Pizza & Gin

I drink gin because it smells like my father’s breath when he used to carry me inside—half asleep or pretending to be—from our 1999 Chevy suburban after a Friday night fish fry. My 60-lb deadweight body; light and safe in his arms. His breathing was slow, rhythmic, and it still is, but for much different reasons. He’s less strong now. Couldn't hold me heavy at 26. And that drink he loved never loved him back the same, but he can’t stop drinking it anyway. I don’t blame him– Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with two olives is kryptonite. But I love how that stinging, pine needle-y liquor smells because it reminds me of being little, before the drinking became a problem. I guess he got heavier, too.

My father took me out of school once in the 2nd grade because I told my brother and sister that I hated them during a fight before he dropped us off at St. Patrick’s. He used to give the three of us a ride to school each morning. The local Minnesota radio had enough time to announce the weather and play one song before we got to the playground.

He pulled me out of art class that day and brought me to Pizza Hut where he said, “You come into this world alone unless you’ve got siblings. If you’re lucky enough to have them, they are the only people who will enter and leave this world with you. Your mother and I won’t be here forever, so, you’ve got root for them and love them and even like them,” I now know that it was the most important slice of pizza I’ve ever eaten.

When I parent my own children and on my deathbed, I’ll remember the lukewarm food in that lunch special buffet line and how his peppered beard moved with his mouth while he taught me such an intentional lesson. And he was right.

Memories like this one are part of the reason why I don’t mind the duality in him; I think it’s like Bruce Wayne and Batman. He’s both human and hero, which makes the awe in him easier to stomach when he’s so painfully flawed.

I’ll never forget the time I saw him crouched on the floor of his office, nearly passed out from shooters, or the call he made from the hospital when I got my first job in DC.

He said, “I know I’m sick and I promise I’ll get better.” and he didn’t.

But I’ll also remember his genuine success with fostering community and honoring the history of the people who matter most to him. Like when he founded my hometown’s hall of fame or the now-25-year-old alumni basketball tournament that brings graduates of every age together, annually.

To this day, he’ll actually say the name of each person he waves to out loud in his car even if the windows are rolled up because, he believes, it makes a difference in the hello. And I think it does. I also think his disease is slowly killing him, but I try to make peace and sense of the gray area with the boundaries we’ve learned to keep—like how I won’t drive him to rehab or AA again. The distance helps.

Sure, the Bat-Signal is a little broken, and so is he, but he sees the light in the sky just fine. I call and he answers and I’ve learned that—in any state I may find him in—it’s enough. His voice sounds nearly the same and all of him is in there somewhere, so, I answer too.

One time he showed up at my college job on a Friday night, blacked out after driving an impossible hour to hide from the rest of our family and see me. I worked at a hotel and had to clock out early and take his keys so I could help carry him to bed like he used to with me. We limped about a half mile between frantic phone calls from my mother and weekend sounds in my college town. My shoulder hurt because he was so heavy. When I finally got him upstairs at the apartment, I took off his shoes as he laid down and noticed that his strong breath smelt sour and sickly—distinctly vodka.

Thank god—because I love gin.