UNDER THE INFLUENCE
Paying the price of my father's booze
By Scott Russell Sanders
Source: HARPER'S, Nov. 1989, pp. 68-75
My father drank. He drank as a gut-punched boxer gasps for breath, as a
starving dog gobbles food--compulsively, secretly, in pain and trembling. I use
the past tense not because he ever quit drinking but because he quit living.
That is how the story ends for my father, age sixty-four, heart bursting, body
cooling, slumped and forsaken on the linoleum of my brother's trailer. The story
continues for my brother, my sister, my mother, and me, and will continue as
long as memory holds.
In the perennial present of memory, I slip into the garage or barn to see my
father tipping back the flat green bottles of wine, the brown cylinders of whiskey,
the cans of beer disguised in paper bags. His Adam's apple bobs, the liquid
gurgles, he wipes the sandy-haired back of a hand over his lips, and then, his
bloodshot gaze bumping into me, he stashes the bottle or can inside his jacket,
under the workbench, between two bales of hay, and we both pretend the moment
has not occurred.