Down That Old Bumpy Memory Lane
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Further reflections of any early life spent on the road.
_____________________________________________________________________
The rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure
Of drinking at somebody else’s expense.
– Henry Sambrooke Leigh
A stalactite of yellow drool hangs from my father’s slack jaw. He’s been on a binge for two weeks now, and he lays in an alcohol stupor on the sagging double bed we share. Let him sleep it off, I think, while emptying the last drops of the Thunderbird wine bottle next to him. Its contents would be precious to him when he regains consciousness, but I’ll deprive him of them in retaliation for his neglect of my feelings.
After a while, he lets out a pathetic moan and starts dry heaving into an already putrid trash basket. His long phlegmy spasm eventually ends with him gasping for air. It’s then he finally notices me sitting across from him.
“Hey, Mick,” he wheezes.
I say nothing but give him the harshest look I can muster.
“What’s your problem?” he asks, rising from the soiled sheets.
What looks like a speck of blood on the pillowcase has caught my eye.
“You!” I blurt, repressing the urge to physically attack him.
“Oh, be quiet. Don’t start. You always have a chip on your shoulder,” he mutters, wiping at his foul lips.
“Because you always let me down. You say you’ll never drink again, and then you do. And you ruin everything . . . !”
“Get off your high horse, for chrissakes! You’re like your old lady. All she ever did was bitch.”
“And you never admit you can’t stop getting drunk either . . . never.”
There’s nothing left for us in San Francisco after his latest bout with booze, so we’ll be hitting the road again. That’s okay with me, because I love the road. We’ve been told to leave our light housekeeping room on Geary Street because of long overdue rent, and I’ve missed so many days of school that I would never be able to catch up with my class. That’s basically my fault. I could have gone, but my father’s drinking made me feel that I had better keep a watch on him.
It’s when he goes out for another bottle that I most fear something bad will happen. He’s already fallen down once and messed up his hand, and I was certain that he would be arrested if the cops saw him. So, I go with him to the liquor store after making sure he’s not completely in the bag––when he’s really plastered, I can’t handle him. I walk close to him, and when he staggers, I grab hold of his arm to keep him from falling or calling attention to himself.
My father fumbles through his pockets looking for change to get another bottle, but I made certain he would find them empty. I now have the 98 cents that would give him enough to extend his bender a little longer.
“Shit!” he growls. “You got any money, Mick?”
I answer by rolling my eyes back into my head and pulling my pockets inside out to prove my point. Earlier I made sure the 98 cents was tucked away for safekeeping. It’s in the same place I’ve hidden the other money I’ve taken from him when he’s bashed. At last count, I’ve gathered nearly 10 dollars. I know what would have happened if he had that money to buy more wine. At the very least, he’d be drunk for another two weeks.
“I’ll make you some instant coffee,” I offer, knowing full well that it is not his drink of choice at the moment.
“Never mind,” he answers, but I boil a pan of water on our two-burner hotplate anyway.
“You got to get sober, Dad. We have to get going before the landlord gets the police on us.”
At my insistence, he grudgingly sips the hot black coffee.
“God, you’re such a nag,” he complains, looking as if he’ll puke up the contents of his cup at any moment.
He takes a couple more swigs and lies back down. In a few minutes, he’s asleep again, and I think that’s good. The longer he stays put, the better the chance we can head out.
I really want to get back home. We’ve been on the road for nearly three years since leaving Denver after my mother took off with her boyfriend. I miss her, but I’m still real mad about her leaving. I know she had it with my father’s drinking, so I don’t really blame her. She wanted me to go with her, but I didn’t like Jeff, the new guy she was with.
Besides, the idea of roaming the country with my father seemed like a better idea. I love to travel, even if most of the time we have to hitchhike because we don’t have any money to buy a bus ticket. We would if he didn’t drink so much and stayed working long enough for us to catch a Greyhound to the next place.
After taking a quarter from the money I’ve stashed to buy a candy bar, I head off to the nearby variety store. My father’s deep breathing assures me he isn’t about to wake up any time soon. But when I return to our room with what’s left of my Three Musketeers, he’s gone. Then I notice the handkerchief I had wrapped my money in is unfurled on the dresser. It’s empty, and I begin to panic, figuring he’ll spend it all on booze.
Instead of trying to find him before everything is gone, I slump in the ragged overstuffed chair in our room and daydream of a better life––tickets to anywhere we want to go, plenty to eat, and a father that’s normal. After about an hour, I decide to go visit my friend, Dale, who lives a few blocks away. But as soon as I put my jacket on, my father comes back carrying a brown bag.
“Figured I better get us something to make a couple sandwiches before we hit the road at the crack of dawn.”
I’m thrilled by the turn of events, although I’ve seen it many times before. Suddenly my father is done with the bottle, and he’ll be sober again . . . but only for a while, maybe a month or so, or even more, if I’m lucky.
In the morning we creep out of the rooming house leaving our scant belongings behind in case the landlord sees us and thinks we’re bailing out on him and the money he is owed. I’ve mapped out the best routes for our trip back to Denver. I’m really good at doing this, and my father is impressed.
“You’re a regular Rand McNally, Mick,” he says winking, and I’m pleased by his praise and happy with things . . . at least for the time being.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Further reflections of any early life spent on the road.
