| Vanilla On The
Outside by Carol Gill Anderson |
| This is Carol Anderson's first
publication, a chapter from her novel-in-progress. She lives and writes
in Connecticut. TJ lifted his work boot off the brake to lurch forward a car length. Traffic was at a standstill from the Verazano Bridge tollbooth back two miles on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. Shit, he could have walked home from Manhattan faster. He grabbed a pencil from behind his ear, kept time on the steering wheel to the thumping of a stereo three cars ahead…boom, boom, da da boom. Was every asshole in New York going to Atlantic City for the weekend? And when was the last time he’d been away for a weekend? Easy. Never. He could barely pay the bills and still have money for groceries. But at least Verizon paid the fucking toll. Stupid logo van. All shiny white outside, but inside full of cables, testing equipment, a threadbare front seat. Only radio was for the dispatcher’s bullshit. No rap, no rock, no nothing for Verizon’s techs. Well, one good thing about being stuck in traffic, no barstools nearby. After two hours of lurching, he backed the van into parking space 304 at the dispatch center and sprinted to his Honda. Eight miles from the job site and he wouldn’t even have time to eat before the AA meeting. He threw his tool belt and blue uniform jacket into the back seat and snapped on the ignition. Well, Janet would think missing dinner at McDonald’s was a good thing. Stuff was bad news, or so she said. He’d always thought a Quarter Pounder was a perfectly balanced meal. But he’d promised. No junk food, and an AA meeting every day, twice if there was a nooners’ meeting near his dispatch site. “Hi, Jack. Hi, Joan.” No last names in the grim basement. First Congregational not much different from Calvary Baptist or Saint Theresa’s. Yellow, they were all painted yellow. Must all have bought those brown metal folding chairs from the same supply house, too. AA chairs, Sunday school chairs, uncomfortable chairs for drunks and little kids. He wondered if they ever washed out the coffee pots in these basement halls? Probably not, since all the coffee tasted the same—terrible. He poured himself a cup of the tar-colored brew and dragged a chair towards the back wall near the door. “My name is Harriet and I’m an alcoholic.” Hi Harriet. Sad life. Mother an alcoholic. Left with an aunt when she was young. But he was only half paying attention. His thoughts kept flashing black and white images of complicated wiring diagrams from the new job site. They’d be in lower Manhattan for years with all the 9/11 damage to the telecom infrastructure. Most stuff needed to be completely replaced, and what hadn’t been destroyed was too old to bother repairing anyhow. Then a memory of his own addicted mother floated by, blonde hair, dark dress, young, no real face. He didn’t even know where she was. He often looked through the crowds at AA meetings, wondering if she’d be there. Maybe Harriet was really her with a new name. Nah, this one was too old, sixty anyway. His mom would only be what, early fifties. She’d been young when he was born, too young to know the right thing to do. That’s what his father always said, too young to know how much it would hurt to have your mother drift off, never call, not care about you even on your birthday. The group was standing, holding hands. He hated the holding hands part. Some groups did it, others didn’t. He wouldn’t even come to this touchy-feely holding-hands meeting if it wasn’t so close to home. “…and the wisdom to know the difference.” He glanced at the wall behind him, only nine o’clock. The smokers all but charged the door, while the non-smokers worked together folding and storing the chairs on rolling carts. He overheard the parting conversations in AA lingo, that special code encouraging one another to hold fast against demons they may or may not be able to control. “See ya, Harriett. Nice job, Harriett. Go slow, take one day at a time.” As if the jargon would make it easier. When he had nothing to keep him any longer, no one left to talk to, he drove the four blocks to his apartment with two hours to kill before Janet’s shift was over. His sentence. His penance. Hold fast for two more hours. A parking place out front, just his luck. Spared the walk home down Ninth Avenue, past several very welcoming Budweiser signs. He struggled with his apartment key, almost expecting, he didn’t know what, ghosts, his own ghosts, to be huddled on the other side. As soon as he unlocked the door, he clicked the remote so the TV would fill the emptiness. He twisted the volume loud, and calmed by the noise, prepared his gourmet dinner, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Wonder bread, Janet’s one concession to his not-quite-reformed diet. He wasn’t eating any crunch-nut-gum bread, period. Brown bread