Mother can start an argument in an empty room. Her worst arguments happen at night with Dad when he stumbles in the front door. "Let me smell your breath," Mother yells. A second later, she screams, "You can't hide that whiskey with Clove chewing gum but you try every goddamn night. Every goddamn night." If the Notre Dame nuns at Saints Peter and Paul grade school heard her cuss like that, they wouldn't smile at her after Sunday mass anymore. Of that I am certain.
Most of the time, Dad answers with a jumble of sounds nobody can make sense of. John Wayne would shake him and say, "Jim, be a man." Dad would probably cry. When he sobers up a bit, the whole house shakes because Dad's chasing Mother, trying to slug her while yelling, "Nag, nag, nag. Stop your goddamn nagging." That's one of his favorite words when he's drunk. "You nag, nag, and nag all the time," he yells, "and I'm goddamn sick and tired of it."
"And you, you drunken sonofabitch, you drink, drink, drink all the time," Mother yells. "And I'm sick and tired of that."
"And I'm sick and tired of you, you grease ball." I think he calls her that because her parents came from Italy. She, in turn, calls him "Nazi" because Hoffman is German.
Dad's more irritable than ever in the morning. That's a new word I learned this week on the "Readers Digest" Word Power page: It means cranky. I overheard Mother tell her favorite, Dork, that Dad's irritable because of his hangovers. I was pretty sure that meant Dad didn't feel so hot. So, I thought I'd check out the word's meaning with Albert Kell, Bobby and Jimmy's dad. "You don't want to know what a hangover is."
"That's dumb. I asked you because I want to know what it is. I didn't ask you because I didn't want to know."
"Hoffman, Hoffman, Hoffman," he said, shaking his head. Albert laughed the only way he could, a soft rumble, like baby thunder.
Bobby calls him Albert, but when Albert's around, it's, "Yes sir. No, sir. Right away, sir." You'd better believe it.
Albert finally said, "A hangover is when your head feels like it was split open with an axe, and your stomach—"
"Yes, your stomach?"
"Give me time to answer, Hoffman. Your stomach feels as if you downed a bowl of puke for breakfast." Albert rumbled his soft laugh and added, "I've had hangovers on a few New Year's Day mornings."
A head split open by an axe and a bowl of puke? No wonder Dad's so irritable. I'd be irritable, too. I'll never have a hangover. Ever. Of that I am certain.
"If that's what a hangover is, why do some people drink too much night after night? Won't they have a hangover every morning?"
"Sure. You're talking about the Doc, your dad, aren't you?"
I felt my face get hot. "No," I lied. I just want to know things. That's all."
The way Albert looked at me, I figured he knew I was fibbing.
Besides slugging Mother, Dad's been hitting us kids, too. John Wayne would slap Dad into next week for slugging kids and a woman. I'll bet John wouldn't even slug Dad because Dad's such a weakling. That's for certain.
It's not all bad news, Diary. Grampa Francisco "Frank" Giavonni, Mother's dad, is visiting us. He lives in Chicago. His wife, Palma, died last year. Now, Grampa lives with Aunt Florence, Mother's sister, and Aunt Florence's husband, Uncle Leo, in Oak Park, Illinois. We call her Fat Aunt Florence because she's fat. Dad has a sister named Florence, too. We call her Skinny Aunt Florence.
Grampa Frank smokes a pipe and drinks his morning cup of coffee with a shot of brandy and some whipping cream. He calls it "Coffee Royale." I like the taste but Mother doesn't like that.. She doesn't like a lot of things. When Grampa lights his pipe tobacco with a wooden farmer match, the smoke he exhales has a pleasant aroma. That's another new word I've learned this week. Aroma. Grampa sleeps in the second bed in my bedroom, and whenever Mother and Dad fight, which I've already told you is just about every night, Grampa warns, "Don't-ah pay attention to what they ah-say."
"Why?"
"Because they're-ah both nuts," he said.
I couldn't help it, Diary. I couldn't stop giggling.
