Page 2 of Hale Yeah, It’s You
The Hale sons have all taken their turns at running it—some longer than others.
My father, Franklin Hale the Fourth, always dreamed of handing it off to his own son someday.
But since he only had daughters, I—his youngest—was named Frankie and raised with the expectation that I'd follow in the footsteps of all the Frank Hales before me.
Growing up between the aisles with my dad and grandpa as my daily companions, I never resented that plan.
I saw the shop as mine from the moment I could talk.
I’d tell Grandpa all my wild ideas for making the store prettier: pink and purple floors, glitter paint on the walls, maybe even a nail polish display by the register .
Grandpa likely dreaded the thought of my princess-themed renovations, but he’d playfully ruffle my hair, hand me a bag of fresh popcorn from the old cart, and send me off to sort the mixed-up bins of screws and nails. I felt important every time they gave me a task.
It’s been nearly ten years since we lost Grandpa, and Grandma not long after. But when I refill the popcorn machine or find myself reorganizing those stubborn bins, I still feel him with me.
Dad handed the reins over on my twenty-eighth birthday—technically retired, though he still shows up most days to hang around. He says retirement is boring, and Mom doesn’t mind as long as he stays out from under her feet.
His old truck, a faded red that now leans more rust-orange, greets me in the parking lot when I arrive. He’s always the first one here on Sundays, probably sipping coffee and listening to old country on the radio. I hum Dolly Parton’s "9 to 5" as I grab my purse and head inside.
The double glass doors are unlocked. The familiar smells of sawdust, grease, and buttery popcorn greet me like a hug. Country music plays softly over the speakers. I toss my keys and purse near the register and call out a hello.
"Ah, my sweet daughter has finally arrived," Dad calls from the breakroom.
I pull my faded blue apron from behind the counter and tie it behind my back, stuffing pens into the front pocket. Inventory days always leave me covered in dust.
Mike rounds the corner first, a stack of mail in his hands. He’s closer in age to Dad than to me, but with his endless energy, you’d never guess it. He’s been working at the store since he graduated high school and fits in like part of the family.
“Bills and another offer to buy the land,” he says, shrugging as he hands me the pile.
Dad follows behind him, cradling his favorite "Best Grandpa Ever" mug. "Don’t bother opening it—it’s probably insulting. "
“Must be a good offer then,” I tease, winking. “Still not selling, though.”
Mike shrugs again. “Didn’t even open it.”
I grin. “You know I’m only messing with you. This store’s mine now—glitter paint or not.”
Dad’s smile softens. “Someday, you might not want to run this place. And if that happens, I’d understand. You’ve spent a lot of your life taking care of the rest of us.”
The deep creases in Dad’s forehead are on prominent display, and his white hair seems to glow under the fluorescent lighting. Sometimes I forget how old he’s getting; in my mind, he’s young and strong and larger than life.
I place a hand over my heart and meet his gaze. “This is home, Dad. Dust, spiders, and all.”
He pulls me into a side hug, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I know, kiddo. I just always pictured more for my girls.”
Girls. The word lands like a rock in my stomach. It tumbles around, sharp and unwelcome. I step back and force a tight smile, jaw clenched. I’m not in the mood to think about my sister, Tasha. Not today.
Mike seems to catch the shift in my energy and slides a clipboard into my hands. “Back room’s done. I’d start up front and work your way back.”
I nod, thankful for the save. “What are you two up to?”
“Couple deliveries tomorrow,” Dad says. “Thought we’d get 'em loaded up today.”
“If you need help with inventory, say the word,” Mike adds.
I look at both of them—matching T-shirts, faded jeans, all part of my day-to-day—and smile.
Dad might be taller, and more filled out, especially around the middle, but after all the years of working side-by-side, the two of them have begun to look more like blood-brothers. “Please. Let me finish in peace.”
They take the hint and disappear toward the back. As much as I love them, sometimes it’s a relief to have the shop to myself. There are things we’ll never agree on, and Tasha will always top that list.
I turn up the radio and get to work. The faster I finish, the sooner I can head out. And suddenly, that sounds pretty good.