15:51

1 March 1979, 9 minutes to 4 in the afternoon.  Easthampton, Massachusetts. One of those picturesque hill towns along the Connecticut River that tick all the quintessential Western New England boxes:

 

n  Impressive hillock in the distance? Check

n  Central pond frozen over into a massive Currier and Ives skating rink? Check

n  Town Square complete with Congregationalist Church, town hall and Revolutionary War memorial? Check

n  Denuded maple tree lined main street? Check

n  White clapboard Yankee classic farmhouses with wraparound porches? Check

n  One bar for every 1000 inhabitants, each one more likely than the next to serve a 15 year old prep school student as long as he is sitting in a back booth out of sight? Check

 

Archie’s – it never had a last name, it barely had a sign – is the grubby pimp lord of the Easthampton skel watering holes, a mark of distinction indeed. When even the VFW Post refused to serve Williston kids we would amble down this long dark road on the wrong side of the tracks (in a neighborhood where the right side was a ravine above a junkyard full of rusting schoolbus parts) until we saw the classic Miller’s neon sign in one window and wandered in.

 

15 is sitting in the corner, alone, nursing a Molson Golden and a shot of Allen’s Ginger Brandy. Picture classic Listerine mixed with napalm and you get the idea. A hipflask sized bottle of the stuff is on the table. There are two other shotglasses and empty bottles of the Canadian ale, three other chairs but two other places. American law limits the amount of alcohol in beer brewed in the US. It does not however limit the amount in imported brews as long as it called something other than beer. In the years before the onslaught of European beers and microbreweries, Canada served us well.

 

He’s wearing worn blue jeans, workboots, and a sweater underneath a checked workshirt. This is not an affectation. As much as the “Preppie Handbook” craze – predating the Sloan Rangers phenomenon by several years -- is going through America at the moment, real prep school kids try NOT to stand out from the townies especially when slumming their bars, hence the jeans and boots. The sweater under the shirt is a utility peculiar to Willies, especially skinny ones like this one: it keeps 15 warm in the icebox of the Holyoke mountains and it makes him look about twenty pounds heavier back in the day when big meant strong, not just fat.  A red box of Marlboros is opened in front of him, one smoke turned upside down.

 

Jesus, I think. He’s a kid.

 

“It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” I tell him as I sit down at the one chair that doesn’t have a shotglass in front of it.

 

“No fuckin’ shit. What?” Either he’s too drunk or people really weren’t afraid enough of strangers in the Seventies.

 

“That business in Iran,” I say, thumbing at the TV set across the bar. The sound is turned off but through the dark it looks like it’s in the next building. People marching in the streets, cuts to the Shah getting on an airplane and the Ayatollah getting off another one. Incongruously all these scenes are showing over a medley of Doobie Brothers tunes. “It’s going to get a lot worse. For a long time. Pahlavi was a prick but Khomenei is going to be Stalin in a turban.”

 

He looks at me. He looks like a mountain goat on a sterno binge. Long face, reddish brown hair down to his shoulders parted in the center like he’s David Cassidy.  Eyes puffy, red, white and blue. He stinks of tobacco and booze. He grins at me and I can tell that whatever he’s been drinking is only just about to kick in. 

 

“Meet the old boss,” 15 says, then catches himself: “Wait. Meet the new boss--”

 

“Same as the old boss” we both finish and nod. It takes him a second but he starts to get it. He picks up the brandy flask in a toast and offers it to me. I decline and he pours himself a shot.

 

“You look familiar.” He knocks back the shot. At 15, he’s still new at hard liquor, especially the stuff with a kick, and he closes his eyes and grimaces before he delivers the goods. It makes him look angry and then confused.

 

“I get that a lot. So, this is your idea of yartzheit?”

 

Ginger brandy burns worse than bad whiskey so he slugs down some Molson and glares at me. “That was a few weeks ago. It’s a different day on the Jewish calendar.”

 

“I know, you and AJ left a stone on his gravestone and smoked a joint behind your uncle’s horsebarn after.” I’ve let Dad’s accent back into my voice – haahwsbawn aaftuh -- it always happens when I go back there, and he really sees me for the first time – bald, bearded, glasses.

 

“Wait a fuckin’ minute. I’m not THAT drunk, you’re not…”

 

“Nope, it’s even crazier.” I lean in and pull my glasses down in so he can see my eyes. I might look like him now, but Dad’s eyes were dark brown with flecks of gold. AJ got those. I got Mom’s blues.

 

As the penny starts to drop, 15 looks around for George and Stu, his drinking buddies for the evening. “They’re probably still in the bathroom. They don’t want you to know about cocaine yet. In retrospect, a favor to you. You’re going to be one of the lucky ones who never really likes the disco dandruff.”

 

I was never a real mouthy drunk but tonight is kinda special. “Who the fuck are you anyway and what the fuck are you doing here? I’m not into guys if that’s what this is about, so maybe you should just go fuck the fuck off. Go up to Northampton, you chickenhawk. What are you anyway, 40 or something?”