_____________________________________________________________________
The rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure
Of drinking at somebody else’s expense.
– Henry Sambrooke Leigh
A stalactite of yellow drool hangs from my father’s slack jaw. He’s been on a binge for two weeks now, and he lays in an alcohol stupor on the sagging double bed we share. Let him sleep it off, I think, while emptying the last drops of the Thunderbird wine bottle next to him. Its contents would be precious to him when he regains consciousness, but I’ll deprive him of them in retaliation for his neglect of my feelings.
After a while, he lets out a pathetic moan and starts dry heaving into an already putrid trash basket. His long phlegmy spasm eventually ends with him gasping for air. It’s then he finally notices me sitting across from him.
“Hey, Mick,” he wheezes.
I say nothing but give him the harshest look I can muster.
“What’s your problem?” he asks, rising from the soiled sheets.
What looks like a speck of blood on the pillowcase has caught my eye.
“You!” I blurt, repressing the urge to physically attack him.
“Oh, be quiet. Don’t start. You always have a chip on your shoulder,” he mutters, wiping at his foul lips.
“Because you always let me down. You say you’ll never drink again, and then you do. And you ruin everything . . . !”
“Get off your high horse, for chrissakes! You’re like your old lady. All she ever did was bitch.”
“And you never admit you can’t stop getting drunk either . . . never.”
There’s nothing left for us in San Francisco after his latest bout with booze, so we’ll be hitting the road again. That’s okay with me, because I love the road. We’ve been told to leave our light housekeeping room on Geary Street because of long overdue rent, and I’ve missed so many days of school that I would never be able to catch up with my class. That’s basically my fault. I could have gone, but my father’s drinking made me feel that I had better keep a watch on him.
It’s when he goes out for another bottle that I most fear something bad will happen. He’s already fallen down once and messed up his hand, and I was certain that he would be arrested if the cops saw him. So, I go with him to the liquor store after making sure he’s not completely in the bag––when he’s really plastered, I can’t handle him. I walk close to him, and when he staggers, I grab hold of his arm to keep him from falling or calling attention to himself.
My father fumbles through his pockets looking for change to get another bottle, but I made certain he would find them empty. I now have the 98 cents that would give him enough to extend his bender a little longer.
“Shit!” he growls. “You got any money, Mick?”
I answer by rolling my eyes back into my head and pulling my pockets inside out to prove my point. Earlier I made sure the 98 cents was tucked away for safekeeping. It’s in the same place I’ve hidden the other money I’ve taken from him when he’s bashed. At last count, I’ve gathered nearly 10 dollars. I know what would have happened if he had that money to buy more wine. At the very least, he’d be drunk for another two weeks.
“I’ll make you some instant coffee,” I offer, knowing full well that it is not his drink of choice at the moment.
“Never mind,” he answers, but I boil a pan of water on our two-burner hotplate anyway.
“You got to get sober, Dad. We have to get going before the landlord gets the police on us.”
At my insistence, he grudgingly sips the hot black coffee.
“God, you’re such a nag,” he complains, looking as if he’ll puke up the contents of his cup at any moment.
He takes a couple more swigs and lies back down. In a few minutes, he’s asleep again, and I think that’s good. The longer he stays put, the better the chance we can head out.
I really want to get back home. We’ve been on the road for nearly three years since leaving Denver after my mother took off with her boyfriend. I miss her, but I’m still real mad about her leaving. I know she had it with my father’s drinking, so I don’t really blame her. She wanted me to go with her, but I didn’t like Jeff, the new guy she was with.
Besides, the idea of roaming the country with my father seemed like a better idea. I love to travel, even if most of the time we have to hitchhike because we don’t have any money to buy a bus ticket. We would if he didn’t drink so much and stayed working long enough for us to catch a Greyhound to the next place.
After taking a quarter from the money I’ve stashed to buy a candy bar, I head off to the nearby variety store. My father’s deep breathing assures me he isn’t about to wake up any time soon. But when I return to our room with what’s left of my Three Musketeers, he’s gone. Then I notice the handkerchief I had wrapped my money in is unfurled on the dresser. It’s empty, and I begin to panic, figuring he’ll spend it all on booze.
Instead of trying to find him before everything is gone, I slump in the ragged overstuffed chair in our room and daydream of a better life––tickets to anywhere we want to go, plenty to eat, and a father that’s normal. After about an hour, I decide to go visit my friend, Dale, who lives a few blocks away. But as soon as I put my jacket on, my father comes back carrying a brown bag.
“Figured I better get us something to make a couple sandwiches before we hit the road at the crack of dawn.”
I’m thrilled by the turn of events, although I’ve seen it many times before. Suddenly my father is done with the bottle, and he’ll be sober again . . . but only for a while, maybe a month or so, or even more, if I’m lucky.
In the morning we creep out of the rooming house leaving our scant belongings behind in case the landlord sees us and thinks we’re bailing out on him and the money he is owed. I’ve mapped out the best routes for our trip back to Denver. I’m really good at doing this, and my father is impressed.
“You’re a regular Rand McNally, Mick,” he says winking, and I’m pleased by his praise and happy with things . . . at least for the time being.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com