It was mid June, 1977, dad and uncle Glenn decided to get me drunk,
a right of passage for a teen, about to become a man. I had just enlisted
in the army, had one week to say my goodbyes before venturing off
to be broken down and reshaped.
They took me to a small tavern on the far side of town that smelled of
dirty ashtrays and stale beer. It was here, the redneck crowd hung out
elderly couples reminiscing about good old days, hunched at the bar
sprinkling salt in their beer, cigarette in one hand, pale pickled egg
in the other, dripping vinegary brine.
Me, with a shoulder length mane, getting the “What’s that long haired
freak doing here?” stares, until dad and uncle announced that I was
joining the army. Then the regulars cheered, something like, “Hell,
get the boy anything he wants!”
I don’t think dad and uncle ever spent a dime on my drinks and
I still think it was their plan to begin with. They were clever like that.
After practically guzzling a pitcher of beer and a few shots of Jack
I got up, staggered back, and returned most of the drinks in a foul undignified manner, with chunks of undigested, quick baked
Tombstone pizza.
I woke up in the back seat of dad’s 49' Chevy having to piss, it was
dark and I did, between cars. I was still in the parking lot of the tavern.
Dad and uncle were still drinking.
I never looked up much, only down at my feet, step after step block
after block, horns and sounds all around, people cussing, belittling
as I instinctively made my way back home.
The house was dark when I arrived, except for the TV glaring, lighting
the living room. Mom was sitting up on the couch watching Johnny
Carson, laughing, sharing popcorn with my youngest sister.
I quietly stood on the front porch in the cool, Iowa evening
contemplating, peering in at the happy, peaceful scene, and I cried.
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Sheila
me too!
