Doc III and Dad were on the other side of the kitchen, standing on the rear stairs. "I've had it with your drinking and bloodying up Mother, and so is everyone else in this goddamn hell hole," yelled Doc III.
"You can't talk to me like that," bellowed Dad, who must've slapped my brother because I could hear the smack from inside my bedroom.
"The hell I can't," shouted Doc III. And that's when he slugged Dad who hit the wall, adjacent to my bedroom. “Bang.”
Doc III took off in his Chevy and didn't come home until supper. Meanwhile, Dad cried and blubbered to Mother. "My namesake, my eldest son, gave me a black eye."
"There's a reason for that, Jim," I heard Mother say. "Remember that article in the Saturday Evening Post?"
"That organization can't help me. I'm too far gone."
"Jack Alexander wrote that its members think no drinker is too far gone." Dad bawled like a baby who needed his diapers changed. Mother continued. "I'll get their address or telephone number, somehow." It was as if she was assuring a little boy, not her husband. He's such a wuss, nothing like Lash Larue or John Wayne.
On Sunday morning, I was the only Hoffman who was awake and in the kitchen, pouring milk over my "Snap, Crackle, and Pop" cereal when two men, both wearing hats, suits, white shirts, and ties, made their way on our front porch. "Buzzzzzzz," went our front door buzzer. Since I was the only person up, I opened the door. "Hello," said the bigger, smiling man, removing his hat. He had a headful of salt and pepper hair. "Is this the Hoffman residence?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good, I'm Bill K., and this is Dick B." He pointed to the thin, bald man with glasses, standing by his side. Those were funny last names. "We came here to meet with your father. Is he home?"
Mother, cinching her robe, exited her and Dad's bedroom. "Yes, what can I do for you?"
"I'm Bill K. and this is Dick B. We're here to meet with your husband."
"You didn't come all the way from Ohio, did you?"
Bill K. didn't just grin. He belly-laughed. "No, we live in town. We have our own group, right here in good old Whiskey Rapids."
"Wisconsin Rapids," Dick B. softly corrected.
"I'll tell Jim you're here," said Mother. "He's asleep but I must warn you. He'll have a hangover."
"The more aching the head, the better," said Bill K. "Isn’t that right, Dick?”
“Yes,” said Dick who turned to Mother. “May we have a seat?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't ask. I hope I didn't offend you. Please do," said Mother.
"It's okay, Ma'am," said Dick, whose soft voice was the opposite of Bill's. He sat on the couch. "Do you mind if we smoke?"
"Good heavens, no. Go right ahead," said Mother. "There are ashtrays all over the house. My Jim is a chain smoker."
Bill K. sat on Dad's chair, lit a Camel cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled, all the time eyeballing me. "And what's your name, young man?"
"Jim, Jim. Wake up," we heard Mother. Dad responded with a bunch of moans and groans.
"Gordon Hoffman," I said. "Everyone calls me Gordy." Every adult I meet asks that question plus two more. So, I beat Bill K. to the punch. "I'm eleven and a half," I said, "and I'm in sixth grade at Howe school."
"Been a long time since I was eleven and one-half." Bill K. winked at Dick B.
Grinning, Dick said, "Me, too." His fingers seemed kind of fidgety.
"Unnnnnnh, who'd you say was here?" we heard Dad moan and groan.
"They're from that organization that can help you," said Mother.
"They're here? Already?"
"You don't have to rush, Jim," roared Bill K. "Dick B. and I have nothing else to do." He and Dick grinned.
Mother entered the parlor. "Gordon, go eat your breakfast, and then go outdoors."
"Do I have to?"
"Better listen to your mother," advised Bill K.
A half hour later, everyone, including Mother, had to leave the house so Bill K. and Dick B. could talk to Dad, alone.
Adults: I'll never understand them.
"You can't talk to me like that," bellowed Dad, who must've slapped my brother because I could hear the smack from inside my bedroom.
"The hell I can't," shouted Doc III. And that's when he slugged Dad who hit the wall, adjacent to my bedroom. “Bang.”
Doc III took off in his Chevy and didn't come home until supper. Meanwhile, Dad cried and blubbered to Mother. "My namesake, my eldest son, gave me a black eye."
"There's a reason for that, Jim," I heard Mother say. "Remember that article in the Saturday Evening Post?"
"That organization can't help me. I'm too far gone."
"Jack Alexander wrote that its members think no drinker is too far gone." Dad bawled like a baby who needed his diapers changed. Mother continued. "I'll get their address or telephone number, somehow." It was as if she was assuring a little boy, not her husband. He's such a wuss, nothing like Lash Larue or John Wayne.
On Sunday morning, I was the only Hoffman who was awake and in the kitchen, pouring milk over my "Snap, Crackle, and Pop" cereal when two men, both wearing hats, suits, white shirts, and ties, made their way on our front porch. "Buzzzzzzz," went our front door buzzer. Since I was the only person up, I opened the door. "Hello," said the bigger, smiling man, removing his hat. He had a headful of salt and pepper hair. "Is this the Hoffman residence?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good, I'm Bill K., and this is Dick B." He pointed to the thin, bald man with glasses, standing by his side. Those were funny last names. "We came here to meet with your father. Is he home?"
Mother, cinching her robe, exited her and Dad's bedroom. "Yes, what can I do for you?"
"I'm Bill K. and this is Dick B. We're here to meet with your husband."
"You didn't come all the way from Ohio, did you?"
Bill K. didn't just grin. He belly-laughed. "No, we live in town. We have our own group, right here in good old Whiskey Rapids."
"Wisconsin Rapids," Dick B. softly corrected.
"I'll tell Jim you're here," said Mother. "He's asleep but I must warn you. He'll have a hangover."
"The more aching the head, the better," said Bill K. "Isn’t that right, Dick?”
“Yes,” said Dick who turned to Mother. “May we have a seat?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't ask. I hope I didn't offend you. Please do," said Mother.
"It's okay, Ma'am," said Dick, whose soft voice was the opposite of Bill's. He sat on the couch. "Do you mind if we smoke?"
"Good heavens, no. Go right ahead," said Mother. "There are ashtrays all over the house. My Jim is a chain smoker."
Bill K. sat on Dad's chair, lit a Camel cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled, all the time eyeballing me. "And what's your name, young man?"
"Jim, Jim. Wake up," we heard Mother. Dad responded with a bunch of moans and groans.
"Gordon Hoffman," I said. "Everyone calls me Gordy." Every adult I meet asks that question plus two more. So, I beat Bill K. to the punch. "I'm eleven and a half," I said, "and I'm in sixth grade at Howe school."
"Been a long time since I was eleven and one-half." Bill K. winked at Dick B.
Grinning, Dick said, "Me, too." His fingers seemed kind of fidgety.
"Unnnnnnh, who'd you say was here?" we heard Dad moan and groan.
"They're from that organization that can help you," said Mother.
"They're here? Already?"
"You don't have to rush, Jim," roared Bill K. "Dick B. and I have nothing else to do." He and Dick grinned.
Mother entered the parlor. "Gordon, go eat your breakfast, and then go outdoors."
"Do I have to?"
"Better listen to your mother," advised Bill K.
A half hour later, everyone, including Mother, had to leave the house so Bill K. and Dick B. could talk to Dad, alone.
Adults: I'll never understand them.
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