different strokes for different folks, different drinks for different stinks, and tonight it's bacardi. jack daniel's used to be my exclusive drink in college and i indulged when i wanted to feel in control of my life, even though i was only rotting away in a dank dorm room with handles of eighty-six-proof gasoline laced with sour mix. vodka is one i throw back for my stepfather; it did wonders for him throughout his life, and still does as he comes home to his uniform of sweatpants and an ancient t-shirt to veg out on his recliner and watch the yankees suck balls. canadian club is my new whiskey of choice since tim kasher of cursive enjoys it and the very smell of JD makes me want to vomit due to the bad memories it's associated with at this point. the captain is a go-to guy, much like the friend i wish i could say i really had; he's always smooth, always comforting without saying a word, never leaves me wanting any more or any less, even with the next day's triumphant hangover. but tonight it's bacardi; that was my grandfather's drink of choice, the fire that made him come home and raise hell when my old man was growing up, throwing things across the living room and screaming so loud that even the dog hid under the bed. so tonight, dad, it's bacardi alright, since i know it's the one drink you could never take a sip of, even before you quit drinking and went even crazier after being "Born Again," a euphemism for alienating oneself from one's family and reality altogether. tonight, pops, i swallow your Kryptonite and laugh in your face at my own power over it, even though it may be you who's won the last laugh, depending on who's tallying votes.
so let's hear it for introductions, right? it's been awhile since i've laid it out there in this fashion-- bad prose with too many commas trying their hardest to avoid inevitable run-on sentences, as opposed to bad poetry with virtually none, line-breaks in their places. but tonight is different, and there's far too much to say to waste time trying to make it "art," whatever that is. tonight is venting in it's highest form, or lowest. most of you probably won't finish reading my rant, most of you probably prefer my short-form pseudo-misery, but for the few and the brave who dare to finish this manifesto of misfortune there will be a prize: you'll be on the cutting edge of the same mystery/misery that's been bugging me for almost two years now, the same thing that's given me nightmares and cold sweats once a week since i last saw my father two years ago. you'll get to see first-hand how ridiculous my life is, and that i'm really not making this shit up. and hopefully that's enough to justify wasting your time reading it, hopefully it'll give you some sort of closure to the book that you may or may not stop reading if and when my life settles down and i'm married with children and a mortgage and happy and no longer have exciting things to write about like debauchery its friends. if not, then i apologize in advance and urge you to stop reading right here. (damn, i may have hyped this up too much already. it's really not that big a deal unless you're involved, unless you're me.) and no, i won't want to talk about it so don't bother calling out of the blue with some fake alterior motive; this is how i cope, this pointless pounding of the keys alone in my room late at night, and it's a goddamn shame that my hand's been forced time and time again to rely on myself, a bottle, and a piece of obsolete machinery to make it all ok, at least until the next explosion, but that's a matter that even i'm not ballsy enough to take on in this venue. don't worry, however; my madness is based in reality: i'm well aware that i've probably let Humanity down as much as the opposite, though i wouldn't testify before twelve alleged peers as to who was only evening the score.
perhaps a little back-story regarding the attached letter will make things more clear. Jeremiah is a friend of mine (though not a bullfrog), one really acquired after our high school career together had ended (though I did rather enjoy our candid chats via loose-leaf paper in Ms. Chan's oh-so-Communist library study periods). he deals in antiques and recently opened a shop in cold spring, a small tourist town across the river from west point that deals mostly in said artifacts. he was salutorian of my graduating class of 2002 at Newburgh Free Academy and is hands-down the most brilliant person i know personally, though not as well as i'd like to. our infrequent correspondences always make up for in substance what they lack in regularity. hell, the letters he casually sends me from time to time make me wish that i had half the talent, half the mastery of imagery and metaphor that he throws around like a two-line joke, even though he's more the man of science than art from what i gather. anyway, Jeremiah sent me an email this evening informing me of an interesting encounter very particular and relevant to my own confused life of an american twenty-something. the following is what i read (four times over, in case my eyes deceived me yet again), with commentary by your favorite cynic in [brackets] for your MLA-brainwashed convenience.
and i quote:
[To Jeremiah:
Sorry for the direct quotation if it offends you, though I can't apologize for the bitter/vulgar editorial commentary. I'm sure you understand.]
"Pater." [it means Father, jackass.]
