One For the Road Ch. 02

Ok, Chapter 2 here. I want to thank everyone for their comments and feedback. Please, do so and often.

The first Chapter was longer than I expected, over 18k words, which made it larger than I would like in a single sitting but I kept it going until I came to a place that seemed to make sense to break it. This one is shorter at 14k words.

A brief comment, alcoholism affects everyone sort of similar but not the same, so not every person has an identical experience. This is Jimmy's experiences and it might be similar or differ in places. That's ok, it doesn't mean that one is right or wrong, just that the situations are specific to each person who had to live through it.

Like a great writer once said: Write what you know. So that's what this is, me writing what I know.

There will be no RPG enemas or ex-Navy Seal snipering or simpering at your mistress's feet or cum filled ranch salad dressing. This is as close to reality as I could get it and still tell the story.

Enjoy! -V

I awoke the next day in a bit of a daze. My mouth felt scratchy and I couldn't swallow for some reason. I went to sit up and a stab of pain hit me behind the eyes, causing a flash of light to momentarily blind me. "Fuck," I groaned, the sound of my voice echoed like gravel on a tin roof. When I was able to reduce the pounding in my head to a low roar I made the attempt to sit up again, my gut doing somersaults as the room seemed to spin crazily.

My balance slipped from me and I ended up sliding off the edge of the bed to land on the floor. The jarring caused me to clench my teeth together, spittle flying between my lips and dripping down my chest. My gorge made its way up my throat like a salmon swimming upstream, slowing down somewhere between my neck and my wildly beating heart. I panted, hoping like hell I wouldn't puke, rolled onto my face and pushed myself to a crawling position.

"Myra?" I groaned questioningly, the house was so quiet. No one answered.

"Uhhh," I moaned, forcing one knee forward and then one hand, shuffling across the floor in tiny steps and fits, making my way to the hall and towards the bathroom. "Myra?" I called again.

No answer.

I made it to the threshold and the bathroom tile felt cool to my fevered hands and knees. There it was, gleaming off white porcelain; beckoning me to come to it with the promise of support. "Come on, Jimmy-boy," the toilet said. "Let me help you."

Um...the fucking toilet is talking to me. What the fuck? "Myra!" I tried to call again, a bit louder. No one answered.

Except the toilet. "She's out. With the boys. At her mom's."

I stopped crawling, looking at the lid. "Are you...are you talking to me?"

Nothing happened. I waited, playing possum with the toilet.

Again, nothing happened.

Tentatively I continued my quest into the bathroom, making it to the toilet. I lifted the lid, wondering if it was going to say, "Ahhhh."

Nothing.

I hunched over the rim, staring down into the clear water, seeing my shadowy rippling face reflected back up at me. And then I let my gut roil freely and puked.

Let's just leave it that I didn't see my face anymore.

Once I was feeling better and my lungs were no longer on fire, I pulled myself upright and washed my face in the sink. Again and again I cupped my hands under the water and rubbed it across my skin. I drank a little, swished it around, and spat my mouth clean. Face, neck, mouth, face, neck, mouth, scalp, face, neck, mouth.

Once finished I pushed myself higher and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Fucking shit, Jimmy. You look like serious fucking shit. I ran my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face, even my follicles hurt. "Aspirin," I told the hungover fucker staring back at me, opening the vanity and popping two and then two more.

I flushed the toilet after I glanced over at it, making a disgusted face as I did so. Feeling up to the task, I staggered out of the bathroom and made my way to the kitchen to get something to eat.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit."

I stood there in shock at the wreckage that was our kitchen. The cabinets were trashed, four of them had the doors busted in and one of them was barely hanging on, tilted crazily away from the wall. Dishes, glasses, mugs, bottles, jars, everything that was in every cabinet was in piles all across the floor. The coffee pot had been hurled into the sink, shard of busted black plastic radiating out like an impact crater. One of the four kitchen chairs had been hurled through the wall, two of the legs stuck in the sheet rock, the chair hovering three feet off the ground.

"Holy shit, Jimmy," I couldn't even figure out how to walk into the place, fearful that I would slice my feet open. "What the fuck did you do, man?"

The thing that made me feel the worst was seeing John's plastic yellow and red Elmo cereal bowl smashed to splinters under the trash that used to be our silverware drawer. "Dick," I told myself. "You're a fucking dick."

