Bourbon and bereavement

His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke. I tasted it a few times, and I remember how it burned. I never saw him doing shots, instead, he'd make a tall glass with just a little ice. The Coke was always kept in the fridge, and I recall he bought the one liter bottles back before two liters came in plastic. Brown bourbon fire would sit on the kitchen counter, vibrant orange labels aflame.

Nobody ever had to worry about me drinking underage.

He often smelled of Winstons and sweat. He didn't stink, not really, but it wasn't a clean smell, either. Hell, none of us probably smelled too clean in his house. He grew up in Chicago, and he didn't believe in air conditioning. How the fuck does someone live in Savannah, Georgia, and not believe in man's greatest gift to man? The air is so thick down there that breathing is a chore. Most of the time, winter is a distant goddamned dream or a hazy reminiscence in the dog days.

Fuck me. Didn't believe in air conditioning.

He retired from the Army. I think he got out as an E-6. That's not stellar, especially for somebody who served multiple tours in the jungles of Vietnam. I think he got in around '65, and I'm not sure if he was drafted or volunteered. I know he got busted a time or two, and I know he ended up in motorpool. I'm pretty sure he was motorpool for most of his hitch, working on deuce and a half trucks. Not exactly a glorious assignment, but not everybody is Rambo, and there are no unimportant jobs in war.

Well. Rear echelon motherfuckers can certainly clog up the works. Wirerats can cause trouble in a smooth operation, but I have no evidence to claim he was a hitter or just a driver. It doesn't matter.

I can't find his records. I've tried.

What does matter is the way memories have a way of sneaking in punches when I look the other way. A turn of phrase from a friend at dinner can make me jump back forty years like it was five minutes ago. Smelling someone's bourbon and coke hit me so hard tonight that I could hear Men at Work talkin' bout a Vegemite sandwich.

I don't miss the man. Hell, I hardly knew him. I didn't much like him, or the company he kept. We were too different, he and I. We came from different places, we had different drives. He lacked ambition, was always hard-luck. He cycled through women after his third wife left him. I liked her, even if my mom and she had a strained relationship; wife three was the other woman for wife two, after all.

I was born to wife two.

My mom tells me I inherited his hair and his sense of humor. I probably should have started shaving my head at 20 instead of 21, but I dated a girl who hated the bald look, so I kept it for her. She left me, and about a month later, I went right for the razor and never looked back.

I stopped referring to him as my dad at around age 12. The man who raised me, the man I call my father but I never called father, he kept his hair the same way the Army vet did. Naturally bald, with the silly wings on the side. If I were to grow mine out, I'd probably have the same thing happen, but I'm not interested.

I never was one for wings. I take solace in solid ground underfoot.

Rooted. Based. Planted.

He was a bit of a rolling stone, that man I once called Dad. The last I heard, he ended up in Augusta, likely in the free hospital there. I understand his last days were spent in hospice, a final gift by way of Agent Orange.

I didn't go to the funeral.

I didn't hate him. I don't hate him now. At the end of life, I just didn't care.

I'm not sure what that says about me, but chalk that up to another thing I don't much care about.

His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke, but I never did grow into liking it.

I guess I never really grew to like him, either.

Some people say family is what we're stuck with.

In the end, that's not always true.