"Friday Night Fights" Submission #14

When I was in the third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, had us all make a Father's Day card. She instructed us to draw something on the card that most reminded us of our fathers. Maybe something he enjoyed doing more than anything else. So I drew a picture of a beer can. Pabst Blue Ribbon. A few years ago, my mom pulled that card out of a box of old keepsakes. It gave me a chuckle.

My dad enjoyed his beer. Up until he got very ill, Dad would polish off a six-pack of PBR every night when he got home from work. From a very early age, I was his de facto bartender. Dad never had to ask me to get him a beer. He never had to utter a word. He would simply flick the opening of his empty beer can with his fingernail. That was my signal. When I heard it, I'd drop whatever I was doing, run to the fridge and grab another cold one. Sometimes he'd even let me take a drink.

               

On weekends, Dad had a standing date with some of his drinking buddies down at one of the local taverns. Being new to California, this is how my father developed new friendships. At first, it was the Lamplighter on Pioneer Boulevard in Artesia and then when we moved to Lakewood, his bar of choice became Rich's Tavern.

I didn't like when my dad would go to the bar on Friday nights because when he got home, he and my mom would usually get into an argument. It scared me. It gave me anxiety. I would physically shake.

One Friday afternoon, Jay Martinez, our next door neighbor, who also liked to party on Friday nights,
asked me to polish his shoes... for pay! Gladly! Upon completing the task, Jay gave me fifty cents. Two shiny quarters. I was thrilled! I was not used to having ANY money... whatsoever.

I was fascinated and thrilled with those two quarters. I sat on the little sidewalk that ran from the driveway to our front door and stared at my money. I started playing a game where I would

put the quarters on the grass, look away and then back at the coins... imagining that I had just found them.

My game was interrupted as my dad drove up after work. Knowing it was Friday, I knew his ritual would start the moment he walked in the front door. He'd shave, take a shower and then splash a heavy dose of Old Spice on his cheeks before he'd head out the door to Rich's.

My stomach began to churn in anticipation of the Friday night fights. As my dad walked to the door, I tried to engage him in conversation... maybe throw him off his game. I thought if he saw that I wanted to spend time with him... maybe he wouldn't go out... just this one night.

My plan seemed doomed from the get go. It was obvious that my dad was a man on a mission... the same mission he ritualistically performed each Friday. Nothing I said seemed to slow him down on his trek to the front door. In desperation, I made him a offer.

"Dad," I said, as I opened my hand, revealing my shoe-shining wages. "If you won't go to the bar tonight, I will give you this money."

It was a dead serious offer. As much as I wanted to spend that hard-earned money, I would have given it to my father in a heartbeat, if only he would stay home that night.

My dad stopped, looked at the two quarters in my hand and then raised his line of vision to my pleading eyes, as they began to well up with tears. He was speechless. We both stood there lost in the moment. Finally, he patted my head a couple times... still staring at my eyes... before slowly turning to walk into the front door.

About a half hour later, I heard the front screen door open and I got a whiff of Old Spice, which solidified the verdict... Dad would rather go to the bar than be fifty cents richer. "How foolish," I thought.

I cried as his car drove away.

Dad picked up the nickname, "Tiger" at one of those joints. I remember one of his friends, Hal Brown, came to Dad's viewing at the mortuary and he just cried like a baby as he repeated over and over, "Not the Tiger. Not the ol' Tiger."

Frequently, Dad would invite Mom to go to the bar with him. She consistently refused. Sometimes at home, he would ask her to have a beer with him but she insisted that she hated the taste of the stuff. She would not drink with him and i respected her for that.

The summer of '71, when we arrived home from our California adventure, something struck me as

odd. There were two beers sitting on the coffee table. I knew Jack was a pretty heavy drinker but I was pretty sure he consumed his drinks one mug at a time.

They were in beer glasses from Jack's bar. Both of them sat on a folded kleenex to absorb the condensation.

Well, if the second one wasn't Jack's, it had to be Mom's. But... she didn't like the taste of beer.

This signaled the start. I had no idea what we were in for...

"Right Back Where I Started From" Submission #13

The last day of 6th grade was pretty cool. June 1971. Knowing that I had approximately 90 days of freedom, prior to starting junior high was cool all by itself. But as I walked in the front door of our house, I saw mom and Jack, sitting on the couch, both wearing a big grin.

