A Family History

Lucas Thorton

Your father is a sick man, but he will never admit it because admitting it would mean he’s weak and weakness scares him. Remember that time in the brewery? You were young then, nine or ten. He sat down beside you while the waiter snaked his way over.

“What would you like, sir?”

He ordered, and, after asking what kind of beer they had on tap, he glanced down and noticed the waiter, the male waiter, wearing a polka-dotted skirt. Your father kept his mouth shut. That was until he had four of those specialty stouts. They were locally brewed, and they tasted like chocolate milk, but they were also 14%. The polka-dotted waiter approached.

“Anything else for you, sir?”

He glanced down again. The waiter was still wearing it.

“Do they make you wear that thing here?”

He pointed to the skirt.

“No,” the waiter said, “I have a closet full of them. I like skirts. I’ve always liked them.”

He couldn’t help but laugh as you looked away in embarrassment. A few other patrons turned their heads, wanting to know what was so funny. They would have never guessed a grown man was having a drunken laugh at the expense of a polka-dotted waiter who probably wasn’t even out of college. The waiter ignored him and retreated back into the kitchen. When he returned with the bill, he tossed it onto the table and darted toward the outdoor garden. Your father left a tip and placed it under one of his glasses. It totaled $2.35. The meal was close to seventy.

Your father is an angry man, but the reason he got a good laugh out of the waiter is because he thought the guy was weak. For the longest time, he thought you were weak. You grew out of it though. Age came around, putting meat on your bones and hair on your chin. You even played baseball during your sophomore year of high school so you could prove to your father that the scrawny, sports-hating kid of five years ago was as good as dead.

Remember that dinner after your team won their first game? You, his only son, had finally pushed aside weakness. Never mind how you missed every fly-ball that was hit in your direction.

Dinner was over. Your father sat beside you with a bottle of rum in front of him. There was only a quarter of it left. When you sat down for dinner, half remained.

He grabbed your shoulder and pulled you close. His breath, faintly sweet, warmed your cheek.

“Listen,” your father said, “think of it like this.”

He hiccupped and placed three fingers on his mouth.

“It’s kinda like this, you know, you’re not gonna win every time.”

He burped, and his cheeks puffed up like a bullfrog.

“Listen, I only win a third of the time.”

He poured two-seconds’-worth of rum into a glass tumbler.

“You gotta have something to depend on during the 66% of the time you’re losing.”

He gulped it down.

“This is nice to have.”

He shook the bottle and poured one-second’s-worth of rum into the tumbler.

“Drink.”

You knocked it back, real smooth. One gulp, down the hatch. A little burst of Caribbean sunshine exploded in your mouth, warming the back of your throat. He was proud and you were scared. As you sat the tumbler back on the table, he smiled while you wondered what the future could bring.

Your father is a fragile man, but he’s strong enough to pretend he’s otherwise. Remember that Christmas party? It was recent, so you should. You had just completed your first semester of college. For the first time in your life, you made a D. In fact, you made two D’s, one in biology and one in chemistry. Next semester would be different. You would stop drinking so much. Maybe you would even tell your father to stop drinking so much. He got you into this mess in the first place.

But things weren’t all bad. Your father still thought you were strong. You even made his opinion of you skyrocket after you joined the same fraternity he belonged to. There wasn’t a weak bone in your body. He said something to that effect when he fell off the porch at the party.

He’d had five mistletoe martinis and he was leaning against the railing when he went over. Luckily, the drop wasn’t high, and, luckily, only the two of you were around to witness it. You raced down the steps and found him facefirst in a dead rose bush. He groaned.

You untangled him and helped him to the steps. After he sat down, you asked if he needed a band-aid or anything. The thorns had lashed his face. Blood trickled down his forehead.

“I just need your shirt-tail,” he said.

You untucked your shirt and stepped closer to him. He grabbed it and began to press the fabric against his face.

“I’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”

The minute dragged on, and the bleeding didn’t stop.

“Trust me, I’ll stop.”

The shirt-tail of your white dress shirt turned red.

“I don’t want to go back in and seem weak.”

You kept standing there, knowing full well what happened to your father. You paid enough attention in biology to understand how ethyl alcohol cajoles the cerebellum into sluggishness with a burst of neurotransmitters. You also understand how one day his heart may give out. Excessive alcohol consumption has that effect, but you don’t know why. You missed that lecture.

“Go get me another drink.”

In this matter, you had no choice. You are a strong son and you must obey your father even though you desperately wish that neither of you would take another drink ever again. But that is a wish and nothing more. You could do nothing except to tuck your shirt-tail in and walk up the steps, even though the blood had soaked into your underwear.

-Lucas Thornton is a junior from Teachey, NC, pursuing majors in English and Philosophy and a minor in Creative Writing. -