Dad's Addiction

Dad's Addiction

Our small black and white T-V was on its last leg. The knobs had
disappeared through time and abuse. The case was cracked. The
horizontal always needed adjusting. It even survived a tossing from dad
when came home drunk one night.
Dad and I lazily watched a couple of heavyweights slug it out. The
background was dark and sooty. The two white guys in the ring were
almost washed out by a bright glare from the overhead lights. The
excitement of the crowd fluctuated with the success or failure of the
fighters. The commentator's voice was modulated to a feverish
pitch.
A couple of sodas balanced on the armrest. We crunched pretzels while
the screen would blitz out. Dad would grunt and I'd get up and adjust
the broken antenna or horizontal. I didn't mind. Just being in the same
room with him when he was sober was a rare event.
Dad was into his third month of sobriety and was working a new job. He
pumped grease from restaurant vats into a tank on his truck. The vats
were outside the buildings. It was a night job that took him from the
bars and the booze and the strippers. It was slow and tedious work.
Almost tedious enough to start him drinking again he said.
He'd stick a hose into the vat and rats would scurry off in a panic.
Then he'd wipe maggots off the filter screen or suck them up in the
hose.
He'd sit back and light a cigarette and maybe leaf through the
tattered bible that was left by the previous driver. He liked to look
at the pictures. He related to Mary Magdelene the best. He said she
suffered through some hard knocks of her own.
Dad took me with him to work one night. He said to stay low and out of
sight until we left the yard. He said he could get fired if his boss
found out. He said his boss had it in for him and was just looking for
a good reason to shit-can him. I laid on the sticky floorboard. Dad
needed his grease-sucking job.
The cab smelled awful. I retched and dad said to crack a window. I said
I was afraid his boss would see me. He said to hell with him. He was
probably humping that fat secretary that worked on the docks. I sat low
on my seat anyway.
Our first stop was at Norm's restaurant. Some bums were cloistered
along the wall near the alley. Dad said to ignore them. He said they
were harmless and were only interested in getting drunk. Even at 10
years old I recognized the irony in his statement.
Dad stuck the hose in the vat and opened the valve. The grease was
sucked into the truck tank. Dad tossed me a slimy rag and said to wipe
of the grill.
The smell almost knocked me over. Some grease splattered in my face.
Bits of meat and chicken were welded to the grill and I had to scrub
hard. Roaches scattered from the base of the vat and I stomped on them
while I scrubbed. The bums watched us while they shared a bottle of
wine and smoked cigarettes. They spoke to each other in deep, guttural
tones.
We made 11 stops that night. Each stop had its bums. Each stop dad
plopped his hose in the vat and sucked grease. The roaches scattered
and the maggots covered the grills. The rats ran for refuge.
I fell asleep later in the cab while dad pumped. A bottle crashed
against a wall and woke me. Dad said not to worry. It was just some bum
letting off some steam. I couldn't sleep.
The bums and the maggots and the roaches and rats and the grease
flashed through my mind. They ran through the hose and through the tank
and into my head. I imagined the bums with their twisted faces and the
vermin pressed against the windows and the grease seeping through the
cracks and filling the floorboards. I felt the rat's little feet
scratch along the back of my neck.
I told dad I wanted to go home. I saw a rare grin under the dull
streetlight. He said to hold my horses.
We stopped at an all night diner for some breakfast. The sun peeked
through the dark just enough for me to get a visual of our
surroundings. I imagined we were on some strange planet.
Stooped figures cloaked in rags walked aimlessly. Nocturnal whores
punched the clock and strutted home in high heels. Emaciated cats
searched for prey. Street sweepers droned mesmerically in the distance.
Tumbleweeds blew across vacant fields. Brown paper bags and paper cups
were lined along curbs. Neon lights flickered intermittently at a bar
down the street. A dark guy threw newspapers out his window onto
desiccated lawns. The chilled wind burned my eyes and ears.
The diner was quiet. Two people sat on red stools at the counter, each
at opposite ends. One read a newspaper and smoked a cigarette down to
the butt. The other was fat and purple faced. He drank coffee and
watched a Mexican chop onions in the kitchen. Bing Crosby's "White
Christmas" was barely audible from a transistor radio hanging from a
coat hook.
There were tin signs along the walls. There were tobacco tins and
Coca-Cola tins. There were tins of Winchester Rifles and Fishing gear.
There were tins of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and a black tin of Jack
Daniel's Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey. Dad glanced at them and looked
away. I hoped it didn't trigger an impulse.
The windows were framed with green and gold Christmas garnish. A small
pine tree leaned against a corner. Some of the ornaments fell to the
floor. A bowl of tiny candy-canes were on each table.
Our waitress looked tired and worn. Pink rouge caked her cheeks and she
wore fake eyelashes. A thin line of black mascara substituted for
eyebrows. Her skinny arms were wrinkled and flabby. She donned a
perverse coat of bright red lipstick. Her nails were fake. Two were
broken. Her hair was pinned back into a bun. I felt a pang of pity for
her.
She smiled perfunctorily and said good morning.
Dad ordered steak, eggs and coffee. The thought of food made me wince.
My stomach was still doing flip-flops from the vermin and the smell of
grease. I ordered a chocolate malt while unwrapping a candy cane. The
waitress poured dad a cup of coffee and gave me a wink.
Dad pulled a Chesterfield from the pocket of his overalls. His hands
were shaking. He turned towards the window. I knew what his mind was
doing. He was exploring his options.
He was flirting again. He was flirting with temptation. He was flirting
with familiar compulsions. His second wind was diminishing fast and his
flirtations bordered on a hair-trigger. He puffed hard on his
cigarette. I lost him for a moment behind a cloud of smoke.
When the smoke cleared, he was looking at me.
He asked me what I thought about his job. I said I hated it. He
grinned. Dad rarely smiled or laughed out loud. Then he got a serious
look on his face and said it was only temporary. Soon we'd all be back
on easy street. He was just waiting for some calls. He had some
contacts. He said he had an old buddy named Charlie who was a dealer in
used cars. He said Charlie would need a salesman as soon as some guy
retired.
I knew Charlie. Charlie was a sleazy dealer and a notorious drinker.
Dad brought him home one night after the bars closed. They were hungry
and cooked up some ham and eggs. They were laughing and cursing. Dad
brought him upstairs to meet me. It was 3'oclock in the morning.
Charlie was fat and bald. He smelled like a brewery. He shook my hand
roughly and knocked over a lamp on the way out. Mom locked her bedroom
door.
The waitress brought dad his coffee. She mentioned how cold it was
getting. Then she asked me what Santa was getting me for Christmas. I
looked at dad for an answer but he was looking out the window again. I
said probably some clothes or something just to be nice. She winked at
me again and walked over to the fat guy and poured him some more
coffee.
I asked dad if he was going to be home for Christmas this year. He said
there was no reason for him not to be. Things were going to be
different this time he said. He was going to be a real father and keep
his head on straight. Things are going to be much better once he gets
that job selling used cars.

