The one thing my father taught me was to
drink to get drunk. My father was a
vodka drinker. Even when I was two and
didn’t know the names of things, I can remember the crystal shot glass waiting
on the kitchen table, waiting for my father, and later, waiting for me. Even when I was two I knew there was
something special about it. The only
time my father ever washed it was before he used it. And since he couldn’t look in the sun without
frowning, there was rarely a night passed when that crystal shot glass wasn’t
cleaned and dried and used and placed back in the circle of the kitchen table
for tomorrow.
The bottles were kept locked in my
father’s bedroom. He and my mother slept
in separate rooms after I turned seven.
The reason why my father locked them up wasn’t because he was worried I
might drink a few drops and fill it back up with tap like some kids do. He just wanted to see that if I was going to
drink, I was going to drink with him.
And if I was going to drink, then I was going to get drunk.
We never talked when we drank. The only conversation my father ever endorsed
had to do with me taking another shot. Take
another shot, Justin. That’s what
he’d say while he filled me another. And
then another. This would go on until I
was completely unaware of what time it was – or that the invention of time even
existed. I remember nights when crawling
was more fashionable than walking. I
crawled, not out of necessity, but out of convenience. Being drunk, walking up a flight of stairs
always led to crawling up them anyway.
It happened on the day I passed my
driving test so you can imagine how excited I was. My father had loaned me his Honda Civic. It was an ugly car – one that required a
certain amount of sympathy to drive. But
I couldn’t worry about looking cool because I needed a car. I passed the test without a single
fuck-up. And when I went to pick up my
father from work, I could hardly keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t wait to tell him. I was perfect. I knew he’d like that. When I told him, at first he didn’t say
anything. I couldn’t tell if he was the
least bit surprised or shocked or even proud or happy. At the next stop sign, he leaned back in his
seat and, staring into the flashing tail lights of the car in front of us, he
said: You’re getting drunk tonight.
When we got home, I told my mother I
passed and she kissed me on both cheeks and called me her little boy. We had steak for dinner and my father
insisted that I wear my best shirt. My
mother assumed this was in celebration of my passing the test. And because it was a special day. After dinner, I sat still, still at the
table. Facing my father. Facing my mother. Waiting for him to wait for her to leave. That’s when she realized that the steak was
only an appetizer. She held my hand,
kissed me on both cheeks, and squeezed my father’s shoulder – not so much as a
sign of affection, but one of silent surrender.
Then she went to her room and shut the door.
My father went to his. And brought back a bottle of Vodka. A notepad. And a pencil. He opened the bottle and poured me a generous
shot. Then he ripped a piece of paper
off the pad and wrote a number five at the top.
I stared at the crystal shot glass in
front of me. My hands were shaking. It wasn’t like I was scared of drinking. I was all too eager to take my first taste
until I realized that I was going to have to drink five shots. I thought I was going to down a shot and go
to bed and that would be it.
I raised the shot to my lips. My father told me to drink it. I took a sip and he slammed his palms on the
table and said: Drink it. What he
meant was chug it. I knocked it
back. Hard. I almost gagged. I coughed, wiped my mouth on my sleeve and
landed the crystal shot glass back in its circle. My father didn’t smile. He crossed off the five and wrote a
four. Then he poured me another generous
shot and placed the glass right back in front of me. He waited.
As far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter how long it took or whether
we were sitting in front of that shot glass til the end of eternity. I was drinking five shots. With one down and four to go. I felt like a little kid being forced to eat
his vegetables. Not really, but for
those of you who don’t know what it’s like to have your dad turn you into a
certified alcoholic overnight, the vegetable metaphor will have to do.
I was on my last one. The numbers five down to two were crossed off
on my father’s paper. One last
shot. I was dying for a glass of water
but I knew he wouldn’t give it to me. I
was so angry. I hated him for it. He waited.
And when I finally finished that last fucking shot, or thought I
finished it, he crossed off the one, poured me another, and put the crystal
shot glass back down in front of me. I
didn’t have a choice. I drank it. He refilled it again. Another generous shot. I drank it.
I didn’t have a choice. He poured
me another. I drank it. I thought he was going to pour me another. But that was it. He poured himself a shot, less generous than
mine, and without looking at me, he said: Now go to bed.
The whole kitchen looked like it was
underwater. When my father told me to go
to bed, I could’ve sworn I saw bubbles rise out of his mouth and float up into
the ceiling. Everything was moving, dancing,
swirling – but the crystal shot glass remained perfectly still. I got up, supporting myself by leaning my
slippery body up against the table. I
moved towards the hall. My father
watching me. I grabbed both walls in
order to keep my balance and shuffled towards the steps, moving like a slug
with a brick tied to its tail.
Slower. Slower. And at that moment, I knew I was going to
throw up.
I could have easily used the bathroom
downstairs, but I didn’t want my father to hear me. I thought he might tease me if he knew. So I decided I had better get upstairs to my
bathroom as quickly as possible. I felt
the vomit rise up from my belly, rise up the long, dark tunnel of my throat,
and then, soon as I reached the steps, it burst from my mouth. Chunks of half-digested steak, pieces running
down my neck and face in a brown-red liquid.
The more I tried to hold it in, the more I couldn’t stop until I
collapsed face down on the stairs. All I
could taste was carpet and vomit, felt the wet fibers scratching against my
tongue. I didn’t move. A puddle formed around my face. Little pieces of meat dangling in my hair,
the red-brown liquid blinding my eyes mixed with tears and saliva. When I had finally finished coughing, when
there was nothing left to throw up, I looked up and there was my father. He looked at me, tears running down my face,
my best shirt ruined. In his hand was a
paper towel. He wiped the vomit out of
my hair and off of my face and this is what he said. He said: You’re a man now, Justin.
And I sat there, covered in my own vomit,
and I felt like a man. I felt sick,
disgusting, wretched.
And like a man.