I went back the bedroom where I got dressed including my work boots. From there I wandered out to the garage and grabbed my shop vac, a pair of gloves, and my snow shovel. I returned to the site of the destruction and just shook my head, cursing my own stupidity. I went to the phone and called Tim's number. It rang three times before he answered sleepily, "H'lo?"

"Tim? Jim Skelly. You got wheels?"

"Jimmy? Yeah, I got wheels? Why? We going out?"

"No, man. I need your help, man. Come to my house, bring work gloves."

"Sure, man. I'll be there in an hour or less." He sounded more awake. "You, ok?"

"No, Tim. Not really." I steeled myself, taking a deeper breath. "Just come over, you'll see when you get here."

I hung up and then called Jerry (on his way, please leave Grace at home), Brian (be there by 11, don't worry pal), my pop (what the fuck did you do Jimmy? I'll be there and I'm bringing your mother), and I even reached out to Scott (dude, Patchogue or not, I'm coming over now). The calls out of the way, I opened the front door and then began to clean the kitchen, one shovelful at a time.

Over the next hour my friends and family showed up and jumped in to help. They took my appearance and reluctance to talk in stride until we had every broken piece of glass off the floor and the countertops cleaned and clear. Tim and Brian held the cabinets in place while Jerry and I worked on screwing them back where they belonged. Scott was fixing the drawer fronts and my mom and pop kept running out to the local Home Depot to bring me whatever we needed. Every time someone tried to engage me in conversation I clammed up and just kept saying, "It's my fault. Let's get it fixed please."

Finally, everything that could be done was done. I called Luigi's and had them deliver three pizzas and asked them to drop off a dozen paper plates and cups as well. The food came and my helpers sat and ate with me, the conversation stilted and clumsy at best.

It was my pop who broke the ice. "Ok, Jimmy. Time's up. What the fuck happened? The place looked like a bomb hit it and Myra and my grandsons ain't here."

I sighed. "Myra took the boys to Stephanie's for the weekend, pop."

"Why for? Did you do this shit when she was here?" his face was growing red as the thought of me wrecking the house in front of my wife and kids.

I held my hands up and looked at with a sneer. "Not a fucking chance, pop. Myra skedaddled because she said I was drinking too much."

Tim laughed. "Is that even a thing?"

Jerry gave me a measured look. "Listen, Jimmy, I don't see you nearly as much, but I have to admit, that doesn't seem like you."

"Sure you pound down the beers," Brian added, "but you've always been like that."

"Well, what the hell do your boys know?" my mom asked, hands on her hips. "Are you in Myra's head? You just said you aren't here as much, so how the hell do you know?" She looked at me, green eyes piercing. "Well, Jimmy? Do you drink a lot?"

"No, Mom. No more than usual."

"I can vouch for him, Mrs. S," Tim chimed in, hand covering his heart. "Scout's honor, he don't drink more than he usually did and he's often the most sober."

"Tim, you ain't now nor ever been no fucking scout," said my pop, scowling as he folded his hands over his prodigious gut. "Stop being a pussy, Jimmy. You drinking more than usual?"

"I don't think so, pop. I swear it."

"Well, Myra apparently thinks so."

"Jimmy," my mother began, "Do you drink in the morning before work?"

"Sometimes. Not always, maybe if I had a really bad night sleep, I guess."

"Uh-huh. Do you drink when you get home?"

"Well yeah, best was to wrap up a day is to have a beer or two. There isn't a rule or law that says a man can't have a beer at the end of a hard day? What is this, Iran?"

"Don't sass your mom," my pop growled. "So you drink a beer in the morn and at the end of the day. Terrific," he scowled. "You sound like my brother, Patrick. That fucking loser."

"Hey, Pop, that's bullshit. Patrick is a god damned alcoholic."

"Why," quipped Tim, "does he go to meetings?"

Scott reached over and gave Tim a rap on the back of the head. "Dude, make believe you have a fucking brain and shut the fuck up, Ok?"

My mom gave everyone a withering stare. "Listen. Jimmy lives here with Myra and if she feels there's a problem, then it's up to Jimmy to fix it with Myra. She thinks you drink too much, then you decide if you want to work with your wife and do the right thing, or not work with your wife and upset her and get your mother seriously pissed at you."

