Buzz Kill

Last post tonight.

No matter where we stay, the trip home will start at my Dad's house. He's in Vegas. I love him, despite the estrangement for years and years (such a long story that you'd be drained by the time you heard the entire monologue.)

J.D. and I saw him in January -- he weighed about 100 lbs. Kristin and I saw him last week, he weighed about 95 lbs. Kellene and I will see him Saturday, he'll weight about 90 lbs.

And the reality shocks my heart about every 60 seconds. He won't say he's dying. He won't even acknowledge a diagnosis, or even a prognosis.

He says it is potato poisoning. Kristin caught the innuendo -- Vodka, Scotch, Whiskey. I missed it. But a really handsome Marlboro Man is his death mate. (I remember the red Winston cigarette packs as a very young kid.)

For those of you other than immediate family (Dave, Hollie and Krissy) and my best friend, please log off now! Mom, you DEFINITELY want to ignore the rest of this post.





I remember as an 11-year-old calling him at Eddie's Bar. We didn't have a phone at our meager basement apartment so we went to the gas station near Sugarhouse Park. I remember the green paint on the gas pump, the pale light of the 1960's light bulb hanging from the stall above the drive-thru-stall and the old fashioned phone booth.

Mom had ONE dime and I made the call.


Me: "I know the number. Let me call. YES, I know the number! By heart!" (Leave me alone!)
I got out of the car, dropped the silver dime in the slot and asked for Joe.

"You've got the wrong number."

"Is this Eddie's Lounge?" (What third-grader should know the word "lounge?")

"No." Click. Aaaaah, I miss-dialed. I thought I absolutely knew the number and when I didn't, I lost my connection with Dad forever!

"You dialed WRONG?"

I imagined me asking for him, then the pause as Eddie said "Yes, hold on." I wanted to hear his voice so badly. He was my Dad. The deep voice that should lull me to sleep every night. The one that sang Eddie Arnold songs as he strummed his guitar. He taught 5-year-old David the Pledge of Allegiance with that guitar.

I had called Eddie's Bar so many times I thought I ABSOLUTELY knew the number. I was so proud that I knew my Dad's phone number.

I felt like I was 80-years-old and had every instant of my life seared into my brain. I was 9... maybe.

I dialed it... WRONG!

That dime was the last dime Mom had for two weeks. I remember my disappointment... and hers. As I look back, it was like I was making the final vote for democracy in Cuba. Usurped. FAILURE FOREVER! I will never redeem myself.

He left and never called (that I knew of).

I received one postcard with a picture of the Seattle Space Needle, which was weird. It had 16 of his hand-written words. I'd pay $10,000 to have that postcard now. I was seven and when I was 14, Kevin, David and I boarded a Greyhound bus for Vegas. I remember riding the entire way with stomach pains. We stopped in Beaver. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich at the cafe (that's the only item I recognized on the menu.)

I was so afraid that I wouldn't recognize him. Would he know who we were? What if I didn't recognize my own Dad? Would we be stuck at the bus station for 2 weeks because he'd get there to pick us up and he'd say, "I don't know anyone on that bus."

When we got there, he showed up. and the Goulding nose gave us away, (BIG!). When we got to his house, we realized he had other children that knew him better than we did (we hadn't been told that). Good for them. They still know him and he is their Dad. We have his name. They have his love. They didn't get his nose. BASTARDS!

And when he's gone, all we get is money. Really, I just wanted some history with him.



Whatever the adventure lies in Vegas for Kellene and me, I'm sure it will be the last breath I see Dad take.

I warned you to log off! Don't blame me for the tears.