Getting his drunk on..A Story by InkSlinger
Another Friday night shaping up as they always had... He was late, and mother insisted that I track his worthless a*s down. It was quiet common at this point, so much that even the bar keep expected to see me roll in past the front door. Just like clock work, a large soda sat on the bar, and a bowl of snacks, popcorn, pretzels, peanuts, always stale.. He said nothing, some how he knew how having to retrieve my drunk father, week after week affected the mind of this twelve year old. Even at such a young age, I had the feeling that I was surrendering my dignity. Letting both of them, him and my mother kick the s**t out of my self esteem.
I watched the prick sitting there, slouching over and drowning in his ninth or tenth bottle of Budweiser. His head impregnated with caustic thoughts, and anger issues, never fully addressed. Him, and all the other drunks with their cherry red noses, glaring at me, over the rim of a raise glass. I knew the look of disappointment that filled his eyes. Almost always, the look from those glances turned to resentment.
I watched as my father pushed a few dollars across the bar, over paying for a watered down glass of flat soda. Somehow I was sure the bar keep knew the inside of his wallet by now. Every week the same results, a week’s worth of hard earned cash laid at the bottom of a half drawn glass. I remember the first time I saw it happen, I was about ten years old. The bar keep with a slight of hand, charged my well oiled father 10 bucks for a bottle of Schlitz. What the hell did I know, I was ten. Looking back now, I know he stole both my father’s money and his dignity. Mother would cry when he handed over his pay check, always a hundred and fifty, to two bills short, and barely enough to put food on the table.
Anyway, the old man always a charmer around his buddies, heaped praise and threw a few dollars my way. However as we passed out the side door, his hand would go out, demanding that I return the money, followed by a stiff slap to the back of my head. His hard breath preaching in an angry retort, how children should never come looking in bars.
Behind the wheel, he would slouch in a drunken state; unable to even shift the car into gear. After minutes of hopeless trying, his failure became my punishment. My wrong doing always followed by a slap. I would own his failure, telling him what he wanted to hear. “I sorry dad, for disappointing you once again”.
I learned to drive by the time I
was eleven. Sitting high up on a pillow, just barely able to reach
the pedal, it never stopped him from passing me the keys. The
back roads were my best friends, no onward coming cars, even
roadways, no hills, no stop signs. I was pulled over once, at
thirteen, the cop a friend of the old man's let us go. I am sure he felt sorry for me after
seeing him propped up against the passenger window, to drunk to
drive, covered in puke, and reeking of alcohol. He shook his head in
disgust, and followed me home. On many occasions, I saw the glint of bubble lights tailing far behind me, dropping off at the end of my street. I looked upon that Officer with such regard. I wish he was alive today, I would shake his hand, and thank him for watching over me.
Inside, all hell would break
loose.. He would become verbal, then abusive, not only to those who
clung tight to the table stammering in fear, but my mother. It was
always the same, she would whisk him off to bed, trying to appease
his anger. First a coddling, followed closely by an argument. Never
one to let things alone, she would push, and he would push back. A
slap across her face, and a faint weeping. I was powerless to stop
He was always a mean motherfucking drunk.
© 2011 InkSlinger
Out there, somewhere.., NH
AboutI write... therefore I am... Life comes with no guarantees, warranties, or manuals. Just live it the best way you know how!! There are no stupid questions in life, so ask for help when you need it... more..
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