By coincidence [a term i've learned does not exist in so small a world] I was at your father's house Friday evening. He and his new wife [i did not know he was getting married. over the course of the last seven years or so he always told me that "God had a wife" for him, and i caringly criticized his blind faith. i suggested that he get out there on the dating circuit and look more, that this god of his that he tried so hard for years to push on his family was not simply going to drop the woman of his dreams out of the sky and into his backyard. it was an awkward position for a son to be put in, lecturing his father on the hunt for the elusive spouse, but his naievity disturbed me and i did not want to see him wither away alone. needless to say i feel quite foolish now that the stubborn old bastard managed to land himself a bride, and didn't even bother to fill me in, quarrel or none. he also used to say that "God promised a new family, children included," so maybe our estranged state made it easier for him to forget about me and move on...but Jesus, not even a postcard after the honeymoon filling me in? don't worry, i don't want to be in the will or anything...] purchased a mirror from me a few weeks ago and got me down quite a bit on the price [this is the first thing that made me realize that my vision was correct, as my father has always been a penny-pincher to the point of publically humiliating heckle sessions that caused me in later years to simply fork over the dough when it came time to purchase anything], and in annoying and dithering fashion [yeah, i remember the salesmen's faces vividly]. Actually if I knew it was him, rather than some random guy named Charlie calling me saying that "he saw the things I had in my store and had things he knew I would want [musty old junk kept in various basements over the years that he inherited from his notorious father]," I probably wouldn't have waited all evening in my store so that I could meet him at 8.15. He would not give his address but insisted I follow him home from a gas station [the one around the corner from his decrepit house, which is obviously in need of a paint job, or (gasp) vinyl siding!. i know this because every couple months i make a point to come home from a southbound excursion on 9W in order to do a drive-by just to see how things are holding up at the old fort which, ironically, is in Fort Montgomery.].
Only when I walked into his small office [that'd be the little yellow room towards the front of his house which used to be my bedroom growing up. i remember the hanging plant in the corner, and my mother laying on the couch in the living room just outside my door reading her Cosmo magazines as i tried to drift off to sleep. if i didn't hear her there after awhile i'd call out from my dark room, "mom, i don't hear you turning the pages!" funny what you remember. anyway, my dad filled that tiny closet of a room with his hundreds and hundreds of God Books after the divorce, thus beginning the initial transformation into his 'office.'] and noticed the rather tombstone-like name on his desk [another bit of information that convinced me of the validity of Jeremiah's experience, which i did not want to admit to myself. it belonged to his father, another Charles Vahsen who failed his family, and my old man used to brag to his high-falutin' Christian Brethren how he loved the fact that the name-plate looked like a tombstone since his former self had "died" the moment he was "Born Again." yeah, is it any wonder my mother left him, his family treats him like recycled diner coleslaw, and i had a hard time swallowing all of his sermons growing up?] did I inquire if he had any relatives in the area. Oddly enough, he replied "Only in Connecticut." [oh man, this motherfucker right here...] until I mentioned knowing a Mike Vahsen, whom he then acknowledged as his son [gee thanks, asshole. i'm not so proud of my relation, either. keep the house you sold your family in, and the two houses in the Adirondacks, and the crappy cars and thousands in unused fishing gear and whatever rifles you have left, and, most importantly, the debt and shame you'll someday die with. i won't play out my greatest fear: i won't become you.].
His eyes are rather interesting [one of the traits people who've seen both of us always pick out, unfortunately]. They are terribly hard and focused and stare for long periods, but neither warmly nor coldly [i receive the same criticism, though for different reasons. i'm not that bad once you get to know me and see past the hundred-yard stare that takes over sometimes]...rather they seem more empty than angry [i guess ridding your life of what really matters, the people in it, will do that]. He showed me a picture of you as a young child posing with him, and you did not look happy [i wasn't big on forced poses and couldn't muster false smiles, especially when the pictures were taken primarily as evidence to be used in divorce court later on to fight over custody and child support issues].
He wanted way too much for his stuff, listened intently (along with his wife) [birds of a feather i'm sure] as I discussed microwaves, atomic theory, and electromagnetic-pulse weaponry. He refused my offer of free National Geographic magazines [we had a bunch on one of the bookshelves from when i was a kid, though he may have used them for kindling in his effort to get rid of the evidence of my pesky existence], and gave me a book enumerating all the names of God.. though it really doesn't [i remember seeing the book a few times on the coffee table the last few times i went to his place several years ago. it was about five inches thick]. The title is misleading... it should read "All the phrases referring to God in the Bible." [i greatly appreciate Jeremiah's dry sense of humor in times such as this.]He spent for [i believe he meant 'more;' even salutorians are allowed to fuck up once in awhile, and not just in their attempted business transactions.] than a few minutes inscribing it but I could not find the inscription [more of that disappearing ink he inscribed all of my birthday cards with, perhaps?].
