CHAPTER 2
Doing the Old Man's booze shopping was the least favorite of David's many jobs as dutiful son. First, last, and foremost, it wasn't easy on his own sobriety which was already iffy on the best of days. As he gathered the usual order of a bottle of American whiskey and as much Budweiser as he could carry, David could never stop himself from casting a wary glance at the vodka shelf, his own personal poison. It would be extremely easy to add some to his load, but it had been five months and the last thing he wanted to do was go back to zero so close to a sobriety milestone. He reminded himself that were he to indulge, he might get that beloved hour or two of brain fog, but then everything would rebel against him as it always did. It got worse every time he relapsed, and this was far from David's first attempt at recovery.
His wet shoes squeaked on the grungy tile as he filled his nightly shopping list. The Old Man wasn't supposed to be drinking any more than David was, but that was a conversation the two of them had countless times already, going forever in circles around the immovable object that was the bastard's sheer mule headedness. And if David didn't show up bearing the requisite supplies, the fucker had multiple ways of ensuring that his night would be even more miserable than it already was. It was either supply his addictions or spend yet another evening being verbally assaulted until he was ready to crack. And a small and extremely guilty part of him secretly thought the Old Man finally drinking himself to death wouldn't be nearly as tragic as some might purport to think.
The cashier was a younger guy, probably not thirty yet with shaggy hair and a stocking cap. David imagined that he might be another college student earning whatever he could in the evenings in a dire, dire economy. He had seen him before often enough that when he approached the counter with his alcoholic loot, the man grinned warmly. They didn't know each other's names, but their roles were well rehearsed. "Grabbing the usual." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yeah, I spend too much money on this shit." David had never mentioned to the young man that the small ocean of liquor and beer wasn't for himself. It was easier to let him assume he was a world-class boozehound than explain. And not that long ago he would have been right anyway.
The rest of the transaction was accomplished along with the usual small talk. The weather was always a popular subject among Seattleites, even though one would think they must have exhausted the subject by now. It was nicknamed "Rain City" for a very good reason, and tonight it was coming down notably hard even for this gloomy little corner of the country. A distant clap of thunder rumbled, and the cashier remarked, "Dude, you need to get an umbrella or something," acknowledging David's dripping hair and already soaked clothing.
"My dumb ass left it at home, you'd think I would have learned by now." He ran his debit card as the young man bagged the whiskey and set it beside the case of beer. The transaction was completed like clockwork, just as it was nearly every night, and David grabbed the groceries with the requisite but heartfelt, "Have a good one." If he lived by one rule in his life, it was no matter his own mood, he tried never to make anyone else's day worse than it already was.
It was precipitating harder than it was even a few minutes ago, and his feet splattered in the water gathering on the sidewalk. He wasn't especially concerned about getting wet, rather he was quite used to it. More than used to it. Whether it was misting, drizzling, showering, storming, or torrenting, the people who dwelt here spent their days in a near perpetual state of damp. It was about a four on the ol' Rain-O-Meter right now, but the signs were there that tonight might hit a seven at least.
David's used gray Toyota was parked around the corner of the city street, as unremarkable in appearance as its owner was, and old enough to have manual locks. He loaded the Old Man's booze into the back seat and settled himself behind the wheel, his somewhat shaggy sandy hair already plastered to his skull from his brief venture into the open. It crossed his mind to leave the alcohol on the sidewalk for whoever wanted it and just go the hell home. But his duty as a son called, and it wasn't like anyone else was going to do the miserable job.
It was well past rush hour, and the heavy clouds were beginning to darken, heralding nightfall. The city had gotten its brief spurt of summer weather out of the way and the days were growing shorter again. Aside from the temperature of the rain, Seattle didn't enjoy a lot of variation in the seasons. David found an opportunity and pulled smoothly out into the thinning traffic, settling in for the longish drive to the Old Man's house. Once upon a century or two ago it had been David's house as well, and the demands that he make it so again were becoming more frequent as time went by. It was a standard subject of argument as the Old Man really wanted a live-in caretaker, while David preferred to spend his time doing something more fun. Like bashing his own testicles with a claw hammer, for one example.
There were other siblings of course, but they were spread far and wide across the country, preoccupied with their own big families. David and the Old Man were the only two Martins still in the Pacific northwest. He had two brothers in front, a sister and a brother in back, and about a gazillion nieces and nephews in other cities. As David was the only adult member of the clan unmarried and childless, tending to the Old Man's needs in his decrepitude had fallen to him. A hefty percentage of David's income was spent on a part-time nurse just so he got some time away, but he couldn't afford a 24/7 live-in along with the family mortgage and property taxes. And so evenings and weekends were entirely his problem, and the Old Man dearly loved to make himself a problem.
David found the freeway on ramp and turned on to it, suddenly grumpy when he saw the traffic ahead. For a city that got so much rain, the citizenry somehow did not know how to drive on wet roads. Combine that with the fact that there were very few routes north-to-south and whoever built the freeway system thought bottlenecks were just dandy, short trips could be excruciatingly long in this town. With an inward groan, David resigned himself to a lousy commute just to make his evening complete. Finally merging into traffic, he set his phone to playing some music that was at least relaxing. He had something for every mood, and while it was tempting to listen to something angry right now, David needed all the mellow he could find for the evening ahead. One could say that David and the Old Man had their share of differences. For that matter, there were at least sixteen father-son pairs out there that had no differences at all because of the two of them.
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the traffic briefly sped up and then slowed right back down again. He was well used to these roads and this drive, so his mind wandered as the cars ahead of him sporadically crept forward and stopped dead still. One song ended and another began, and then another, and then another. David's playlists were as meticulously crafted as everything else he did, and his long-practiced patience held as what should have been a ten-minute drive turned into nearly an hour. At last, he reached the exit he needed and got a satisfying burst of speed coming down the off-ramp at least.
The old family homestead was still a fair distance away, but now that he was out of traffic David made good time and shortly was pulling into the driveway of the painfully middle-class two-story house in South Seattle that had been his childhood home. It was difficult to find much nostalgia for the place and it seemed especially oppressive viewed through the increasing downpour. The place was in fine repair, the very image of white suburbia, as David took care of most of the basic maintenance himself. At least once a month he carefully pulled up the Old Man's large collection of political yard signs and just as carefully replaced them after mowing the lawn, and only a few weeks ago he had replaced a window the drunken bastard had broken in a rage.
David parked in the driveway leading to the garage and climbed out, retrieving his familiar bounty of booze from the back seat. Then he splashed up the walk to the front door, located his key, and let himself inside.
The interior of the home was heavily decorated in what David (very) privately thought of as white trash kitsch. Guns were a theme, as were American flags and various patriotic knickknacks, saturated throughout with heavy tones of religion. Crosses and artist's renditions of the crucifixion adorned nearly every wall, forever reminding one of Jesus' eternally guilt-tripping sacrifice. David was well used to these and supposed he was still a believer, but about all that was left of his own faith these days was a lingering sense of fear. He set the booze down on the carpeted floor to hang his dripping jacket up on the wall rack adorned with praying hands and a proud, "Welcome to the Martins".
"Hey Dale, you up?" David called as he grabbed his delivery and carried it into the kitchen, an all-too familiar smell of stale urine invading his nose. He hadn't called the Old Man "dad" or "father" or anything similar in many years and he sure as hell didn't plan on starting now.
