Seeing Clearly
He could close his eyes and see the images as if they happened yesterday.
White tennis shoes, knee high socks pushed down to imitate leggings, shorty short gym shorts and the torn pink t shirt. The sound of a needle brushing against the black surface filled the room with that momentary gravel sound of connection.
Music would soon begin and not soon after his feet would move. Sometimes he would try to mimic the dancing he had seen at the movies. No one danced in an empty barn or dance studio like they did in the movies. When you are 15 you don’t really care about that. You embrace it because the music tells you to. The world around you starts to slowly melt away as music with a gyrating beat takes control. A maniac that is footloose and enjoys dirty dancing. Freedom within a measure of noise that some appreciate as modern music. He found solace there.
That would be his inner sanctum.
Until the day a fifth of Jack Daniels possessed his father, it had been where he went to think.
Then the record player flew across the room in slow motion. The plastic square that held the mechanism breaking into hundreds of small random pieces. The record itself shattered against the white painted wall. When the music ended was always when the pain began. Most nights it meant being slapped or berated by a drunk father.
That night so long ago was different. The eyes that met him across a child’s room were no longer his father’s.
Only Alcohol was talking now. Alcohol wanted to know why he was dressed up as a fag? Why couldn't he be interested in football or baseball? Was he even listening?
The first slam of his father’s fist came across his face.
Was he listening now?
Did the faggot know who the man of the house was?
Because it most certainly wasn’t him. His father didn't really use complete words as his memory provided. He had learned to understand Alcohol's speech patterns many years ago. Since his mother’s death, it was necessary to survive. He would learn a second language.
Another hit to his jaw.
He began to taste blood in his mouth.
Did Alcohol finally have his attention.
Why couldn’t he stop being a disappointment?
Why couldn't he be more of what his mother would have wanted?
She would be ashamed of what he was turning into. Abba. Thompson Twins. This is complete bullshit.
Should have never let you go to that movie? Putting ideas in your stupid head is it?
The fist changed directions. Maybe it was important that both sides of his face were bruised at school the next morning.
Uniformity.
The football players would respect him more. Maybe that was it. He smiled a little as he realized the humor of that thought. Mistake.
Oh you think that’s funny?
He suddenly couldn't see out of his left eye. He saw bright red streaks everywhere he looked now. He couldn't see Alcohol now, only hear him.
Not gunna defend yourself hey punk.
Defend yourself.
He had tried all these months to remember his mother had always told him. Never engage .
Alcohol ... when he gets like that, it will only make matters worse. Then there
was the earsplitting roar. The redness in his eyes poured forth into his mind, and the redness was soon replaced with darkness. Darkness always was that soft pillow that
Alcohol wasn’t aware of.
There were places that alcohol couldn’t see or understand. Now his father laid on top of him out cold as he fell into quiet. He could hear his sister screaming for him, but the darkness felt too good to resist.
It was quiet there.
Alcohol couldn't hurt him anymore.
He wondered how simple actions brought back specific memories. Sitting in the little glass booth did allow him to reflect in the silence. Silence only broken by when the older man appears at the window. There is a tear in his eyes. The silver haired man seems older and older every time they visit. Age seems to have accelerated.
From the other side of the glass, the older man smiles in greeting. He reaches to the phone set and brings it to his ear. The older man does as well.
“Hey there kiddo…” he hears through the receiver.
He liked being called kiddo. Much better than faggot, or pussy.
“Good Morning Father…”
The conversation went well. Alcohol was gone from his eyes. It had been gone for four years now. They laughed and smiled.
Part of him wishes that Alcohol had never come to live in their house.
They wouldn’t have to have conversations in small glass booths otherwise.
