A real man.

Chapter 1: Becoming a Man

My last memory of my father was through a haze of alcohol and nausea. I was seven years old, and he had gotten me drunk on a shot of whiskey and a beer. Since I had seen him indulge in this behavior on a daily basis, it seemed to be the perfect way for a young boy to emulate his dad; a sometimes unfortunate desire we all seem to share.

We lived in a subdivision in Michigan. Subdivisions are planned communities that sit squarely within the four walls created by busy main roads. They held within them a series of lesser traveled streets, similar homes, and children playing in front yards everywhere. A sense of community and neighborhood inevitably developed, and neighbors became close friends. In a middle class setting, my father felt out of place due to his upper class family, and his affluent upbringing. He was a Parker; Lemuel Addison Parker III to be exact. His grandfather had made a fortune in stock speculation, which his own father added to significantly. Unfortunately, my dad did not share the focus or drive of the previous two Parker men. He only wanted the fruits of their labors.

He held onto a fierce bitterness that seemed to only dull through the consistent imbibing of alcohol. His own mother had kept him on a short leash through the use of trust funds that only doled out a basic living. We lived off his trust fund as my father floated from job to job, never able to make himself of use for very long. He made no secret of his wish for his own mother’s death, so that he could gain access to his full inheritance.

My mother was perfectly happy to live in Kimberly West Subdivision, and enjoyed the neighborhood very much. As children, we were never lacking friends or the watchful eyes of other parents. She was less happy with her marriage, and became a textbook enabler to my father’s self-destruction. The enabling stopped on that sunny June day.

Twenty or so neighborhood families had congregated in our backyard for a barbeque. This was a nearly weekly event that we all took turns hosting. Though there was laughter, story telling, gossip, and good food in our back yard, my own dad sat brooding on the couch while watching the Detroit Tigers lose yet another game. He was numbed with beer and whisky and the room reeked of cigar smoke. My mom preferred things this way, so she didn’t have to worry about him saying something inappropriate to one of her friends outside. The guests at our home that day never asked where my father was, as they all silently understood the dynamic of our home and family.

I sat next to my father, attempting to gain his attention and approval. He ignored me until the game was well out of hand. He then clamped his hand roughly on my shoulder and announced, “Joey, it’s time for you to become a man.”

After I had drained the shot of whiskey and washed it down with a glass of Schlitz beer, I looked to him for approval. He gave it through a smile that showed his perfectly straight, but yellowing teeth. “Hah!” He offered. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” He then sat back and returned his unfocused gaze to the television set.

I stumbled outside in search of fresh air. As the yard and neighbors became increasingly blurry, I stood at the edge of the porch and swayed. My mother noticed me and came over to see what was wrong. As I attempted to make an excuse, I doubled over and vomited into a bush. She smelled the familiar smells and looked in the direction of the family room, where my father was now standing in the doorway. The last words my dad said to me were “Hey Joey, congratulations. Now you’re a real man.”