"What's-ah the matter?"
"Oh, nothing, Grampa."
He didn't realize he was right on the money. These folks who claim they're my parents but aren't, are absolutely nuts. Of that, I am certain.
Most of the time, Dad answers with a jumble of sounds nobody can make sense of. John Wayne would shake him and say, "Jim, be a man." Dad would probably cry. When he sobers up a bit, the whole house shakes because Dad's chasing Mother, trying to slug her while yelling, "Nag, nag, nag. Stop your goddamn nagging." That's one of his favorite words when he's drunk. "You nag, nag, and nag all the time," he yells, "and I'm goddamn sick and tired of it."
"And you, you drunken sonofabitch, you drink, drink, drink all the time," Mother yells. "And I'm sick and tired of that."
"And I'm sick and tired of you, you grease ball." I think he calls her that because her parents came from Italy. She, in turn, calls him "Nazi" because Hoffman is German.
Dad's more irritable than ever in the morning. That's a new word I learned this week on the "Readers Digest" Word Power page: It means cranky. I overheard Mother tell her favorite, Dork, that Dad's irritable because of his hangovers. I was pretty sure that meant Dad didn't feel so hot. So, I thought I'd check out the word's meaning with Albert Kell, Bobby and Jimmy's dad. "You don't want to know what a hangover is."
"That's dumb. I asked you because I want to know what it is. I didn't ask you because I didn't want to know."
"Hoffman, Hoffman, Hoffman," he said, shaking his head. Albert laughed the only way he could, a soft rumble, like baby thunder.
Bobby calls him Albert, but when Albert's around, it's, "Yes sir. No, sir. Right away, sir." You'd better believe it.
Albert finally said, "A hangover is when your head feels like it was split open with an axe, and your stomach—"
"Yes, your stomach?"
"Give me time to answer, Hoffman. Your stomach feels as if you downed a bowl of puke for breakfast." Albert rumbled his soft laugh and added, "I've had hangovers on a few New Year's Day mornings."
A head split open by an axe and a bowl of puke? No wonder Dad's so irritable. I'd be irritable, too. I'll never have a hangover. Ever. Of that I am certain.
"If that's what a hangover is, why do some people drink too much night after night? Won't they have a hangover every morning?"
"Sure. You're talking about the Doc, your dad, aren't you?"
I felt my face get hot. "No," I lied. I just want to know things. That's all."
The way Albert looked at me, I figured he knew I was fibbing.
Besides slugging Mother, Dad's been hitting us kids, too. John Wayne would slap Dad into next week for slugging kids and a woman. I'll bet John wouldn't even slug Dad because Dad's such a weakling. That's for certain.
It's not all bad news, Diary. Grampa Francisco "Frank" Giavonni, Mother's dad, is visiting us. He lives in Chicago. His wife, Palma, died last year. Now, Grampa lives with Aunt Florence, Mother's sister, and Aunt Florence's husband, Uncle Leo, in Oak Park, Illinois. We call her Fat Aunt Florence because she's fat. Dad has a sister named Florence, too. We call her Skinny Aunt Florence.
Grampa Frank smokes a pipe and drinks his morning cup of coffee with a shot of brandy and some whipping cream. He calls it "Coffee Royale." I like the taste but Mother doesn't like that.. She doesn't like a lot of things. When Grampa lights his pipe tobacco with a wooden farmer match, the smoke he exhales has a pleasant aroma. That's another new word I've learned this week. Aroma. Grampa sleeps in the second bed in my bedroom, and whenever Mother and Dad fight, which I've already told you is just about every night, Grampa warns, "Don't-ah pay attention to what they ah-say."
"Why?"
"Because they're-ah both nuts," he said.
I couldn't help it, Diary. I couldn't stop giggling.
"What's-ah the matter?"
"Oh, nothing, Grampa."
He didn't realize he was right on the money. These folks who claim they're my parents but aren't, are absolutely nuts. Of that, I am certain.
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