was for hippies. He mixed a large glass of chocolate milk with a double dose of Hershey’s syrup. Janet was lenient about beverages so long as they contained no alcohol. He tried to melt into the sofa, sandwich, remote, chocolate milk, to watch TV in the tiny apartment. Two steps from the front door to the couch, four to the kitchen. Three rooms, the classified ad had said. Three closets was more like it. A couch, chair, TV...and what passed for a living room was full. They used an old TV tray as a coffee table. Thank God, hockey was on ESPN, the Islanders and Montreal. He could forget about things, wouldn’t have to watch one of those doctor dramas. All that relationship mush. Dad would be watching the game too. He pointed the remote at the tube, pushed the mute button with one hand, and hit the speed dial for the Babylon number with the other. They’d often wager on who’d be next to foul, the point spread, nickel and dime, just fooling around. “O’Reilly’s Bar and Grill, Mr. Grill speaking.” Damn, he’d forgot to check the time. Nine-thirty, too late to call. He knew exactly how many beers his father had chugged. Six for Mr. Grill. Seven for, “Who the hell is this and what do you want to make of it?” If he got that one he hung up, pretended he was a wrong number. When they were teenagers, seven beers was time to rush upstairs and do your homework. Eight or more was a toss-up, either Dad would promise to kick their asses or ask the Good Lord why he had been punished with this bunch of inconsiderate bastards. Bastards. He’d called them that, bastards. Why couldn’t he just go to bed and sleep it off like other fathers? At least he usually didn’t actually kick anyone’s ass. Well, Craig a few times, mostly just a lot of shouting. He could still hear the jumble of ugly words, wondered how Sara stood that crap for so long. “Five bucks says Montreal beats Long Island by three goals, old man!” He imagined Dad in the recliner, maybe smoking a cigar now that Sara seemed gone for good. “Hey, TJ, you’re on. Ya should come see your old man, cook some steaks. You and Janet.” “Yeah, Dad, well…” TJ fiddled with the remote, surfing through the channels during a commercial. Click…click…click…not paying attention to the programs as they zoomed by. Going out there wouldn’t be a good idea. “Maybe one day next week, but we’re both getting a lot of OT.” Damn, he shouldn’t have called. He could almost taste beer on the back of his own tongue. “Got to go, Dad, Janet’s at the door, forgot her key.” What was a little lie. He took a shower to stave off the urge to take a walk and get some fresh air. Damn, he needed fresh air. Standing nude and damp near the bureau, he struggled into plaid flannel pajamas and a robe so he’d have to re-dress to go out. He was afraid he wouldn’t resist if he were on the street tonight. The neon lights would suck him in, the old neighborhood waiting, hoping for him to stumble. Think calmly, stay away from Dad, stay home, and surrender to your higher power. Christ, what a bunch of bull. His higher power had a powerful thirst. He made coffee, good coffee, with freshly ground beans, and drank the whole pot waiting for Janet. He prayed, prayed for Janet’s key to turn in the lock before he slipped back into his jeans, put on his coat…. Coffee couldn’t slake this kind of thirst. He sat on the couch, edgy now as well as thirsty, looked out the window, checked his watch again, ten-thirty. He could make it, just another half hour, forty-five minutes tops. He found himself standing by the kitchen door, looking out on the fire escape, across to the Chinese restaurant on the corner. This was stupid. He’d knocked this before. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and shivered. Was it getting cold? He checked the thermostat. Probably just lonely, bored, not cold at all. The neon letters Lo Mein To Go swam together, yellow and red swirling into orange as tears welled behind his eyes. Big deal, he’d had a few beers after the funeral. It wasn’t heroin for Christ’s sake! Beer was legal. So he had a few, and then hadn’t drunk any since. He didn’t need beer to make his life complete. He had a wife, a beautiful daughter, a new baby coming. Good things. Dad shouldn’t be able to drag him down like this. He wouldn’t give him that power anymore. He’d go to Babylon first thing in the morning. Dad was sober in the mornings. He could explain a few things. Maybe even help. That decided, he finally relaxed and fell asleep with the TV on. He didn’t hear anything until the NBC weatherman promised a clear day for Saturday. He hadn’t heard Janet’s key, and she must have had time to change too, because there she was in her nightgown, sitting in the chair next to the couch sipping a cup of herbal tea. He smelled mint and lemon and her hand lotion. “Hey, how long you been home?” he asked, surprised to see the remains of her supper