Pat Bush – författare

As I headed south from the Black Hills of South Dakota, the drivingwas some of the most difficult I had ever encountered.It wasnt the snow or the ice on this lonely two-lane road that troubledme, it was the uncertainty of what was ahead and the regret of what I wasleaving behind that was overcoming me with emotion and clouding myvision with the tears of fear I had made the wrong decision.I had just left behind my job, the woman I loved and everything I wasaccustomed to en route to take over a roadhouse in the Native Countryof the southwest.Looking like a dust bowl refugee in my old Currier pick-up loadedwith my tools, my Harley and 140-pound Shepherd dog named Chelsea.I had agreed with my father to go clean up this shit hole of a bar he hadbuilt back in the 60s.He had leased it out when we left Arizona. I was in about the 5th gradewhen we left and over the years it had become infamous. The currentlessee had failed to pay the rent for the last couple of years and needed tobe removed. Compounding that situation was the over three dozen policecalls the local sheriff had received in just the last year.As I look back now those fears, though real, were slightly exaggerated.I was unaware at the time, that lifes experiences had groomed me forwhat was to come. It would be the best job I ever hated and the worstjob I ever loved.Little was I to know, life in hell is hilarious.