouthed the word "Dumbass" as he held in a lungful of smoke.
     And that's all he said about it. Tom didn't waste words. We both knew he'd listen to me if I wanted to go into detail but talking about suicide is a terrible way to spend a smoke break.

     I worked the last two hours of my shift feeling a little bit relieved. Deuce only accosted me one time that night -- No I was not aware I looked like shit. Won't happen again Deuce!-- and I left a little before midnight having very nearly made minimum wage.