One For the Road Ch. 03

He sighed deeply and looked up at me. Whatever anger had been fueling his tirade suddenly evaporated and he slumped back in his chair, looking much older than he normally did. "Yeah, you did, Jimmy. And it's a shame, too. Because I always thought you had potential." He shook his head. "Listen, kid. You fix whatever's broken in your life and you get your head on straight. Go make something of yourself, ok? I mean it."

I shook his hand and nodded. "I'll try, Doug. Thanks for everything."

I drove away with my eyes straight and shoulders squared, not letting anyone know how fucking torn up inside I was feeling. I stopped at the bank and deposited my two checks, surprised to see the second one was over a thousand dollars. 'Must have had quite a number of days sitting around, Jimmy,' I mused. After that I went home...I mean, my parents' home.

It was surreal being at my parents' house. I had no contact with my wife or kids but my parents spoke to them every day. They always passed my messages along and I could hear my boys screaming "we love you, dad" when my mom would hold the phone up for me. But it was lonely. I had all this time on my hand, no job, no family, no nothing. Just my thoughts and how much I was missing my wife.

On Monday I took a trip down to Phoenix House in Hauppauge, at the ass end of the Northern State Parkway. It was the place the courts had recommended for me to go to for Alcohol Dependency so to show I was taking it seriously, I took the trip and met with Sally Restatin at 11:30. She was like Phoenix House, a bit old, a bit worn, and gaily painted. "Mr. Skelly," she gushed, actually gushed as she shook my hand with both of hers, "Welcome. Welcome. Can I call you James? We're a bit informal here."

I repressed a grin and answered, "Sure. James or Jimmy is fine."

"Excellent. Excellent. Let me tell you a bit about what we do here. And I mean we, as in you and I, because we don't do the heavy lifting for you in regards to your issues. No, no. What we do is show you how to work your own way through your addiction and come to a place where you can live with it instead of living for it."

I looked around, not really impressed with the office. "Do I have to move here or something?"

"No, no. We have in-patient and out-patient programs of course, depending on the severity of your situation. From what I've read in your dossier you are not in need of our in-patient services." She licked her lips and continued. "James, you are aware that this kind of therapy only works if you want it work, right?"

"Of course. I know that. I need this and I need it now; I have to get home to my family."

"Why?"

I frowned. "Why? What the fu...hell kind of question is that, why? It's my wife, my kids. I love them and want to get home."

"Do you want to get home like the person you were or not?"

"Listen Sally, I don't understand these questions, but I want to get home and learn how to control my problem so I don't drink that much. So in that regard, I don't want to be the person I was."

She tapped her finger once on the desktop. "James, you might not want to believe this, but you are not going to be able to just 'reduce' your drinking. You're going to have to learn to accept you have a problem, face it head on, learn your urges and triggers, and understand that as an alcoholic - you are an alcoholic for life. There is no 'reducing'. There is only preventing and vigilance."

I arched one eyebrow at her. "That sounds like bullshit to me, Sally. I already quit once."

"It didn't take, did it?"

I scoffed. "Obviously not. I'm here."

"Then you didn't do it correctly. You mostly likely fell back into a pattern and assumed that you were on top of the situation."

"Maybe. But I was able to do it."

"For how long? A month? Two? Three days? It doesn't matter the length of time, the fact is that you didn't have all the tools at your disposal to truly tackle your alcoholism."

I sighed. "Alright. We'll do it your way since I admit I somehow didn't stick with it before. What do we do first?"

I spent the rest of the day listening to Sally prattle on. She was a former alcoholic herself, fifteen years worth of drinking. She had two kids, a boy and a girl, that lived with her ex in Staten Island somewhere and she got a chance to see them every other weekend. She kept talking about her 'dry date' and that she was seven years past it.

The thing I didn't like about the whole situation, beside the fact that she kept calling me an alcoholic, I had to come out here every fucking day for 6 weeks, she had that strung out older bar chick look and too much makeup, and the fact that this entire thing sounded like psycho-bable bullshit, was that I got the feeling that she was going to burst into a song about Jesus any second and try to douse me with a vial of holy water.

I also got that sensation when sitting in on group sessions; everyone was talking about the higher power and how it helped them when they were down. Now I'm as Irish and Catholic as the next Mick and I spent my life since age 14 trying to forget that I ever went to church but this entire thing was too preachy for me.