Dad and I finished our breakfast and walked out into the brisk air. The
sun was over the horizon and I surveyed the terrain. The strangeness
left with the familiarity of normalcy.
People drove to their jobs. School busses moved in tandem blowing
black exhaust. Merchants folded back their security gates. Cops pulled
into donut shops. Some joggers braved the cold. Delivery trucks backed
into docks. Drowsy drivers filled their tanks with gas. Street crews
were busy laying out cones. People walked their dogs.
I was amazed how landscapes change with darkness. The night is full of
rough edges and sharp contours. It is twisted faces and angry voices.
It is painted ladies and desolate streets. It is bottles crashing
against walls and dark figures lurking in corners. It is narrow alleys
where feral instincts are honed. It is a cloak for the perpetuation of
degeneration. It is a forum for violence. It is a concave of inveterate
losers and their ill-fated prot?g?'s.
The day subverts the night but only when the night had its fill of
human misery.
My dad felt more at home with the dark. The day only assaulted his
conscience. The day forced his reckoning with reality. It highlighted a
surrendered and desperate look on mom's face. It forced the reckoning
of forgotten promises and remised affection for his family. The day
only compelled fabricated excuses as he struggled with opaque
recollections.
The night was his protection from his world gone awry. It was a safe
refuge from paternal responsibilities and connubial failings. It was a
warm and cozy matrix of disembodied laughter and loose women and false
hopes fueled by an orgy of booze.
The bottle became dad's prison where exoneration came in large
quantities until his world became a happy and formless void. He copped
out in his world to reconstruct the wounded pieces of his mind and
soul.
The bottle supplanted his wife and son.
He cherished the bottle. He caressed it. He spoke loving things to it.
He slept and woke with it. He protected it and gave it rapt attention.
He gave it quality time. He danced and dined with it. He made love to
it. He quarreled and made peace with it.

We drove back to the grease sucking plant. Other trucks were pulling in
and unloading their consumption into other tanks. Dad said the grease
is recycled and used for cooking. I felt queasy again.
Dad dropped me off at the car before entering the plant. He said he'd
be a few minutes. I found some AA literature spread on the dash. One
had a picture of its two founders dressed in suit and tie. They looked
serious in their thick-framed glasses and turned down smiles. Another
had a picture of a disheveled toothless man and his testimony printed
below him.
The man talked about the evils of booze and how it destroyed his family
and almost destroyed him. His eyes were watery and his lips were dry
and cracked. He looked like my dad but in worst physical shape. At
least my dad still had his teeth.
I also found some literature on the 12-step program. Dad had circled
the first three steps. A small pocket book bible was also lying on the
dash. It looked brand new and untouched. I leafed through the stiff
pages and found no pictures. I looked in the glove compartment. I found
a Dean Martin and Perry Como 8-track tape. I also found a bottle opener
with the word Schlitz engraved on it. I pocketed it.
I looked under the seat. There were burger wrappers and matchbooks and
beer bottle caps and a grimy comb. I found another bottle opener. I
pocketed that one too.
The door opened and I jumped to the roof. It was dad. He said, "Ready
sport?"
I said I was.