on the tray. “Not too long. You wanna watch TV or go to bed?” She pulled her robe around her, drawing his attention to her breasts, her long brown hair brushed down after a day pulled back in a ponytail. “Go to bed…to talk?” He meant for her to see the twinkle in his eye. “Nah, too tired,” she yawned, rewarding him with a tantalizing peek at one nipple, its areola darkened now with her pregnancy. He gave her a dejected look, but was so relieved she was home, he didn’t really care about the sex. “Fine, we’ll catch Leno, but get over here, let me rub your belly.” After dropping Janet off at work the next morning, he wrestled with whether to call ahead or just drive to Babylon unannounced. It was a long trip for nothing if Dad wasn’t home, but he had to chance it. If he called and Dad told him to buzz off, what could he do then? As the exits on the Southern State Parkway whizzed by, he lost and regained his confidence. He almost got off and turned around near Coney Island, each mile rolling the clock back another year until he was a little kid, with Dad and Sara just hitching up. At first Craig and Wesley had shared the room at the top of the stairs, the larger room, with the racecar bedspreads, because they were brothers. He was the new guy and got his own room, like at the old apartment. Then a few years later Craig said he was oldest and the younger boys should share instead, and Dad and Sara had agreed, so they changed rooms. He’d always wished he could bunk in with Craig, but Craig said no way, that TJ and Wesley were punks and should sleep in the racecar room. Zipping into the Babylon driveway, he noticed Tash loose in the yard and the tailgate of Dad’s truck open. Dad came out the back door wearing sweats and socks, no shoes, carrying a large box that must have been heavy from the flushed look on his face. “Hey, Dad, let me help you with that.” TJ grabbed one side. “What’s in here, cement?” “Just cleaning out Craig’s room so Sara doesn’t have to do it. This stuff would break her heart—the trophies, his hockey equipment, a ton of junk.” They hefted the box into the pickup truck. “Come on in, son, I can finish this later, dump’s open ‘til four.” He thumped the tailgate closed and clapped TJ on the back. “Come out to pay up the five bucks you owe the old man on the game last night?” His father led the way into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee into chipped Amityville Central School District mugs. The place seemed pretty much normal except for a jumble of empty, dirty plastic containers in the sink. Christ, Dad was still eating leftovers from the funeral brunch, all those lasagnas from nosey neighbors. “I figured you’d never remember that bet, Dad. You seemed pretty toasted last night.” TJ took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and stuffed it under the sugar bowl as he added two spoonfuls to his coffee. “Forget the five, we were just fooling around.” “Don’t start, Dad. I pay my markers.” They were both sitting, sipping coffee. TJ made a bet with himself—whoever got the last word today, won the five bucks. His father got up, refilled his cup, stirred in some milk. Stirred and watched, waited. “What does bring you out here, TJ? You rarely come to see me if its not my birthday or Thanksgiving or something.” Then he took a powdered Hostess donut from a package next to the coffee pot, offered one to TJ, sat down again when TJ shook his head. “That’s just it. I rarely come because I get messed up here.” TJ hadn’t meant this to be about himself. He held his cup with both hands, holding himself together. He meant to make amends for past wrongdoings, and here he was complaining, making excuses for his behavior. “Messed up?” Dad took a big bite of his donut and couldn’t say anymore. “Yeah, well, you know.” It was warm in the kitchen and TJ pulled his sweatshirt over his head and stirred sugar into his coffee. “It’s like I’m a kid all over again, with kid feelings.” His father seemed not to understand, just chewed and slurped, sucking the steaming coffee through a donut. “I always felt like Craig upstaged me, did the worst things and got all the attention. So I did wild things, thinking I’d get attention too.” He stopped to take a sip, thinking carefully about what he should say next. “Then, that day, at the funeral, I had a bunch of beers after church, out back, like when I was a kid, maybe to prove something, like no one can tell me I can’t have a beer if I want one. Everyone was still rewarding Craig for being a jerk. No one gave a shit about me, how I felt.” His father’s lopsided grin spread across his face. “I found the cans behind the garage lots of times. I always thought they were Craig’s. I freaked out when I found them after the funeral. But it was always you, you little shit!” He feigned a punch at TJ’s shoulder, then poured the last of the coffee into his own