So each day, Monday to Friday, I took a ride east to bum-fuck Hauppauge and listened in and sat and chatted and tried to get what was the underlying reason for all of this. But each day that passed I was without Myra and the J's and I had my mom and her constant worrying and my pop and his barely checked rage. I missed my house, my job, everything.

But I also noticed that as the days went on, I missed having a drink. It started as a dull throbbing behind the eyes one day. That lasted for a bit and then I noticed a hot starchy feeling in my mouth, like my tongue was too thick or I just had a mouthful of mashed potatoes. I would be having a regular day, maybe surfing the cable box and suddenly my brain would shout out, "Man! I could use a beer!" and then my skin would grow clammy and I would get that warm thick tongue headache thing again.

I tried talking to Sally about it and she said it was a good thing. Fucking good thing? How the fuck is this good? She told me it was a physical urge and I should concentrate on it and really get to know it. Um, that's fucking stupid. I don't WANT the urge to drink you dumb bitch. I want to get RID of the urge to drink. I didn't have much faith in the therapy and kind of thought that Sally and the others were most likely Jesus-freaks and Born Agains who were going to drag me back to the cross and make me vote Republican.

The weather grew colder and December marched on. I know Christmas was coming up and I was feeling more and more depressed being home with mom and pop and not with my kids. I called my lawyer to ask him if I could somehow go and see them and he eventually called me back 2 days later to let me know the social workers didn't feel it was a good idea at this time and wanted me to finish the program before evaluating that possibility.

Fuck you.

On December 22^nd I was eating dinner with my parents when my pop slammed his fork down with a loud crash and stared at me. "I just heard from Myra that you haven't given her a god damned dime for the boys' gifts this year."

I looked at him, my eyes wide. "I'm not allowed to see her, remember? Or my sons. Remember?!"

"Well, your sons were going to get shit this year until I gave Myra two hundred for gifts and crap. When the fuck were you going to help out?"

"How, pop? And with what? I'm not working, you know."

"So get a fucking job. You have some money in your bank. You keep gas in your damned car. And I know you are getting unemployment money deposited to your account. And you help out by HELPING OUT!" His voice bellowed at the end.

"I'D LOVE A DAMNED JOB!" I hollered back, matching him volume for volume. "And if I could see my fucking wife, I'd happily help out with Christmas!"

"Don't you RAISE your voice in MY house!" My pop's face was growing red, and his eyes were getting that weird veiny look around them like he was going to have an aneurism. "You haven't offered shit!"

"Shane! Your blood pressure!" mom was trying to calm pop down but he was already building himself up to a full head.

"Jesus, Jimmy! Just put some fucking money in my hand and I'd give it to her! What the fuck? Don't you guys have a joint account or something? Go transfer some fucking money! I heard that Stephanie had to give Myra some money to buy groceries this week, you haven't helped out for fuck's sake!"

"God damn it, pop! I'm not living there! What the fuck am I supposed to do? I don't have a job, I'm not working, I don't have shit for money, and I have to go to these fucking therapy session for drunks and wife beaters every damned day!"

My mom tried again to diffuse the situation. "James, if you need some one to bring something to Myra, just ask."

"I didn't know she needed anything."

"Bullshit, Jimmy!" My pop barked. "What? Bills just fucking stop because you're a piece of shit jailed drunk?!"

"Shane! That's enough!" Mom's voice rose at this point, not quite a yell, but loud enough that it immediately quieted both pop and me. "This isn't helping."

"Then tell YOUR son to get off his ass and help his family," he threw his napkin down on the table and got up.

"Where do you think you're going, Shane?"

"Somewhere away from him," he pointed at me the same way you would point at a sewer rat. "Jimmy, you're my son and you have place to crash here. But it's not forever and you better figure out what's wrong in your head and fix it. Be a man, not a whining bitch."

"Shane!"

My pop just shook his head and stormed out of the kitchen. We heard his car start up and then he drove away, leaving mom and me in the awkward silence alone. "Damn it, mom. I don't know what to do."

"Jimmy, this is hard on everyone. But for all you are going through, it's the hardest for Myra and the boys. They didn't deserve this and they have the most difficult job trying to carry on without you."

