He was a flawed man. Drank a lot of vodka. He was supposed to have been on the wagon the last year or so, but we all suspected he took a nip or two now and then. He wasn't like my long dead old man though - he didn't get mean when he drank. He didn't cut you down. He was out to lunch, he told the same stories again and again. He hit on your girlfriend, drunk in his underwear (Sorry Karla, Kristy, Theresa, and Janel). He was mostly harmless.
Like the rest of my family, I don't for a moment think he ever understood me. Maybe it was because he was outside though - I didn't fear him. I didn't fear his judgment. He wasn't supposed to understand me. Fuck, I don't know why I would expect my family to understand me - they're like strangers with special claims, but not kindred - not people to which you tell strange thoughts - unless you want strange looks. I scare my mom, I annoy my brother and sister - but here's the kicker....I could have told Jack anything and there would have been no judgment. Why would there be? My fucked-up-ness was really no reflection on him. My fucked-up-ness scares my mom because she thinks it's an indictment, a sign of bad parenting. My screwed-up-ness is just a mirror for her mistakes. She wonders why I stay away, but that's really the only reason. I sometimes feel like the reality of who I am hurts her. My fucked-up-ness annoys my brother because he thinks it's just obstinance - he's always wondered why I just had to be so fucking weird. It scares and embarrasses my sister - maybe because she fears she'll be like me when she grows up more. Of all my siblings, she and I are most alike. She'd never admit that, though. She's repulsed by my weakness.
With Jack, there was none of that. Sure, there were times when he kicked me in the ass and told me to shape up, but it wasn't because he feared or was repulsed by anything I did.
When my mom told me he was dead this morning...I didn't feel anything. I knew it would fuck me up somehow, but I couldn't feel it. It took getting drunk to really let it sink in. Intoxication - the secret language of the fucked up - the bent key to a heart that thinks it's safe from loss.
I'm gonna come up with a reason not to go to his funeral. I had to be there for my father - and there was more junk there. I had to be there because Dave was in prison, and there was really just me and Dave anyway. That's the way my father was - alone, alone, alone, alone.
Jack is surrounded by friends. The vodka didn't always let them in, but they were there. Someone (anyone) else can take this hit. I already put an old man into the ground and I don't savor putting down another one.
He was my friend. If he'd have gone to the hospital two weeks sooner, he'd still be alive.
