- Author
- 10/10/2017
- 1,154 Words
- 3,937 Views
- 19 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
So Weeps the Willow - 7. Sobriety - Day 6
Counter - 6
Day 6
No wonder I’m gay.
God, sometimes I really hate women. Okay, not really. There are two women in my life right now who are being total bitches. They both managed to drive me so batty I almost slipped up tonight. It took all my will power not to walk into Gallivant’s, climb onto a bar stool, order a gin martini and tell Vic to keep them coming. I can almost taste the piney gin and the touch of dry vermouth coupled with the salty, crunch of the olive with the oily feel on my tongue after biting into it. I can feel the warmth as it goes down my throat, feel the heat radiate from my stomach outwards filling my soul. The aroma of the green olive, the woods-iness of the gin and the ice coldness all come together to make it the perfect sensory experience. It would ease the tensions caused by the two women who were driving me mad.
However, I didn’t fall. I went home, ate an orange ice pop and pouted.
Here’s how the day went. This afternoon before work, I had a sneaking suspicion the rent check I wrote didn’t make it to my mom’s landlord. Having dealt with this situation before; I looked up Chad, her landlord’s phone number. I called him and asked if he had received the money. Lo and behold, he hasn’t seen a check or anything resembling rent from my dear mother. Chad gave me his address, again, and we hung up. Obviously, the guy didn’t want me claiming the check was in the mail to some other place. I realized being my mother’s son would make me suspect. That steamed me. She did it again. Grrrr!!!!
I called my bank and cancelled the check. You see, she’s done this a time or two before. Usually when she needs the rent paid and doesn’t have it, she will hand it over to him. But at least twice in the past year, she forged Chad’s signature, countersigned it, and cashed it at one of the shady loan places she likes to frequent. Dad had warned me about this, but I always defended her.
No more. I’m done.
I dropped off a new check at her landlord’s house. Chad was apologetic, and informed me he couldn’t deal with her anymore. She had screaming fits at the other tenants late at night. Two weeks ago, he found her passed out in the back door, a shattered bottle of her precious whiskey in shards around her feet. Her legs were cut and bleeding.
Chad said, “It’s not that she’s a bad person. She’s just too much trouble.”
It hit home, big time. I had been on the same path, I knew it. Now six days in, yes, I’m still counting because it’s still hard, I had some perspective. I was wallowing in her wake, following her example, making my way toward oblivion. I now knew how she felt in the beginning. It would have been so easy to give into the alcohol and maybe a couple of side addictions as well. I know my mom likes to gamble and drink. I always liked to drink and pick up one-night stands. Maybe sex addiction was on my horizon as a bonus prize!!!!
Fuck me.
Two hours later, I received the call from her. My mother was so angry, she almost sounded sober. She called me an ungrateful, selfish bastard who was just like my cheating, stingy, hateful father. She wanted nothing more to do with me unless I paid off ‘her friends’ at the check cashing place. I told her I wasn’t paying her debts, or her rent anymore. That made the situation worse, as I knew it would.
Her language got so abusive, so bad, I almost hung up. I couldn’t though. It was my mother and I thought maybe if I told her about my sobriety, she might, well, think about it. What a stupid idea.
It didn’t help. She next accused me of being part of a cult and a zombie. She said they’d poisoned my mind and when I told her I had never even gone to AA, at least I’d not gone into the meeting, she said I was lying.
Just like that, her anger turned to tears and she started begging me for help. My mom was a mess. I started crying as well. I finally had to hang up. She called back twice. Once to call me an ungrateful, selfish bastard who was just like my cheating, stingy, hateful father. (I guess she had that one memorized). The next time she called was to plead for money because the check-cashing people would hurt her, and I would be responsible for her pain. It would be my fault if they beat her up.
My fault.
What a tragic day.
I got to work that evening needing a friend. I was sure Nats would be there for me. She seemed to avoid me most of the night though. Her section was on the other side of Fisherman’s Wake, on the other side of the tuna boat, which sits in the middle and is used for special parties. I finally caught up with her at nine o’clock. She was first cut that day and working on her sidework, rolling silverware I think. I sat down and greeted her. Her eyes looked at me with annoyance.
“I thought we could hang out tonight, maybe at my place this time,” I said, as calmly as I could. I could feel her discomfort though.
“Not tonight. I have plans.”
“Oh, it’s just I had such a bad day and…you’re not upset with me about something, are you?” I asked.
Nats shook her head ‘no’ and continued rolling knives and forks into tan cloth napkins.
“If I’ve done something stupid, I’d like to know,” I said, now becoming a little hot and scared at the same time.
“You’ve done nothing,” she said curtly. “I have plans tonight. I’m going to Gallivant’s to meet friends.”
“Oh,” I answered, confused. I tried another tack. “I got into this big fight with my mom. She stole the money I loaned her for rent to—“
“I really don’t care, Jake. Your boring alcoholism doesn’t really interest me. I have skipped at least two nights of some fun to listen to you whine about your ‘addiction’ and your ‘problems’. God, it’s so sad. You should listen to yourself.” Nats fingers were still in the air from when she made air quotes, impressing what a nothing-burger I am to her.
I felt the stinging in the back of my throat and stood up quickly. I hurried from the table as the tears began to well. I wiped them away, coughed to clear my airway, and took a deep breath.
Now I feel a little better. I’m okay. I really am.
-
36
-
2
-
7
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign UpSign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.