"Come on, mom. I'm the one with the problem."

"But they are innocents and they have to live with the wreckage." She bowed her head. "Jimmy, I pray for you. I do."

"I'll be fine, mom. This is just so damned hard and unfair."

Mom lifted her eyes, locking them on my own. "It's unfair to everyone, James. Not just you." She patted my arm and left me alone in the kitchen with just my thoughts.

There's all this crap about what everyone else is going through, but they all forget that I'm the one suffering. Me. I went to fucking jail. I lost my job. I can't see my kids. I can't see my wife. I have to go to these stupid assed therapy sessions. I'm the one living here with mom and pop. And I'm the one that would really like a fucking drink.

Oh god. I can use a damned drink. All this fucking bullshit has got me knuckling under the pounding in my head. I looked around the corner and didn't see Mom, meaning she must have gone upstairs. So I tiptoed to the cabinets and started looking through them slowly and quietly. Pasta, cans, old mugs, bowls, cake mix, spices. Shit. I looked in the bottom cabinets. Mixer, pans, pots, soup, rolling pin, jars of sauce, bottle of Black Bush Irish Whiskey.

Bingo.

I pulled it out, happy to see the seal had been broken and about half the bottle was gone. I listened hard, hearing nothing, then unscrewed the cap and brought the mouth of the bottle to my lips. I tilted it back until the taste of grain hit my teeth and filled the space under my tongue. I pinched my lips closed, swirled it around, and swallowed.

Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

That was so good.

It hit my gut and spread out in a warming wave washing up and over my chest and lungs. I suddenly felt more awake and alive since this shit had started before Thanksgiving. I took another swallow, savoring it as it washed across my tongue and down my throat. Oh god, Jimmy. Tears were coming to my eyes it was just so good.

I swallowed the last bit noisily and lowered the whiskey to the counter. Taking a look at it I noted roughly how much I had drunk and then ran the mouth of the bottle under the faucet, refilling it back to the original level. I swirled the bottle around to mix it up and then sealed it closed again, carefully placing it back in the cabinet where I had found it.

Not wanting to lose the feeling I had, I wandered to my old room where I had been staying and lay down, just staring at the ceiling. I think this was the solution. Obviously doing it the way the therapist and counselors and Sally was saying was not an option for me. Cold turkey just wasn't going to happen. I was going to have to wean myself off of it until I could better control these damned urges. Like just now, I took a drink or two, felt real good, and closed the bottle back up without a problem. I can do this. I got it.

The next day and the 24^th were exactly as I suspected them to be. I went through the day and my sessions, listening in when I had to and telling them what they wanted to hear when it was my turn to talk. And at the end of each day I went to the park where I took a few swallows of a Jameson bottle I had purchased from the local liquor guy. I kept the bottle under the driver's seat in my baby and made sure that I didn't drink any of it before therapy so they couldn't smell it.

I was feeling better, more in control of my life now that I was doing this my way. My mind was sharper and my focus was dead on. This was good. Real good.

Finally it was December 25^th. Christmas morning. In my family, it's the next biggest holiday after Easter, but ever since I had kids, the two holidays sort of flip-flopped in importance.

And my fucking parents were going to Myra's to spend it with the boys.

"So what am I supposed to do while everyone is at MY house celebrating the holiday with MY family?" I asked as mom and pop were getting their coats ready.

"Jimmy, we'll be gone till about 4, 4:30," my mom reassured me, wrapping a scarf around her neck. "Then we'll come home with more than enough leftovers for you."

"And if you cared so damned much, you'd support them," my pop groused. "I still haven't heard how you added any funds to Myra's account, sent her a damned envelope with cash in it, or paid a bill."

"I don't have anything to give. She's got the savings, I'm sure she's been using that. Besides, SHE'S still in the house and working. I'm not!"

My pop just frowned. "You really are a piece of work, Jimmy. I can't believe you're my damned son." He looked at mom. "Come on, Mary. Let's get the hell out of here."

Mom leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy. Don't let it get you down."

