THE DAY MR.CRUMBLEY QUIT DRINKING

Bellowing every profane, offensive, blasphemous, and malicious word he ever learned, an old man unleashed an outburst heard for two blocks around our generally peaceful neighborhood. I’m Gerald Crumbley, unfortunately for me that was my old man. I learned of this verbal eruption from my best friend Rodney, who lived just three houses  away. He’s my best friend living just three houses away. Walking in the door after school, he heard his folks talking about an outburst of foul language earlier, and trying to decide if it had been George’s voice.  

           Rodney and I walked home from school that day in August 2009; we were both ten years old. Most every day after getting home Rod would grab sandwiches his Mom made for us and we would walk to our special hideout. Waiting outside his house I called Mom and she verified it had been the old man who had gotten a head start on the booze today and was looking for me.  

           On the way to the big old Weeping Willow tree by a small creek, our secret place, Rod kept asking about what he had heard at home and if it could be my father. I told him to hang in and I’d tell him what happened when we were settled.

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          Settled under the Willow we ate our sandwiches. Rod was desperate to hear what I could tell him about my dad, and finished his in two bites, starting again with the questions.

When I was finished, I told him to listen, this was important, and I didn’t want to have to repeat anything. Also how important it was to keep this our secret.

           “Yea Ger, I can do that. Let’s go, tell me!”

           I fully doubted he was capable of keeping a secret, however, my old man may have opened a door I wouldn’t able to close.

           “Then first, wipe that grin off your face, this isn’t a cool surprise. Listen close, you are living in a family home where loving parents are concerned with your future. They see that you’re dressed well and every day you walk in the door to a home cooked meal. Each Sunday morning, as a family, you all three go to church. Many evenings at home include a family game, maybe even a discussion where you’d like to go on vacation, right?”

           “That’s the way it should be, isn’t it Ger?”

           “Rod, here’s the surprise. You have a best friend who’s home you’ve not been inside. I live in a house with two parents you’ve never met, correct?”

           “Yeah, that’s right. I never thought about that, I’m sorry.”

           “Don’t be sorry, there is a reason I’ve never invited you insideand there’s a reason you’ve never met either of my parents. My father is a drunk. There’s not one day goes by that he is sober. He never sees the sun go down; he has passed out on the floor before nightfall. Mom is a nervous wreck and withdraws to her bedroom until she knows he’s passed out.

           “This leaves the interim time between when I get home from the creek and until he passes out as our ‘father and son time’ together. Today he’s already out. The ‘father and son time’ always begins with me standing up straight in the middle of the living room. I have to take all my outerwear off so I’m standing in nothing more than my skivvies. Standing at attention, I never speak until asked to speak. In his depraved drunken mind, this is how a good son shows respect for his father. His brain is fried to the point he has lost his definition of love. He does know he’s no longer loved, so he administers our relationship as Sergeant and recruit.

           “The names your parents, and the rest of the neighborhood heard today, is his normal greeting when he realizes I’m home. The same greeting started when I was seven years old. By then he has a dozen empty beer cans scattered across the kitchen table and floor. In the middle to the table sets a quart bottle of Bourbon with the lid lying beside it.”

           “Holy cow, Ger, is  this for real?”

           “For real it is my friend, but there’s more.

           “The man hasn’t been out of the house in years, unless we count sticking his head out to scream today as outside. Each week a local liquor store, using an unmarked car, delivers fourteen to sixteen six packs of 16 oz. Budweiser’s, plus a quart of Bourbon. Each-week!

           “This means he drinks approximately fourteen beers and part of the bottle of bourbon each day. According to the mess of empties on the table he must start before noon and passes out between 5pm to 6pm. Every-day! He’ll open a beer, take a sloppy long pull, then pour some Bourbon in the can. He insists the empties from the day before, when he finally awakens in the morning, must be gone. Mom’s duty is to load them in plastic bags and take them to the recycle store.”

           “So, you just stand in your under pants and watch him drink?”

           “Watch him drink and listen to him berate me. When he gets jacked up enough he’ll hit me across my rear with a leather belt. It really hurts, but I refuse to yell or cry.

           “One thing helps me put up with this, Rod. The day is coming, I’ve yet to determine when, but it’s coming when I take him out.”

           “Take him out! Do you mean you’re going to kill him?”

           “When I’m the correct age, and the time is right, I intend to make him look into my eyes as I send him to Hell.”

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              That conversation took place seven years ago. I’m now seventeen years old and made important decisions about my future since Rod and I talked along the creek that day.

           The liquor store deliveryman arriving late one day witnessed this ‘father and son time’ in progress and promptly reported it to the Police Department. This was during my fourteenth year; Mom sat me down one day to talk. We had a lot of time to talk and enjoy some normality while the old man was in jail for a year for child abuse.           

           For Mom to open up to me it seemed to be the most difficult thing she’d done. She told how her love for him, and equal embarrassment with his actions affected her to withdraw. Opening up for her meant not just the embarrassment, but her inability to stand up to him face to face and demand he see a Psychiatrist.

           The story she told was, and she called him my ‘Dad,’ had been the manager of a successful car dealership owned by my grandfather back during my childhood. He lost his job over drinking during the workday. Within two months, your grandfather died of a sudden heart attack which your grandmother blamed on your father’s failures.

           A portion of the grandfather’s estate went directly to my Dad, enough he would never need to work again. This opened the door for his problem to get worse. I was about eight then and paid no attention as his consumption of beer doubled, and unknown to me he started spiking the beer with Bourbon.

           I was ten when Mom said he started accusing me of stealing his money and became delusional and sometimes very incoherent. The drinking continued to get worse, which translated to the bitterness and hate in his tirades.

           When Mom finished in tears, all she could do was apologize for her weakness to stand up against his family destruction. My plan for executing the old man didn’t change, just continued to be refined, till a year ago.

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           My sixteenth birthday was on a Sunday and Mom insisted the two of us go to church. The old man never woke up until late morning, avoiding any arguments.

           A Dr. Harold came up to us after the service. He had been the one who determined my father was Psychotic when he was incarcerated. The city, however, never took action to have him committed. He told us his concern for my mental health if the situation hadn’t changed, and he suspected it hadn’t.

           I started to meet with him for coffee on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. It took all of three meetings for him to pry out of me my goal to rid the earth of that man. You can guess what he said in an attempt to get me to see this from a different view. At first I was determined to not give up what I’d planned for nine years. Then what did he do, he brought God into the discussions. I didn’t think this fair, God wasn’t involved, and if He was He’d have to side with my plans.

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           All that took place a year ago, I listened, I considered, and then I went on with my plan. How could God hold a seventeen year old who had lived with ten years of abuse for stopping the abuse and punishing the responsible party?

           If I’m wrong, God, needs to give me some kind of a sign, and quick. I’ll be home

in just five minutes. I’ve got my smooth bladed tactical knife right here, he needs to watch what happens.

           Here I stand at the front door, blade in hand, and waiting for my courage to catch up. Alright, here goes!

           Slamming the door agaunst the wall I find Mom kneeling beside him as he lays on the floor as usual. She’s crying with his head cradled in her arm.

           Looking up at me she says, “He’s dead Ger, he’s gone.”

           But, I’m supposed to kill him. Where’s he get off kicking the bucket in his sleep, I want to see him suffer.