Mom had tidied up the house while we were gone. The interior/exterior
was falling apart but mom did everything she could to keep up
appearances. She remained true to her denial mode.
Mom pretended dad was struck with a curable disease and needed our
patience and understanding. She said his condition was only temporary.
She said he suffered some drawbacks and he needed a drink sometimes to
forget his pain. We shouldn't ruffle him. Let him work it out in his
own way. He'll come around.
The lines on mom's face were more numerous and strained. Her smile was
weak, her eyes colorless, her hair grayer. She kept busy-almost
frenetically busy. It was her way of postponing reality.
She vacuumed incessantly. She wiped counters, mopped floors, and
rearranged knickknacks. She scrubbed the bathtub and sinks, and dusted
furniture 3 times a day. She clipped coupons, wiped walls, and
straightened pictures. She cleaned mirrors, cleaned baseboards, and
swept the porch. She was constant movement. Then, at bedtime, she took
a tranquilizer, and kept busy in her dreams.
Mom did whatever she had to do to forget her own pain.

Neither dad nor I was ready for bed. We watched a fight on T-V while
mom cleaned upstairs. Soon, dad was snoring. It was a familiar picture.
But this time dad slept sober.
I remembered when dad would drink and pass out on the couch. I could
smell his breath. It was heavy and hung in the air in a vaporous
exhaust of tobacco and liquor. The same smell permeated every room and
every nook in the house. The couch was an anchored recipient in booze
effluvium. The foam cushions were a reservoir of whiskey and beer and
wine and gin and bourbon and vodka.
A pestilence of nicotine stains were evident everywhere. They seeped
from dad's lungs. There were brown, caramel colored droplets of
nicotine that that clung to the curtains, leaving runny trails on the
kitchen cabinets, and oozed tar upon the bathroom walls.
Mom was always painting the walls to mask the stains, which only
resulted in a combustible, malodorous concoction of tobacco and paint
thinner. Tobacco stains were temporarily wiped out beneath oil-based
stratum of Navaho White paint.
I remembered sticking my tongue through the neck of an empty whiskey
bottle I found lying on the floor. I thought the residue tasted like
disinfectant.
I saw a drop of whiskey at the bottom and pressed my eye into the
spout. I explored the universe my dad lived in. It was large and
pristine and beautiful and forbidding at the same time.
I stared until my eye burned from the vapor and a tear spilled down. I
watched it run along the glass until it blended into father and son,
but existing in a world he coveted for himself; a glass encased world
of quarrels and blackouts and vomit and repentance and lies.
There were always lies. Lies that wounded like poisoned darts-weakening
our trust and hardening our hearts.
Dad lied when he said he paid the bills. Dad lied about women's phone
numbers found in his pockets. He lied about the money he stole from
mom's purse. He lied about hocking mom's wedding ring.
He lied until his lies became full-blown hyperbole ending in ludicrous
tales. Like a child he concocted comic book endings and storybook
fantasies. Sometimes he cursed mom for accusing him with everything. He
blamed her for his getting fired and everything else that was wrong in
the world.
After returning home from the bars, I would hear their bedroom door
slam shut. I could hear the thick, boozy monotone of my dad's voice and
the placating voice of my mother's, as she would lure him to bed. "Yes,
that's right dear. All will be better tomorrow. Now lie down and rest.
That's good dear. Just relax and I'll take off your shoes. Shhh?We'll
talk about it tomorrow. Goodnight my dear?Goodnight."

The fight ended in a draw. Blood trickled from one fighter's eye. The
crowd was booing. Dad sputtered a little and woke up. He asked who won.
They drawed, I said.
He said it figures. He said you take a colored fighter and he could
have wiped the ring clean with those two guys.
I asked dad how he was feeling. He said not so good. I knew what he
meant. I saw his hands shaking again. He was licking his lips. His eyes
were bloodshot.
We sat in silence for some minutes while mom could be heard upstairs
cleaning the shower. Dad worked his way off the couch and into the
kitchen. I heard cabinet doors open and shut. He stood on a chair and
searched the cabinet above the refrigerator. I heard things being
shuffled around. He looked in the cabinet under the sink. He went into
the garage and started the car.
Dad came back an hour later. He had a bag in his hand. I asked him
where he went. He said he had to see a friend.
I asked him if it was Charlie, the car dealer. Dad shook his head no.
Not that kind of friend dad assured me. He said it was somebody he met
at his AA meetings. A nice fellow named Rick Honneycut. Dad said he was
a good guy to have around in a pinch. I knew what dad meant.
Dad said he stopped and bought some more sodas and pretzels. He said
we'd need some if we were going to be watching the fights together
again.
Dad mentioned he used to do some boxing when he was younger. He broke
his hand real bad on a guy's head. He said that ended it for him. He
said he'd rather pump grease from vats than punch people in the
head.
I asked dad if I could go to work with him again. In a week I'd be out
of school for the summer.
Suddenly, I wasn't afraid of the night. I wasn't afraid of the bums and
the rats and the menacing landscape. I wasn't afraid because I knew dad
would make it this time. I knew I would have my dad back again.
For the first time in three years dad hugged me and kissed me on the
cheek. He said that would be great. He could use a good guy to have
around. I knew what dad meant.