When I was very small, my dad used to hang out in bars.
Later, he realized there was no real need to leave the house to drink. But when I was very small, my dad used to hang out in bars.
Sometimes he would take me with him.
I was very little and not yet in school. Mostly these were daytime outings. Mostly he was supposed to be doing something else. Mostly my mother thought he was doing something else.
Mostly my father did none of the things he promised to do.
But I was very small, and I thought bars were lovely.
That dark cool rush of stale cave air as my father held the door open for me. A mingled scent of perfume and sweat and smoke. The enveloping darkness fading as my eyes adjusted. My small coat hung with my father’s at the door.
That sense of escaping from the world. Hiding. With my father.
The feel of the leather barstool sinking beneath my stockinged knees as I knelt to be tall enough to join the sideways conversations. My father on one side of me, a stranger on the other side. The bartender swiping at the counter in front of me with a small white towel pulled from his waistband.
I remember my father’s exaggerated care of me as others looked on . . . I was a small delicate treasure. His hands were gentler, his voice kinder, his manner more solicitous than it ever was elsewhere. I was so aware of the contrast.
I loved my father in a bar.
He drank beer and he drank shots. The beer golden and foamy. The shot a tumbly amber liquid poured from high above into a small thick glass.
A magical moving sign behind the bar . . . an advertisement for beer, I’m sure. I remember the illusion of water flowing over sparkling rocks. Small white paper napkins and round thick coasters on which to place my drink. Brass accents and neon lights and staticky music in the background. Cherries in my 7-Up.
Bottles and sparkling glass. A large noisy cash register. Crumpled dollar bills pinned flat beneath an empty glass, small bits of change scattered alongside.
And my father’s voice.
My father’s voice and my father’s stories.
How I loved his voice.
One time, in a bar we had never visited before . . .
I remember his voice as he told of my younger brother’s illness. How we had just come from the hospital. How he had stayed up all night by my brother’s side, and when the morning came? He had caressed his boy’s pale cheek with the back of his hand and wished him well. It was so hard to walk away . . . all of his hopes and dreams were tied up in that little boy who carried his name. But life must go on, and so he had eventually passed the bedside vigil along to his wife, who had arrived with his older daughter. He had spent most of the money he had to buy that daughter lunch in the hospital cafeteria . . . a cheese sandwich and a banana . . . to give her a sense of normalcy. But now he was headed home to sleep and he just couldn’t bear to pretend any longer. He had stopped in this bar to escape, just for a moment. He just wanted to thank these people for being there for him, for helping him to escape the difficulties of his life, even if only for a moment.
By the end of the story, he was weeping. I was weeping. The thought of my little brother so close to death. My father’s anguish. It was more than I could bear.
None of it was true, of course. But it felt true.
The people in the bar crowded around us. Slapped him reassuringly on the back. Brought their faces close to mine to tell me how lucky I was to have such a father. Pressed money into my father’s hand. Bought him a drink. Another drink. Another drink.
I ate a lot of maraschino cherries.
My father was an actor, by the way. I have mentioned that before.
Other times? Other bars?
A million scams. A million small advantages taken.
And sometimes?
He would be blatant.
“Buy me a drink, friend. Buy me a drink and I will tell you a motherfucking story.”
He could tell a motherfucking story.
He so could.
I am my father’s daughter.
I can tell a motherfucking story.
But I don’t lie.
My stories are true.
Worth hearing, though.
At least I think they are.
Buy me a drink, friend. Buy me a drink and I will tell you a motherfucking story.
Hey, guess what?
I have added a donate button!
Did you see that coming?
Snort!
I accompanied my mother to bars. She worked in them.
Old bars. They have a strange appeal to them. Cool. Dark.
Yes, I have lots of mixed memories of bars.
Lots.
You can indeed tell a story.
When this divorce is final and I have two nickels to rub together again, I will most definitely buy you a beer.
Yes, well.
I am not expecting any donations.
But what the hell.
Stupid not to have it up there.
What if some crazy rich guy stops by and wants to give me cash?
Because he is all moved by my words, I mean?
That could happen.
And I would not want to stand in the way of his generosity.
Drunken as that generosity is likely to be.
I have to grab that moment of possible wealthy reader impaired judgment!
YAY!
Your words are worth something. Something more than just a comment.
I believe this.
Thanks, you!
That is lovely to imagine.
Thank you.
And donating? Let me see where I am after the bills are paid.
Or maybe I just better buy that damn lottery ticket.
Yes, well.
After I buy a beer?
Lottery tickets is next on my list.
I am all financial plannery that way.
Mark loves me so much.
Financial plannery! Ha!
Snort!
I’d be honored to buy you a beer.
By the way, can you spare ten for a week?
Hee hee!
Check with me later, babe.
I expect the cash to be rolling in . . . I will be happy to loan you a ten.
Shhhhh.
Check back later.
I promised to mock you post-donation button.
But instead I am going to save the mocking and put it in the mock bank.
For when there’s something I really need to mock you about.
And that time will come.
You know it will.
You’re putting the mocking in a mock bank?
Snort!
You know how I like to have things held over my head.
Yes. You do like waiting for the hammer to fall.
I so thought you would go all Damocles on me.
You know . . .
The value of the sword is not that it fall, but rather, that it hangs.
Too phallic.
Figured I’d give you a break.
For once.
Yes, a hammer is much less phallic than a sword.
Wait . . .
Hmmmm.
One of the best memories (read only good memories) of my father was the night he got plastered so he didn’t have to go to a christmas party with my Mom at the neighbors. It was christmas eve and she ended up trying the shower to sober him.. I remember him singing Charley Pride and other old country songs but mostly Pride. To this day hearing “Crystal Chandeliers” bring me right back.