mug. TJ needed something to do with his hands. How dare he call him “Little Shit,” just like the old days. He stood up and grabbed a donut instead of knocking Dad to the kitchen floor, then turned around and tossed it into the sink. His hands balled into fists. He started shouting. “There...that’s what I mean! I’ve always felt devalued. I’m the ‘Little Shit,’ and Craig was always the ‘Big Shit’, and Wes the perfect ‘Brown-nosed Shit’.” Devalued, that was a program word. But it was the right word. He breathed slowly, one second, one minute at a time. Amen. Group had been good. So much for making amends. “Dad, this isn’t why I came, to cry about the old days, to talk about Craig or whine about Wes. I came to talk to you, man to man.” He sat back down. The promising day had turned gray, the kitchen dusk-like. His father grinned again. “So serious, son. What have you done this time?” Not me, you asshole. You! “Can you listen to me for five minutes, just listen, no jokes, no arguments, no digs?” Dad sat back, and TJ reached to turn on the overhead light, pushed his rage aside and started slowly, then realized he was sitting in the chair closest to the stove, his regular place as a kid. He had to swallow his anger again. “Dad, I’m an alcoholic.” He laughed out loud, almost spewed out a mouthful of coffee-soaked donut. “TJ, tell me something I don’t know. I was there the day you went into the hospital!” He moved as if to leave. Using every bit of energy to hold himself in place, TJ focused, spoke barely above a whisper. “You promised, Dad, five minutes!” Dad rearranged his face and TJ continued. “Okay…I’m an alcoholic. When you and Sara came to my place after Helen left, you helped me get into a program. Sara had it all worked out ahead of time, I know that now. I also know I was a bum. But it was a good program and it changed my life. I stopped drinking, met Janet, two of the best things that ever happened to me.“ He took a deep breath and a sip of coffee. He longed for a cigarette, but didn’t do that any more either. “Then after Craig’s funeral I was out there and things seemed to go back in time, the pecking order, you tossing down the beers like we were gonna run out. You got pretty obnoxious.” Dad started to defend himself, but TJ held up his hand, fingers open. “Five minutes, you promised.” TJ waited, collected his thoughts, watched to be sure his Dad was listening. “After the funeral I drank those beers and Janet took me home. I had the worst headache of my life. Guess I was out of practice.” Dad grinned, but kept his promise to be still. “Then I went back to AA. I don’t want to be powerless over alcohol. I don’t want to lose my wife, my child, like last time, Dad. Helen was right to leave with the baby.” His father folded his arms across his chest, tipped his chair back on two legs, but still didn’t speak. TJ knew Sara hated to see the chairs tipped back like that, could almost hear her nagging them about it. He wondered where all the words were coming from, because he’d never talked like this to his father before. “And that’s my point. Sara isn’t coming back because you forgot to put the trash out, Dad. It may be too late for you, too. But she might come back if you got into a program, gave up the booze, showed her you’re the great guy she fell in love with, the father I care about.” Unable to remain in his seat one more minute, he got up, started pacing in front of the kitchen table, to the fridge, back to the door. “That’s what I’m doing. I don’t want to lose Janet. And she’d leave. She knows about alcoholics, we’re either on or off the wagon. You could do this, Dad, Quit. Get Sara back. If…” His father slid his chair back, glanced at the kitchen clock and stood up, face to face, eye to eye with him. He too spoke calmly, but through an icy glare. “Five minutes, TJ, time’s up. I’ll think about what you said, but I’m not you. Or Craig. I go to work every day, same job for years. I provide for my family. I don’t crash up cars, get arrested. I’m harmless. I work hard and have a few drinks after work to relax.” He grabbed Tasha’s leash. “That’s it. Now I’m gonna walk the dog.” He headed for the back door, but TJ called after him. “Put on some shoes, Dad, it’s getting cold again.” Washing the coffee cups and plastic containers, TJ didn’t know if he’d done any good. He did know he felt like he’d run a race, felt winded, drained, like he might puke. But how had he expected to feel? What had he thought would happen? Well, he hadn’t imagined he’d feel like total shit or he wouldn’t have come. He dried the dishes, then scribbled the AA information number for Nassau County on a pad by the phone and left with plenty of time to drive back to a nooners’ meeting on Staten Island. On the way out of the house he took the five bucks. He’d won that back fair and square.
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