The hardest thing for those who love alcoholics or drug
addicts is to accept that from the addicts’ point-of-view you are nothing but a
grey shadow on the wall, you’re invisible. There’s no elephant in the room,
there’s only THEIR HABIT. If you won’t enable them, somebody else will.
Others are simply a means to an end. The medical profession posits
that addiction is a disease, but the drinker, Tad thought, still might have
choice no matter how hard that might be. Maybe it’s a matter of will.
But that explanation was more likely just wish fulfillment on the part of
those in relationships with drunks. Mexicans say, El borracho no vale, no
senor. End of story.
Self-destruction though can be an exciting ride, but in the
end there is only a miserable death—likely a goal. For god sakes
look at Hank Williams, the dumb bastard had it all, and tell me, tell me, how
did it end? He died in some pathetic gas station parking lot in West
Virginia, Union ’76, in the back of his Cadillac or something, on his way to
another night of booze, women and a terrible hangover. Writers and
entertainers by the dozen crashed and burned, alcohol, drugs, and both were
better together, like a wonderfully poison marriage that would kill the couple
and take down half of those around them, children and all. Shit, bodies
everywhere.
Tad’s profound thoughts were interrupted by a green sign
momentarily caught in the headlights of his FJ, “rest stop two miles ahead.”
Thank god, the Pennsylvania Turnpike nearly always seemed the longest
road in the world. In the winter time it was more like a toboggan run.
At the end, so many lanes poured out into that little town of New Stanton
that it created a great deal of confusion, at least for Tad who called the exit
the New Stanton horror. Twice before he had been so tired after fifteen hours
or so on the road that he missed the I-70 entrance and had driven half way to
Cleveland before he realized his mistake. He’d spent the night in Canton
and he rationalized his fuck up by claiming that it had given him an
opportunity to visit McKinley’s tomb. Tad had visited dozens of the
birthplaces and graves of American presidents. It gave him pleasure.
“But, no mistakes, not tonight damn it, no mistakes.”
Woozy, he stopped for coffee and directions. Outside
the Seven-Eleven a disheveled middle aged man was slumped against the stacks of
“on sale” Pepsi and Coke, drunk and passed out, a brown paper sacked wrapped
around a pint in one hand and an open can of Dr. Pepper in the other that he’d
spilled all over his pants. What remained of the twenty-three favors was
slowly dripping on to the concrete. At least Tad thought the wet spot was
the Dr. Pepper. At 2:30 in the morning almost no one was in the place.
Tad hit the john, rule number one for men over fifty; never ever miss a
chance to pee. The restroom was messed up, a few paper towels strewn
about, a dirty sink, a full trash can, and those depressing rubber machines
that all heralded how for just four quarters you could “enhance her pleasure”
with the “new pre-lubricated and ribbed super slider.” Jesus!— a
super slider. He always wondered who tested those things out at the
prophylactic factory and how you got the job. Probably beats teaching.
Back in the food aisle Tad thought about a big can of Vienna Sausages, but
instead fixed a hotdog from the rotisserie, squirted on a little mustard,
poured a large black coffee and picked up a can of shoestring potatoes.
Good health is everything!
At the counter he asked about the drunk. “What about
that guy out there?” “Oh, he’s out there two or three nights a week.
He’s, he’s usually gone by sun up.” Tad, momentarily spun a
vampire fantasy but continued, “even in the winter?” The young man in a
Penn State tee-shirt didn’t answer. As Tad walked out the door he
thought, you know, maybe it works both ways. We don’t see the addicted
anymore than they see us. I guess we’re invisible to one another.
There’s no elephant in the room, just blind people, people whose pain
forced them to give up seeing. Some, like Oedipus, voluntarily poked
their eyes out in search of relief. What did that negative cocksucker
Freud say, “the goal of therapy was to turn unbearable pain into everyday
misery.” Tad mused, “yeah, yeah, but it’s the fucking pain.” Alertly, he
pulled into the I-70 entrance. It was only about an hour to Washington,
PA and a goodnight’s sleep.
***
Hal Wert is a Professor of Literature and History at the Kansas City Art institute where his courses
Hal Wert is a Professor of Literature and History at the Kansas City Art institute where his courses
include the Modern Japanese
Novel and the Tale of Genji.
He is currently working on a novel, a fictional biography of Tad Waller,
constructed randomly through Tad’s memory in flash fiction vignettes. Two of his Tad stories recently appeared an anthology of flash fiction
entitled Dirty: Dirty, Art by Mugi Takei.