Anyway, a strange coincidence [again, no such thing at this rate]. Aside from the shape of your face [it's ok, you can acknowledge the fact that we both have big heads. it's because we each have a second brain whose sole purpose is to foster bad ideas...only mine just tells me to drink on nights when i have to work the next day.] it is hard for me to see you as his issue. Maybe you prefer that [i didn't officially until tonight, no fault of Jeremiah's], I do not know precisely of your relations [neither does he, don't feel bad]. I can't say I took the best liking to him [neither did my mother, hence her filing for divorce when i was seven, though i blamed her for that until a few years ago when i realized just how crazy the man really is, and not even in a mildly entertaining way like Yours Truly], but I generally don't like people with annoying yappy vicious small ratdogs anyhow. ['ratdogs' is by far the best improvised compound word of 2008 to my knowledge. the fact that my old man owns one just may be the biggest let-down thus far. and see? i'm a master of maintaining my sense of humor in less-than-funny situations, if nothing else.].
You should try to get those two .50 black powder guns he is selling [i built one of them, but he can have the money if he needs it that bad and if its absence aids in my disappearance]. I can't make money on them at $100 a piece but they are worth that [not really, he scratched some of the metal on the buttplate on the one i built with sandpaper and i got pissed, despite my timid nature at age twelve]. The ugly figurines of flowers, or birds, or flowers with birds, are not [i remember those too, and they were rather hideous and cheap].
All is busy here. Store is open daily and is making money [please go buy antiques from this man, i'd help his business out by doing the same if my friends and i weren't a bunch of alcoholics who get rowdy at four in the morning and wreck things unintentionally.] but ploughing all back into new merch. We will be having an auction sometime around the 20th over behind Gus's tavern [shameless vicarious plug: Gus' Tavern, Route 9W in lovely Newburgh, NY] in my second location that I just opened. I will be auctioneer.. should be an interesting evening. Details to follow [oh, do tell...] ...
Best [i'll try my hardest, circumstances permitting],
Jeremiah
so that's it. i wish it was ed i was working with tomorrow, but that'll have to wait until our scab side-gig on saturday. no, tomorrow it'll be nicky; cold, ball-buster, "leave your shit at home" nicky, and that's fine. i'll warn him as soon as he gets into my truck tomorrow morning-- MY truck, dad...my brand new, $28000 Toyota fucking Tacoma that i bought with my hard-earned money with the job i re-earn every day, no thanks to you...not some used-piece-of-shit that i was always embarrassed to ride around in with you even as a kid...remember the one that blasted the heat all summer or the one that didn't have a functioning driver's-side door that forced you to crawl out of my door after i got out? yeah, none of that-- like i said, i'll warn nick right off the bat that it's not going to be a good day for me, and yes, i had a few strong drinks last night and that's what he's smelling on my breath, and when i light up a smoke and he calls me weak for doing it again i'll tell him to fuck off because it's a rough day. but don't worry, it has nothing to do with you, nick, and i'll make it through the day, and maybe after we pick up the tools and head back home i'll give ed a ring and see if he wants to meet me for a beer somewhere. it'll do him good, too; he has a son somewhere stolen by a lunatic mother or something of the sort, and in some weird way i know i've made that ok for him by not having a father of my own anymore and seeking ed's advice from time to time.
thanks for bearing with me. all of this just flowed out like a shit a long time in the making on that still-drunk sunday morning, and if you made it this far then maybe you're not as fucked as i'd assumed; either that or more-so. then again, maybe you're just another rubbernecker waiting to see how far i can fall until i implode, or worse, repeat the mistakes of the bloodline i try every day to redeem myself for having. either way, my hat's off to you for reading this far. it's been one of those things that makes or breaks a situation, an event that causes fate to decide itself from here on out. i guess i know where i stand now in his life, and i shouldn't feel so bad for disowning him in my head (though still not totally in my heart, secretly compassionate sucker that i am), or not wanting to invite him to my wedding someday either. but Dad, in case your lovely new bride is computer-literate and manages to find this trash someday, let me close with one that i know will hit home, wherever that may be for you:
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son." --John 3:16
...but what the fuck did you give yours up for?
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