I smiled back at them... clueless as to why we all were smiling... until my eyes drifted down to the coffee table in front of them, where I saw the largest stack of cash that I had ever seen. My smile grew broader.

Within minutes, the rest of the clan made there way through the front door... Jackie... Phillip... Bruce. The scene was repeated. They saw us smiling... they saw the mother load of greenbacks... their grins made it unanimous.

I don't remember who... but one of us finally asked the obvious question, "Why is all that money on the coffee table?"

"We thought you guys might enjoy a vacation." Jack shared with us... still smiling.

Mom explained, "This money is for your plane tickets... to California... for a MONTH!"

Sweet baby Jesus!

Cal-i-forn-ia here I come! Right back where I started from!

I don't know if I was too young to realize or if I just didn't care... but I'm confident that part of the newlywed's motivation stemmed from their desire to eliminate 67% of the occupants of our cracker-jack box sized house for about 30 days as they got to know each other a little better. Sneaky, devious adults.

I was ecstatic. Our departure day could not arrive fast enough!

The trip did not disappoint. We had a blast.

Phillip and I paired up and stayed with my oldest brother, Butch, and his wife, Ruby... while Jackie and Bruce stayed with my sister, Barbara, and her husband, Charlie Wooley. At the end of each week, we would swap residences.

I remember Barb being very excited about seeing us and she went out of her way to make it fun. Charlie was a hoot, too. He had a great sense of humor and had us laughing all the time.

Not long after that trip, Barb separated and eventually divorced Charlie. I was crushed. Barb shared some horror stories about his behavior during their tumultuous marriage. Of course, all I had ever seen was "Good-time Charlie." Apparently, that was a show.

My brother, Bill, was living with Barb and Charlie at the time. When Phillip and I arrive for our first tour of duty at the Wooley compound, Bill mentioned that he was leaving for church camp at Big Bear Mountain in a few days. He was going to work as a counselor to the young skulls of mush.

"I wish you could go," he said, "but it cost $30."

 I will divulge this here and now. I DID NOT WANT TO GO TO CAMP! I had just arrived at Barb's house and was very much looking forward to the activities she had planned. Plus... I had attended this same camp several years earlier and to put it mildly, I was bored out of my mind! They had all sorts of strict rules, the cabins smelled like horses and we had to attend "chapel" three times every single day! Not my idea of a fun-filled California adventure.

Knowing that I did not have $30... not a small sum in 1971... and knowing that Bill surely didn't have it to spare either, I played along.

"Yeah, I wish I could go too. It sounds like so much fun!" I lied... impressively.

Those words would come back to haunt me.

"You really want to go?" Bill inquired.

My throat tightened up.

"Uh... yeah?" I mumbled... mouth dry. "But I can't go... I don't have thirty bucks."

"Let me work on it." He said with a gleam in his eye.

I have a big mouth.

Sure enough, the next day, Bill announced triumphantly that he had arranged to take his little brother to camp!

"Great!" Phony grin. Heart full of regret.

"Maybe it won't be so bad this time." I thought... mustering all the optimism that I could muster.

I was wrong. Again.

The only thing worse than my utter boredom was my horrendous case of chapped lips. They looked... and felt like raw meat.

Big Bear Camp was, in reality, Big Bore Camp.

At this point, lest I mislead you... let me point out that I love Bill for arranging for me to attend camp. He had no idea that I didn't want to go. I lied to him about that. He has always had a big heart and would move heaven and earth for me if he thought I wanted them moved. This was demonstrated in dramatic fashion some years after this... but... I mustn't get ahead of myself.

In spite of my week at camp, I still have very pleasant memories of the summer of '71 in California. My home! Trips to Huntington Beach, going to Magic Mountain amusement park with Bill, visiting old friends.... and listening to the sweet sounds of James Taylor singing his new hit, "You've Got a Friend."

I hated to leave but there were some things that drew my attention back to Iowa. I was kind of excited about hanging out with the Smiley boys again. I was looking forward to 7th grade and my first year of playing tackle football. Interest in the opposite gender was beginning to gain some steam. My new family was starting to click. Living in Iowa wasn't so bad.

But then...

It didn't take long for that scene to burst once we got back. From the moment we walked in the front door, things were different. I wasn't sure what it was at first... but it was obvious... something had changed.