The Perfect Divorce -- Honky Tonk Style

A petite brunette in jeans and cowboy hat is cursing into her cell phone outside the Rockin' Ranch’ in Ormond Beach, Florida. She is alternately begging and bullying someone to take her home. Finally she explains tearfully why she needs a ride home: “I’m too fucked up to go to Grandma’s.”
“We’ve come to the right place,” I tell the others in my group as we pile out of the van. The Rockin’ Ranch (www.rockinranchnightclub.com) is all I had hoped for – a slice of the redneck south just a few steps from the ocean.
As we down our first bucket of longnecks, I notice the brunette we’d seen outside. She is on the far side of the dance floor at a table talking quietly to a taller blonde far from the crowded main bar.
When my party begins to break up, I pull a Miller Lite from the stainless steel bucket and headed over. I introduced myself in my usual way – “Hi, I’m writing a book on honky tonks. Could I talk to you for a couple of minutes?” Then I offered them a beer.
The brunette says her name is Summer and this is her best friend, Crystal. (In these places, a girl’s best friend is the one who holds her hair out of the way while she’s throwing up in the toilet. I figure Crystal has been called into service on numerous occasions.)
Summer points to the ice water in front of her and says, “No more for me.” I start to pull back the beer, but Summer says, “My brother will be here soon; he’ll drink it.” She takes the bottler, then adds, “He usually drinks two.”
I return to my table for a second longneck, and then head back. Crystal sizes me up suspiciously as she hovers protectively by Summer. They quietly watch the handful of two-steppin’ dancers glide across the wooden floor to the twangy beat until I come back with another beer.
I quickly discover they are regulars, and they know everyone by name. Summer had too much to drink early in the evening, so now she’s waiting for her brother to pick her up.
I ask how often they come to the Rockin’ Ranch and Summer said, “Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday night.” She doesn’t like to come on Tuesdays and Thursdays; those are “salsa nights” and “the Mexicans are here,” he explains. Also, the other three nights, her ex-husband goes to a hip-hop club in Daytona Beach.
“Why do you need a schedule?” I wonder aloud.
She shrugs and replied matter-of-factly, “We’ve got young kids at home; someone has to be there at night.”
As her brother arrives and I head back to my table, I realize she’s probably found what so many others are seeking: a perfect divorce.