cheated, I know that. Your flaws never affected me.
You always kept yourself in control. Mommy, on the other hand, even
though you didn’t hit as much, you never had any control of
yourself. I remember one time you got angry and actually went at me
with a fork. Maybe I was bad that day. I don’t know. But why
couldn’t you just hit me and send me to my room? Why’d you have to
go crazy like that? And that’s no exception to the rule. That shit
happened day-in and day-out. You couldn’t control her mouth,
either. All the moms on TV would ask nicely for something the first
time, and then yell later if the kid didn’t do it. Not you. You’d
yell the first time, or even curse, and never asked nicely
for anything.
Most of the time, I guess, it was the alcohol
talking. When you were sober, you weren’t as bad. You always bought
me and Tracy clothes, and gave us tons of presents for Christmases
and birthdays. As a matter of fact, you gave us too many presents.
If I were a parent, I’d never waste so much money on buying so many
goddamn toys each holiday. But that’s the thing—you’d shower us
with gifts all the time, but all I ever really wanted was for you
to be nice and stop drinking and cursing. You never understood
this. And I never bothered explaining it to you, because I didn’t
know how to back then.
It’s not like I never loved you. I did. But
when I was a kid I hated you more often than loved you. I loathed
you for having no control over yourself when you drank. I know that
soon you’ll start seeing your shrink every day, instead of just
once a week, after all that you’re going to discover about your
beloved son . Take this journal to your shrink, mommy. This
is my official statement.
Growing up with an alcoholic, I came to
recognize and anticipate your routine. One rum and Coke induced a
few moments of passivity. Two, and you started to talk a lot, with
a look in your eyes that said, “Why isn’t anyone listening?” By
your third your eyes were glossy and your voice spewed quick and
obtrusive half-sentences. By your fifth rum and Coke you were
loaded: One hundred and nineteen pounds of simulated supremacy,
like when Charlie Chaplin dressed up as Hitler and kicked a globe
around. You’d screech petty orders and hurl ugly expletives at me,
Daddy, and Tracy. Six or seven drinks and you were gone, passed
out, occasionally in a puddle of vomit in the bathroom, but usually
on your bed. The sound of your bedroom door slamming shut never
came too soon.
Occasionally, when you drank and lost all
control of yourself, Dad would glance in my direction and nod
furtively as if to say, “Hey, kiddo, I know she’s messed up. Don’t
worry, she’ll be asleep soon.” Amazing, but you never let her
bother you too much. You gave Mom’s drunken ravings as much
attention as I give a strong breeze, allowing it to take its course
and then settle down. And no matter what she did, no matter how
crazy she was, you always took Mom’s side. I never liked that, of
course. But, looking back on it now, I understand why. You didn’t
want to make her even more crazy by siding with me. You always knew
how wrong she was, but you tried to be a good husband and
father.
Tracy never flinched when Mom went berserk.
Two years younger than me, she was still sharp enough to realize
early on that Mom was unmanageable. She never reacted the way I
did. For some reason or another, Tracy never seemed to be bothered
by that type of stuff. But I always was. Sometimes Tracy would say
to me, “Hey, A.J. , why do you let mommy bother you like that? Just
ignore her when she drinks.” It was good advice, I guess, but
easier said than done.
Rum and Coke and Smoke—that’s what I called
you one day. I was eight years old, and I suppose the rhyme sounded
cute to me. You mashed your cigarette into a crystal ashtray and
called for Daddy to reprimand me. As punishment, dad smacked me
with his belt. To a little kid,
You always kept yourself in control. Mommy, on the other hand, even
though you didn’t hit as much, you never had any control of
yourself. I remember one time you got angry and actually went at me
with a fork. Maybe I was bad that day. I don’t know. But why
couldn’t you just hit me and send me to my room? Why’d you have to
go crazy like that? And that’s no exception to the rule. That shit
happened day-in and day-out. You couldn’t control her mouth,
either. All the moms on TV would ask nicely for something the first
time, and then yell later if the kid didn’t do it. Not you. You’d
yell the first time, or even curse, and never asked nicely
for anything.
Most of the time, I guess, it was the alcohol
talking. When you were sober, you weren’t as bad. You always bought
me and Tracy clothes, and gave us tons of presents for Christmases
and birthdays. As a matter of fact, you gave us too many presents.
If I were a parent, I’d never waste so much money on buying so many
goddamn toys each holiday. But that’s the thing—you’d shower us
with gifts all the time, but all I ever really wanted was for you
to be nice and stop drinking and cursing. You never understood
this. And I never bothered explaining it to you, because I didn’t
know how to back then.
It’s not like I never loved you. I did. But
when I was a kid I hated you more often than loved you. I loathed
you for having no control over yourself when you drank. I know that
soon you’ll start seeing your shrink every day, instead of just
once a week, after all that you’re going to discover about your
beloved son . Take this journal to your shrink, mommy. This
is my official statement.
Growing up with an alcoholic, I came to
recognize and anticipate your routine. One rum and Coke induced a
few moments of passivity. Two, and you started to talk a lot, with
a look in your eyes that said, “Why isn’t anyone listening?” By
your third your eyes were glossy and your voice spewed quick and
obtrusive half-sentences. By your fifth rum and Coke you were
loaded: One hundred and nineteen pounds of simulated supremacy,
like when Charlie Chaplin dressed up as Hitler and kicked a globe
around. You’d screech petty orders and hurl ugly expletives at me,
Daddy, and Tracy. Six or seven drinks and you were gone, passed
out, occasionally in a puddle of vomit in the bathroom, but usually
on your bed. The sound of your bedroom door slamming shut never
came too soon.
Occasionally, when you drank and lost all
control of yourself, Dad would glance in my direction and nod
furtively as if to say, “Hey, kiddo, I know she’s messed up. Don’t
worry, she’ll be asleep soon.” Amazing, but you never let her
bother you too much. You gave Mom’s drunken ravings as much
attention as I give a strong breeze, allowing it to take its course
and then settle down. And no matter what she did, no matter how
crazy she was, you always took Mom’s side. I never liked that, of
course. But, looking back on it now, I understand why. You didn’t
want to make her even more crazy by siding with me. You always knew
how wrong she was, but you tried to be a good husband and
father.
Tracy never flinched when Mom went berserk.
Two years younger than me, she was still sharp enough to realize
early on that Mom was unmanageable. She never reacted the way I
did. For some reason or another, Tracy never seemed to be bothered
by that type of stuff. But I always was. Sometimes Tracy would say
to me, “Hey, A.J. , why do you let mommy bother you like that? Just
ignore her when she drinks.” It was good advice, I guess, but
easier said than done.
Rum and Coke and Smoke—that’s what I called
you one day. I was eight years old, and I suppose the rhyme sounded
cute to me. You mashed your cigarette into a crystal ashtray and
called for Daddy to reprimand me. As punishment, dad smacked me
with his belt. To a little kid,
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