Remembering People

My father had only one influence on me in my entire life...you have to have balls. When you think about it, it really does make sense, you won't get what you want, or you will just get used as a carpet unless you stand up and say something for yourself. As a person I have used it to the fullest throughout my life, but as a human being it doesn't hurt to turn the other cheek.

You see, the difference between me and a five foot five inch alcoholic with a king size chip on his shoulder, who seems to believe that violence solves everything, is that I think he couldn't be more wrong. All my life I've been associated with the way my father looks, acts, talks and my overall attitude (which came from my mother, but that's a whole different ball game in itself). Not that what was told to me was always right, but as a child who looks up to the parent for guidance, I listened anyway.

As I got older our personalities tended to collide on too many different levels. At this point the only thing we had in common was our hair color and our eyes. My complexion is fair to rough with an average flesh tone, his on the other hand is an ash gray color with a slight waxiness about it, due to the fact he smokes about three packs of cigarettes a day and then there is the drinking. Usually you can tell a heavy drinker by their pale complexion, redness in the face, dark circles under the eyes, just for a few examples.

He really has no appearance of a drinker, with the exception of the glazing of the eyes, (nice and shiny like a mirror). To look at him you would see the five foot five inch stocky kind of man, with a somewhat decent build which was courtesy of the Navy Seals (or so he claimed in one of his many drunken "when I was in the service" sessions), neatly combed hair, clean shaven and very business like.

Well let me tell you that looks are deceiving, for within that professional looking man, lurks a ferociously diseased, decaying beast that is ready to lash out at a whim, that believes (subconsciously) that suicide is the only answer, through a slow and painless process (or until his liver takes a hike) called drinking. My father is a very personable fellow, but he only cares for the ones he's with at that moment, unless you happen to own a liquor store, then you area god. When he has been drinking he becomes opinionated, belligerent and boisterous, and lets not forget bigoted, he would make Archie Bunker or Fred Sanford blush. He's almost like a small town nine o'clock fire horn blast, basically annoying.

Right about now, you're sitting there saying, "this kid is a fiend writing about his father like this", but lets see you put up with thirteen years of someone who drinks a half gallon of vodka at any given opportunity, or a fifth on a weeknight, which should put it in better perspective. I would like to think I have a trait that he might not, (since it's been a long time since we talked). It's called responsibility, you know the thing in you head that says, "hey, you're getting up at five thirty tomorrow, why not chill out on the booze?"

Now, I'll be the first person to admit I like to party, but not on a weeknight, not to the extent my father does and not the volume of alcohol. If I feel like I'm going to endanger the lives of others, like a wife or kids, I'll sleep it off, he won't. When he was sober, we would go out shooting, go to football games or just go fishing. I happen to cherish those moments because it seems it's the only connections I can make to a good past. He is basically an alright guy when he is sober, but if he indulges in the nectar of the gods, you deal with the devil himself.

Yes, overall this is a very harsh critique of my father, but it's easier to put it on paper, than it is to voice it it to some ninety dollar an hour shrink who tells you "you had a bad childhood", which I already knew.

In all I still love him, he's my father, he has guts, even he had a bad childhood (his father was also an alcoholic), but he shouldn't use that for an excuse to drink. I really wish that he would stop, unfortunately that would mean coming to blows with him due to his stubbornness, and as strong as I am compared to him I couldn't bring myself to hit him.

I have seen shows on television that show a person in a position, a husband, trying desperately to save his wife from a fire, but can't because the and the heat are too intense for him to get even close. What else can he do but watch helplessly, as the one he loves dies, probably from something stupid like smoking in bed.

He is physically still alive, but in my heart and mind he has died a death, that no matter what I could do to try and stop it, just keeps moving at a steady, pace, slow enough for the hurt to be burned into my heart, like the pain of ending your first love.

...Damn I miss him