"Jimmy," my pop pointed his thumb back at the kitchen walls, "How'd the house get fucked up?"

I frowned, screwing up my forehead to come up with a proper answer. "When she said she was leaving I was just so angry. I was like, what the fuck you mean you're leaving, but I couldn't say it because I was stunned that she was going because of a few beers. So when she was gone I sort of snapped and trashed the kitchen. But it's funny, because I don't remember actually trashing it."

"Jesus, son."

I nodded. "I know, tell me about it. So apparently I lose my shit and destroy every fucking dish and glass and whatever we own and then I proceed to get fucking wasted and sleep until almost 10." My breath was choking in my throat. "And Myra's gonna be home Sunday afternoon I hope and I can't let her know what a fucking dick I am and how much I fucked things up. I mean, she asked me to stop drinking and cut back and I fucked that up in a single day and then wasted our kitchen and got so fucking drunk afterwards I don't remember doing it."

"Jimmy-boy, we're your friends, man." Jerry reached over and gave me a clap on the shoulder. "We'll get the place fixed up and we'll help you with this, man. You just have to want to do it. All the help don't mean crap if you don't want the help."

"I can't tell you how much I need the help, Jerry."

Brian stood up. "Listen, let me run home, I know we got some left over glasses and shit we haven't even gotten around to using. They're yours if you want 'em."

"Dude," Tim said, hands in his pockets. "I know we're tight but I don't got nothing to give you. What I can do though is get that beer out of your garage. It's better'n it being here."

My friends and family each offered what help and support they could, new dishes, glasses, a trip to Pathmark (I didn't want anyone from Myra's Stop and Shop to see my parents go in and buy a bunch of shit for the house and somehow it get back to her) for supplies, a couple of simple plywood cabinet fronts and a can of stain soon followed as well.

By 4 that afternoon we were pretty much done. The kitchen didn't look exactly the same (no shit!) and there were some holes in the stacks of dishes and bowls that we didn't have before, but there was enough there that my family and I could live normally and not be forced to eat on Dixie cups and folded pizza boxes.

After my buddies had left to return to their homes, my undying thanks and appreciation heaped upon their heads as they drove away, my pop and mom sat me down at the kitchen table and started in on me.

"Jimmy. Everyone gets one. This was yours."

I looked at my pop in disgust. "You think I planned on this? You think I liked asking for help? You think I want to do this shit again?"

He shook his head. "I know it's not in your plan, you stubborn fuck. No one plans on this shit. But remember what you've gone through here, remember how you felt this morning and maybe next time you'll realize what you have to lose and you won't trash the fucking place and then drink until you pass out."

"Jimmy, we love you," my mom laid her hand on my forearm, squeezing it. "That's all we're saying. We love you and want to help. We love Myra and the boys and want you all to have a happy life. But we can't be here; you're your own person and you have to make the decisions that will affect everyone around you."

"So what happens if I need you guys? What happens if I need some help?"

My pop frowned. "If it's the bullshit we came over to fix, then rest assured it won't. That's just it."

"Son, search your heart. Is there any truth to Myra worrying about your drinking?"

I thought about the hidden empties, the lying, the strange grey-outs and difficulty in remembering. My boss, drinking outside 7-11, the damned toilet talking to me this morning. I didn't really think I was a drunk, not when compared to real drunks. But there was something going on and I had to be honest with myself. "I don't know, mom. Maybe. It hasn't gotten out of control or anything, and I am sure that it's not that big of a deal; but I have to admit, Myra may have a point."

"Jesus, Jimmy. My brother is a fucking alcoholic. He's a glass of whiskey away from his liver flipping him the bird and dying on him. He was like you when he was younger, full of shit and piss and vinegar. Ready for a fight and thinking he was everything. Stupid red-haired son of a bitch thought nothing of drinking his fucking life away until one day he realized he had no fucking life. You want to be like Patrick? He's my brother and I love him to death, but I can also tell when it's gone too far. And Patrick went too fucking far years ago."

My pop leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers across the bulging expanse of his gut, eyeing me with a critical gaze. "So we have my brother, has no wife, no kids, thank the lord for that little gem, no real job, on the government tit, jaundice five days out of nine, and he's gotten so fucking desperate sometimes he goes to the dive bars and bums drinks and smokes and sucks down half finished beers when no one is looking. Sweet Jesus, I got a fucking call two months ago to pick him up from fucking Yaphank because he got arrested for his problem!"

