"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...