Tank Tops, Oil Fields, and a friend I don't think of often enough.

It’s four in the morning when I start writing this. For me to be awake at this hour—especially now that Ashley is finally sleeping through the night—it means the hamster wheel in my head is spinning hard enough that there’s no chance of rest until I get the thoughts out.

Right now, the reason I’m awake makes perfect sense. Will it still make sense tomorrow? Maybe not. But here goes.

The show Landman got me thinking about a man named Tom. Thinking about Tom got me thinking about my years working at Hooters. Add in the fact that both my birthday and Bubs’s birthday fall in December, and suddenly all of it wrapped itself into one tight, emotional knot that dragged me out of bed and into this chair.

Landman is a show about the oil industry in Texas. As a die‑hard Texan—and someone who went to school in West Texas—it resonates with me more than I want to admit. Parts of it feel like stepping back into some of the funniest, messiest years of my life. That said, while the first season felt grounded enough to be enjoyable, the second season veers so wildly into over‑the-top territory that if it weren’t set in Texas, I probably wouldn’t watch at all.

There was a scene in the most recent episode where an oil crew walks into a cloud of poison gas. Several men are seriously injured, but one character goes home, grabs a beer, and the very next day puts on a suit to attend a funeral—never once mentioning that his friends are in the hospital, even while riding in a truck with the company boss. Bubs and I were groaning at the absurdity of it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the character reminded me of someone. I just couldn’t place it.

And then it hit me.

Tom.

When I was a Hooters girl in Lubbock, Tom was my absolute best customer—and over time, I’d even say he became my friend. Tom was probably in his early fifties, never married, with no real family except for a niece and a disabled sister he supported back in Ohio. His entire life revolved around the oil industry. He was also one of the loneliest people I’ve ever known.

I don’t remember exactly how we hit it off, but I do remember the moment things shifted. One night, after I’d finally learned the ropes, I was venting to him about a customer who had sent back an entrée that was perfectly fine. Tom shrugged and said, “Bring it to me. I’ll eat it.” So I did. He was so genuinely grateful that he tipped me thirty dollars on the spot.

From then on, Tom never paid for food. Some nights it was just undercooked fries. Other nights it was full meals left behind by customers who walked out for unexplained reasons. Tom ate everything. And every single time, he thanked me like I’d personally cooked it just for him. No matter what his tab was—sometimes it was zero if I was friendly with the bartender—he tipped at least twenty dollars.

Despite the setting, Tom never once made me feel like an object or like he was there because of the tank top and orange shorts. He just wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t trying to dodge a shift or get him to move his crew faster. I loved how sweet and awkward he was, how he’d recoil like a little boy if I broke Hooters corporate policy and hugged him.

I also always felt safe when Tom was there. If a guy ever hinted at stepping out of line—which was rare—Tom would slip into his calm oil‑patch supervisor voice and quietly tell him to act right. It worked every time.

One December, we were talking about how impossible it was to buy gifts for Bubs’s because he's such a minimalist.  Somehow that turned into joking about how I was technically the older woman in our relationship. I mentioned my birthday had just passed—December 4th, 1991—while Bubs’s was coming up on December 19th.

Tom was genuinely heartbroken that I hadn’t told him my birthday had already come and gone. The next night, he showed up with twenty‑four crisp one‑hundred‑dollar bills. He told me it was for both me and Bubs. When I protested and reminded him how much he already tipped me, he said December always hit him hard and that he appreciated how I was simply nice to him. He wouldn’t take the money back.

People say cash is an impersonal gift. From Tom, it was one of the kindest gifts I’ve ever received.

The last time I saw Tom in person was in 2014, when I graduated from college. He came to my and Bubs’s graduation party—the only time I’d ever seen him outside of Hooters—and somehow he and my dad immediately hit it off. Two Texas economic pillars—agriculture and oil—bonding over beers at a twenty‑two‑year-old girl’s graduation party.

Every December after that, Tom would text me something simple: “Happy birthday to you and Bubs, Dani. Hope you’re doing well.” He'd sent gifts when Abby and TJ were born and a bouquet of flowers when I got my first real teaching job. 

It hit me this morning at four a.m. that its our family's birthday season, and I haven't gotten a birthday text from Tom since 2018. 

In the summer of 2019, I got a call from Tom’s phone. He never called, so I knew something was wrong. It was his niece. Tom had died alone in his small house in Lamesa a few days earlier, and she was calling through the short contact list in his phone to let people know. She told me I was saved as “Dani nice hooters girl.” She said they didn’t talk often, but he mentioned me from time to time as one of his friends.

I started sobbing.

Bubs and I packed up our three‑year‑old and one‑year‑old and drove all the way to Midland for Tom’s funeral. It was a tiny affair—maybe a dozen people. Friends and co-workers who stayed in touch. All of them had heard of me. His niece was his only living relative. After the service, she handed me a folder with login information. Tom had opened a trust to fund 529 accounts for Abby and TJ.

She said he was honored to do it because I had been kind to him, remembered his birthday, and sent him a Christmas card every year. She reassured me that Tom had lived modestly, and the 529s weren’t a risk to her inheritance—he’d never spent much, even during oil booms, and she’d be more than fine.

I ugly‑cried harder than I ever have. I asked why he hadn’t told me about the trust while he was alive—I would have flown from anywhere just to hug him and thank him (and make a big scene). She looked at me gently and said, “I think that’s exactly why he never told you.”

She also gave me a small box of things it seemed like Tom would want me to have: his Texas Tech hat, a watch, and a folded paper towel. On it was my phone number, written in Sharpie years ago, with the words, “We’re buds—call anytime.” I’d meant call. Tom took it to mean text—and not often.

I feel a little guilty that it took a cheesy TV show to bring Tom back to the front of my mind. But maybe December does that. It collapses time. It reminds us of people who mattered more than we realized while they were still here.

Tom didn’t need much. He just needed to feel noticed. And all these years later, I’m realizing how much he noticed me too.

And maybe that’s the thing about December. It doesn’t just remind us of birthdays or holidays—it reminds us of the quiet ways people leave their mark. Tom noticed me. He remembered me. He gave without expectation, and he made a small life feel larger just by being kind.

Now, as I watch Abby and TJ sleep, I think about the small acts that matter more than we realize. I hope to give them the same sense of being seen, being appreciated, being remembered. Maybe that’s how we keep the people we’ve loved close, even after they’re gone—by noticing others in the way we were once noticed.

So thank you, Tom, for noticing me. And for reminding me, in this messy, wonderful, December‑filled life, how much the smallest gestures can linger.