 

“51. Today’s a year. Did you call our mother?”

 

That gets him. The kid looks around and realizes that there is nobody else in this bar, that the music has stopped, and the only thing moving is the smoke off of his cigarette.

 

“How did you get here, anyway?” Acceptance of this situation is actually sobering him up a little.

 

“Therapy. Answer my question. Did you call Mom?”

 

“No, I didn’t. I was going to and then these two decided to take me out because, well.”

 

“Say it out loud, it actually hurts less if you do it.”

 

15 sighs. “George remembered that Dad died on the 1^st so he and Stu decided we needed to drink to him.”

 

I shake my head. “You should have called Mom. This year was murder on her. It’s not easy to tell kids their father died. Especially when there was nobody to comfort her.”

 

15 can’t look me in the eye. “I know, look, I’ll call her tomorrow when I’m sober.”

 

“You’re sober now, spuler.” I hold up a quarter. I haven’t used that particular insult in 30 years. It refers to someone who vomits easily when drinking or who drools excessively when stoned.

 

“No, I’m fucking not. I’ve been drinking for – wait.” He looks at me. His eyes are no longer red. He’s suddenly completely sober. “How the hell?”

 

“I only wish I brought more than ten minutes of sobriety with me.” I barely have enough for myself. That beer smells really damned good and I always liked the taste of ginger. “Make the fucking call before I run out.”

 

He takes the coin, gets up and goes straight to the payphone by the toilet. There is only one bathroom in Archie’s. The only females that ever came into this place did so on four legs leading a blind drunk. I can hear him calling:

 

“Hi Mom it’s Leo…yeah I just wanted to see how you’re doing and say I love you…no, I’m studying with George and Stu…how’s AJ?...Yeah I miss Dad too, I miss all of you…Love you mom, I’ll be home next weekend. I’ll light a candle tonight. Love you.”

 

He comes over. “Happy?”

 

I wave him to his seat. “Not so hard, see?”

 

“No. So why are you here?”

 

“I told you, therapy. So what do you want to know?”

 

15 looks around. “Where is everyone?”

 

“Everywhere.”

 

He shrugs. Stupid question and stupid answer is familiar territory. “Will I die a virgin?”

 

“I’m not dead yet but I’m not currently a virgin. You end up doing it with Trish.”

 

“REALLY?” I can see 15’s imagination at work.

 

“Yeah it takes her another two years to get your stupid ass in bed. You’ll chase pretty for a while and then go for easy. Actually, that’s going to be your story for, well, forever.”

 

15 is still happy with this topic. “Is she any good?”

 

“No but you’re worse. She’ll probably get better at it with four or five other partners in her life, you won’t with more than that.  You stay friends with her through middle age. And yes, that thing you want to do to her is fine with her. The trick will be getting her to stop.”

 

He does not want to talk about his theoretical sex life even with himself. He’s happy to talk about the other love of his life though. “Will I learn to hold this shit?” he holds up the beer. “I’m sick of puking so often.”

 

“No. You tolerate beer about as well as you tolerate gasoline. You will learn to hold THAT shit.” I point at the brandy. “In a couple years you will discover that the clearer the liquor, the better you are with it. It’ll be gin in about a year and then it will be vodka in college. The vomiting will stop and the memory gaps will begin. So you have that to look forward to.”

 

15 decides to go up the cultural food chain. “Will I be a writer?”

 

“No but you’ll drink, smoke pot and masturbate like one.”

 

“I can do that.” He shrugs. “So what do I become?”

 

“A stoned and drunken jerkoff. The technical term is college student. Then eventually a lawyer.”

 

15 looks like the beers are going to come back on him. “How the fuck does THAT happen?”

 

“Complete lack of life skills coupled with the ability to crank out dull copy.”

 

“Cool. Do I become rich?”

 

“Right after you become tall, handsome and athletic.”

 

“Wicked cool – wait. You’re being sarcastic.”

 

“One of the life skills you don’t lack. No. Money will take your rectal temperature forever. Mom’s legacy.”

 

“What happens to Mom?”

 

“Sorry, that’s for my next visit. Nothing you could do about it now even if you wanted.”

 

“Why aren’t you drinking with me?”

 

“Why do you think?”

 

By 15, he’s heard of alcoholism. He’s vaguely aware that some alcoholics stop drinking. He doesn’t know any. “Shit. Really?”

 

“Really. You have about 7 years of this left. You will use them unwisely but well.”

 

“How bad do I get?”

 

“You don’t kill anyone as far as you know.”

 

“I really wish you found a way to make that sound funny. So I don’t smoke pot either?”

 

“Not right now anyway. And not right now for the last 28 years. Cigarettes either.”

 

“So what do I do for fun, jerk off?”

 

“In about 15 years something called the Internet is going to come along, so yes. You also get fat.”

