My hands trembled a little as I locked my car in the parking lot of a small, blue, windowless building off Burnet Road with an image of John Wayne spray-painted on a boarded-up side door. There was nothing to be anxious about, I tried to remind myself. Still, my voice came out a pitch higher than I was aiming for. “Hey! I’m here to see about the beertender job,” I squeaked. Duane Johnson was behind the bar at Buddy’s Place. His blond hair was thinning but hanging in there, framing his round cheeks as he flashed me a welcoming smile. His face was flushed pink, undoubtedly because he was fixing something between taking care of customers. Duane was always fixing things at the 65-year-old bar. He…
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