He was a supreme liar.
I have a problem with liars… wonder why.
Wish I had some cash to spare. If I ever meet you I’ll buy you one then we can compare dramatic children stories and kill ourselves laughing for a bit. M’Kay?
M
Yes, I like truth.
I can’t imagine why. I have seen how lies manipulate people, and how easily people are fooled. How much they want to be fooled.
And so I like truth.
I have had enough lies for a lifetime.
And if we ever meet?
More than one beer will be required.
And we will die laughing.
Happy sighs at that thought.
Happy sighs here as well.
M
That was some story.
Yes, you are a storyteller.
And if that makes you your father’s daughter?
So be it.
Because you are also completely yourself.
A motherfucking storyteller.
Worth listening to…
someone I want to listen to.
And I do.
Every day.
And you have even taught me a few things, as a writer…
Like how to stretch out my sentances on a page (fuck paragraphs)
to make everything I say seem more…
profound.
(Did it work?)
Also?
I just bought you a beer.
Because I always do as I’m told.
Snort! (SO not, just ask my husband)
Because it was fun to click on the link, and beer is relatively cheap (at least the one that I bought you was.)
Cheers!
Bottoms up!
Bob’s your uncle!
(No, that’s NOT 3 beers, just 3 cheers)
If I buy really cheap beer?
I am pretty sure I can get three beers out of this deal.
Love you.
And thank you.
Snort!
Yes . . . I fuck paragraphs when they need to be fucked.
I love a good paragraph. I can write a good paragraph. But I have found that on the internet, I need to grab people’s attention. Make them move quickly down the page before I lose them. And so I fuck paragraphs. And sometimes I also fuck sentences.
Not in an attempt to be more profound.
But in an attempt to be heard.
I will fuck whatever is required in order to be heard.
Thank you, babe.
Thank you.
HA! I just bought you a beer. Not because you asked.
Well, yes, because you asked. It’s not like I would have gone through the trouble of mailing you a check for one. You had an easy little link for me. And. I already had a paypal account.
I bought you a beer because, shit. If your fucking father earned beers with HIS stories, you, my dear, have earned a beer with yours.
Love to ya. Happy Friday.
Awwww, thanks you!
That is lovely.
Love back to you.
Big love.
Thank you.
Alright, people.
Off to the girls’ school for a bit.
I will be back!
Indeed you are an excellent storyteller.
My father was a GOD in the bars, where he spent a whole lotta time while his wife and six kids were at home. He was a happy, sentimental drunk, and always the life of the party. He always had a joke and a tall tale to tell. When I got older, I accompanied him to the bars with his clients. I so looked up to him. He was the man. One day he just quit drinking (a whole story in itself)–just like that, and years have passed. Now he says, he was never an alcoholic. How easy it is to deny your history when the witnesses are willing to participate in the altered version. I inherited his storytelling ability too. And the love of a good dirty joke.
When I was very very young?
My father’s drinking was more of an event in my memory, more of an occasion.
And it was sometimes paired with happiness before the shit hit the fan.
Which it generally did.
As I got older?
There was only shit.
Lots more drinking and lots more shit.
Yeah.
I’m feeling the need to criticize your new cool beer icon.
You most definitely can tell a motherfucking story, so don’t you dare under estimate your worth. Raise the stakes (just a little) and ask for a Lamborghini. You’ll be raking it in!
Also? You can NEVER have too many Lambos.
Snort!
Someone else suggested I ask for lingerie.
That person shall remain nameless.
Ahem.
I cannot possibly imagine.
Did the nameless person suggest porn as well?
No, the nameless person did not.
And no, I am not married to the nameless person.
And no, it was not Nigel.
Snort!
Am going to email you.
Off to check my email.
I had to walk away at: “I remember my father’s exaggerated care of me as others looked on . . . I was a small delicate treasure. His hands were gentler, his voice kinder, his manner more solicitous than it ever was elsewhere. I was so aware of the contrast.”
My dad also did this in church. It never escaped me. We haven’t spoken in over ten years.
So, “Buy me a drink, friend. Buy me a drink and I will tell you a motherfucking story.”
Just heartbreakingly beautiful! Thank you.
Yeah.
The contrast never escaped me.
Not ever.
Love you, babe.
Love you very much.
Your stories are SO worth hearing!
You can tell a motherfucking story with the best of them. No, wait. Better than the best of them!
Thank you so very much for that.
Very very much.
My dad used to go for a ‘bowl of soup’. Often my brother and I spent long periods of time in the car, or we were given $20 (a lot in the 70′s) and dropped off at Dairy Queen, free to consume ice cream and fight with each other. This is how we spent the time. My mom was always mad. Sometimes we were supposed to return with an ice cream for her, and I think, as proof that we went to DQ.
Now we kind of chuckle as we reminisce about a ‘bowl of soup’.
I was never dropped off at Dairy Queen.
That would have been awesome.
I remember endless hours in the car with my siblings and my mother (who did not have a driver’s license). Sitting outside of a bar, waiting for my dad to come out.
Playing endless counting games.
If he is not out by the time we count to 2000, then he is a monkey-butt.
If he is not out by the time we count backward from 500, he is a dumbhead.
For some reason, we always shared the results of our counting games with my dad when he finally (hours later) emerged from the bar to drive us home.
My dad never found these games amusing.
At all.
Ahhh, a family affair, I am sure your mom was not amused?
While my mom stewed at home, she was also drinking, Lemon Heart and coke.
I felt nervous handing her the drippy, melted ice cream……I never understood how she could be so mad at dad for going for a ‘bowl of soup’????
Nope.
My mom didn’t drink much, and she was not amused.
Those were long hours in the car.
We could have used some ice cream.
Sigh.