MY DAD

Dad was not a mean drunk most of the time.
Sometimes, he fell asleep with his head in the plate of bacon and eggs that my mom served him in the morning. As a child, I clinically observed him.
I noticed he was oblivious to the Chesterfield Regular cigarette burning his brown, nicotine stained, index finger. He continued to snore, with his head resting on the table. I often wondered if he realized all the pain he was causing himself, and others. He seemed oblivious to the realities of his situation.

He turned down an executive position that my grandpa had procured for him at Armour Company. My father opted for a lifetime of bartending. He bragged to all who would listen, that he was a professional mixologist. One time, I saw him mindlessly shit in his pants. It was a terrible thing for a little boy to see. He burned both matresses and hearts. Sometimes, when he was lucky at the racetrack or at poker games played in the back rooms of nefarious bar rooms, I could persuade Dad to take me to Comiskey Park. This is the old home of the Chicago White Sox. I took his big hand in mine and looked up to him. He rubbed my head the way that dads do with their little boys. We took a cab to the ballpark. He was always too drunk to drive.

He bought me hotdogs, pop, and peanuts. We took the bus back home. I endured the embarrassment of people looking at us. My father snored loudly, with his head hanging. He woke up with a start as the bus hit each stop. Diabetes and alcoholism finally had its say. He died with his head on the kitchen table, while the smoke from his "cig" traveled up like a little soul.

from: "The Journey...Memoirs of a South Side Chicago kind of guy"...available on Amazon.com