"That ain't me, pop."

"No. It isn't. But unless you learn something from all this shit, it's going to be. My brother might be a fucking drunk, but I'll be damned if my son is going to be one too."

"Shane, enough." My mom gave my pop a deep glower that I recalled growing up meant the next word out of my mouth was going to get me a rap on the ear. Apparently my pop remembered it as well as he shrugged his shoulders and crossed his ankles as if his point was finished. Happy that he was listening, my mom turned back to me and continued. "Jimmy, if you think you might have a problem, you can go talk to someone."

"Who, mom? AA meetings at the library? Is that going to help?"

"I don't know enough about it to tell you, but I was thinking more of someplace like therapy? Your Aunt Sharon received some very good help with an outpatient program from some place in Suffolk. She had to meet there every day for a few hours and they really worked on her, but she did get better."

My pop chuckled. "Yeah, for about six months until she fell off the wagon at Penny's wedding."

"Shane, at least she tried. What did Patrick ever do except steal $50 from your wallet when he came over on St. Patrick's Day dinner?"

"You know I never got that back either?"

"Mom, I can't exactly truck out to Suffolk or anywhere for three or four hours every night; I'd never see my wife or boys. And Myra's got to work so that's not fair to her. We need every nickel coming in just to stay above water."

"You should have enrolled in that technical school for the auto repair like I told you."

"Pop, I love cars, I love driving them. I'm not so good at fixing them."

"So humping lumber on a forklift is your fucking dream job then?"

My temper was always a god damned yo-yo when my father was involved. "It's a good job for now. I've got plans."

"You plans have been real bang up as of late, Jimmy."

"Jimmy," my mom interrupted, "It's never too late to change. And if you need to take some time off from work to get some help, it would be worth it. Don't you and Myra have any money left from grandpa?"

I shook my head no and thought back. My mom's dad, Grandpa Connell, had lived a pretty rough life. He came over here when he was eight in the 1950's. Ireland was pretty fucked up then. Struggling economically and every family that could afford to leave the country did so. A number of them settled in Hempstead along with most every other Mick who immigrated at that time; something like 40% of the town was Irish by the end of the 50's.

One of the things he did right though was save every nickel he could make. He was a cheap old cuss, always complaining at the waste of money everyone spent. His house was cold in the winter, warm in summer, and he was proud of his damned tomato garden. He was the master of bartering and could out talk any fish merchant on the docks without trying. He had an intrinsic knowledge of how people worked and was able to act as the go between for so many dissimilar people who would never have met normally, that he was jokingly referred to as the "Irish Godfather".

He passed away four years ago at 68, after suffering from cancer. Refused to give up smoking and lived with the pain until he couldn't walk or move anymore. He couldn't have weighed more than 130 lbs when he finally went. But Grandpa Connell surprised just about everyone that he died with a bit of a fortune under his name in property and weird investments. When it was over and the lawyers had taken their piece, Grandma Rose divided up a large chunk of his money amongst his kids and grandkids – a total of 8 of us who each got just over fifty-thousand dollars.

John had just been born and Myra was going to have Joel any week and we knew we wanted a place to live other than the apartment we were barely existing in. So we hunted around for places not too far from either my parents or hers and settled here in the not so nice section of Wantagh. We ended up getting the house off foreclosure from the bank and it was a dump. We had to give them about $20k up front but the housing crisis was in full swing so the bank was desperate to make a deal. Our mortgage and taxes were just around $1,300 a month but we had a home.

As for the rest of it, I looked out the front window to my Charger in the driveway. Gleaming and polished to a luminescent red, each metal and rubber surface lovingly washed and waxed by yours truly. I had always wanted one after seeing them tearing up and down Meadowbrook Parkway, the vehicles seemed to be leaning into the road as if they were eating the pavement. So I went down with the left over money and put most of it on a new (at that time) 2010 Dodge Charger and drove it away.

I know Grandpa Connell would not have approved of my decision and neither did Myra when I pulled into the driveway with it. We fought for over a month about the damned car but I was able to convince her it was a good choice since my Honda Civic that I had at that time was no longer costing us in repairs and I didn't have a car payment since we owned it outright.