I watched them leave, my vision blurred from gathering tears, until their car drove away. Once they were out of sight I went to the kitchen cabinet and rooted around until I found pop's bottle of whiskey. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

I drank it straight from the bottle and almost passed out from the euphoria that spread across my skin. Yeah, that was the stuff. Just what I needed. I wandered out of the kitchen, making my way into the family room where I flipped on the TV to watch the Macy's Parade. Whenever the glowing sensation began to fade from my mind I would tilt the bottle back and take another drink, renewing the feeling and bolstering me for another chunk of time.

Time. What the hell was I doing? I was wasting time, that was sure. The therapy was a waste of time and I wasn't getting anything out of it. Swallow. Sally was trying, I could tell, but she was sort of spinning her wheels with me and I suspected she knew it. And that made her only try harder to get me to make that great 'first leap' as she called it.

Swallow. I didn't need to leap. Or jump. Or even fucking step off. I was doing just fine and once the courts were satisfied I did the program I could have contact with my sons again and get home to Myra. Myra. I could feel the sadness take root in my soul as I thought about how much I missed her. Swallow. How much I loved her. Swallow.

God damn I was feeling depressed. I had to wrap this shit up and get home so I could show Myra that I could be the man she always loved. I can fix this, I know I can, but only if I can actually get home to do it. Swallow.

Fuck, the bottle must have been more empty than I thought. I went back to kitchen and looked around to see if there was anything else down there. Hmm, a bottle of white zinfandel, a quarter sized bottle of Captain Morgan's, and some sherry. Ugh; I ain't drinking the sherry. I took the Captain Morgan's out and shook it. Mostly filled. Good, this'll do. I'll go out later and buy a replacement for pop.

I sat back inside while Miley Cyrus did some song on the stage near Times Square, taking a smaller sip of the Captain, staring at the TV but not really watching anything. I need a job. Now would be a good time to really get on someone's construction crew. I know lots of the builders, it shouldn't be too hard to get one of them to take me on. I know I'd work rings around those guys they get from outside the Bagel Boss in Bethpage. Swallow.

Then once I'm making the big bucks and get some experience under my belt, I can look for my own jobs. Nothing big to start, small projects like hanging windows or doing trim work. Swallow. Hell, I'd even spackle, it can't be that hard. I've seen the spackler crews that would come in and most of them didn't speak any English and didn't seem like the smartest bunch of guys. If they can do it, I know I can. Swallow.

Then. Then Myra'd be proud of me. The boys too. I'd have my own truck, call my company something like "Three J's Construction" because I know my sons would love to eventually join me. Swallow. Some of those guys weren't the best out there and I know that I could run rings around them. Yeah. Then Myra'd be proud. And she can have nice clothes like Grace and I'd have a nice house like Jerry and they'd come over and be like, "Whoa, Jimmy! This is really good! We love your place!" Swallow. And then they'd be envious and jealous of me and my family. Hell yeah.

Swallow. Swallow.

Fuck. It's 2:00 already? And where the fuck is the rest of the Captain? Shit, now I think I spilled it, it's empty. Nope, floor's dry. So where the hell is it? Fuck it. I'll go out and buy another one. But it's Christmas, so I guess the liquor guys are closed until later. I'll go out later and get it. But first, I'm really hot and want to take a nap. Yeah. This is nice. I squashed my shoulders into the chair a little harder and leaned back, putting my feet up on the ottoman.

Ah, this is the life Jimmy. Real good.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?!?"

That's what I heard at the same time that something slapped me hard along the side of the head, waking me from whatever nap I was briefly taking. Blearily I looked up to see my pop standing over me, his big coat open, face red and chest heaving. There was anger there, real deep rooted iron clad anger. Just behind him I could see my mom standing by the entrance, hands at her mouth, a big brown Bloomingdale's bag at her feet.

"Huh?" I asked, struggling awake and trying to sit up.

"YOU MISERABLE FUCKING DRUNK SHIT!" My pop reached over and slapped me in the head again, making my head ring and causing me to stumble off the couch. "Are you FUCKING insane!?!? You drank!? HERE!?!?" He hauled off and cuffed me again, catching me on the ear this time where it stung.

"Hey! Knock it off!" I yelled back, gathering my arms and legs underneath me and trying to stand.

He lunged forward again, delivering another open handed slap to the side of my head and face. Ok, that one fucking hurt. "Jimmy Skelly! You are a FUCKING disgrace!! How dare you drink! How dare you do that! What the FUCK is wrong with you, you god damned bastard!?!?"