 

“Will I ever get out of the Valley?”

 

“The only thing you are going to remember is my advice to you to read Clockwork Orange and study Russian. It will change your life. Viddy well, droog, viddy well.”

 

15 ponders that a minute. “Why did you come today?”

 

“Because we need to talk about Dad. He wasn’t angry at you, he forgave you and he loved you. You got that?”

 

“You say it but I don’t believe it.”

 

“Because the last time we had a real conversation with him we were arguing about the sabbatical he never lived to take?”

 

15 takes a hit off the Molson bottle. “No.”

 

“Or because the last time we saw him he was collapsed outside the bathroom with the chemo we did not know he was taking?”

 

He pours another shot. “No.”

 

“Or because Mother told us a story about how he read our last letter to him and he told her that he understood we were saying goodbye?”

 

He raises it to me. “Right.”

 

“And because we think Mom was lying?”

 

“Right.” He takes the shot.

 

“Because she never told us he was dying? You hold that against her even though he told her not to?”

 

“They could have told us.” This comes out in a ginger-scented fog. My eyes water.  15 is defiant. “Let’s see if I stay sober.”

 

“Really? Have you ever thought how to break to a 14 and a 10 year old that you or your spouse is dying soon?”

 

“No, have you?”

 

“Yes, I have. I have kids.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Four of them. So I think a lot about how to tell them bad news, especially in advance, the way we think our parents should have done for us.”

 

“Wow. Heavy. So what did I come up with?”

 

“Not a goddamned thing. Direct confrontation and covering painful truths with people you love hasn’t really become a thing with us yet.”

 

15 lights a cigarette. He’s angry. “We musta came by that honestly, then, because that’s how Mom and Dad played with the truth, isn’t it?”

 

“I did not come here to defend them, Leo.”

 

He takes a deep drag. “Good because you suck at it. Are you going to tell me that they did the best they could?”

 

“I came here to tell you you did the best you could.”

 

15 looks at me. “I’m listening.”

 

“You know how Mother is always telling you that she and Dad never really had blueprints for parenting? Well at least they had the examples of their own parents to work from, either with or against how they themselves were raised. They may make mistakes but they don’t get lost.”

 

15 ponders that. He looks back into his shot glass. Whatever anti-drunk magic I brought with me is straining and he knows it. He refills it, so I continue:

 

“You on the other hand, this is your first time as a kid. And you had no models. And nobody sits you down and says ‘now, in case a parent dies suddenly, this is what you do, what you feel, what’s right and what’s wrong.’ You had to make it up and guess. So if the methods you use to cope” and here I point at his evening meal “aren’t working, you can stop blaming yourself and move on.”

 

15 glares at me. “Am I going to have to pour the next shot with you looking at me after laying down that line of shit and smirking like you’re so fucking smart?”

 

“No,” I say as I take the bottle before he can get to it. I pour us both shots. “Allow me.” I push his towards him and he raises his to mine.  “Just hold off until you hear this. He fucking forgave you and I can prove it.”

 

15 is looking at my shot glass. My magic is wearing off, on both of us. “Prove it, old man, and let’s get to it.”

 

“He loved you like a father. The way I love my kids now. He knew you hated him as you came through puberty, the way he hated his father and the way my kids sometimes hate me. It never for a moment eclipsed his love for you because he’s ten times the men we’ll ever be and nothing but nothing will ever eclipse the love you and I will have for our kids. Dad died and it sucks but he died without anything but love for you so don’t feel guilty. I swear it.”

 

15 looks at me and says “Fucking drink on it and I’ll believe you.”

 

Our eyes lock and we count.

 

“one”

 

“two”

 

“THREE”

 

If you haven’t had a drink in almost 30 years, an ounce and a quarter of 100 proof ginger infused alcohol is a great way to remind yourself why not. It takes a full minute for my eyesight to return.

 

“Jesus” 15 says. “I was just kidding about the drink. I believe you.”

 

“Fuck you.” I croak.  There’s something metaphysically hysterical about telling yourself to fuck yourself and both of us get that at once, laughing so hard the table rattles.  Laughing on a seared throat is not easy.

 

“OK, I believe you” he says. “Now what?”

 

“Now I go and hope I arrive sober.”

 

“Not my fault, man.”

 

“Support much appreciated.” I reach for my coat.

 

“Am I going to remember any of this?” 15 asks.

 

“A long time from now, maybe. Even if you did you’re too stubborn to do the right thing with it. Our psychology protecting the space time continuum or some such shit.”

 

I watch as his friends come back from the bathroom, rubbing their noses and smirking the cocaine grin that will become ubiquitous in a year or so.15 watches me get ready to go.

 

“Clockwork Orange, huh?” he asks.

 

“Viddy Well, Droog, Viddy Well” I answer and the last thing I remember as I walk out is wondering if getting drunk outside your regular timeline resets your sobriety date forward or backwards...