Gender and Other Mine Fields

It's that time of year, when I try to wade into the muddy waters of a controversial topic thinking I'm being fair and balanced, only to get really angry comments and messages from people who I don't know, but have evidently offended. If you're wondering why I do this, the answer is: I've got nothing else to do until Neil Simon starts except read news sites talking about the Isla Vista shooting and the aftermath, and despite my best efforts: I've started to come to several convoluted opinions.

Let me start by saying that I like the #yesallwomen hash tag. "Like" is probably the wrong word, as its literally a list of awful things that have happened to women at the hands of pigs who objectify them. So, I suppose I don't "like" it, so much as I support it and think it's actually a hash tag trend that can yield results as opposed to hash tags that just let everyone know that you condemn things like child kidnapping and satire. It was particularly eye opening to see a college friend from before my mission, who I would not describe as a feminist or social media warrior, talking about wearing shorts under dresses when she goes out because it makes her feel a little bit safer after being groped in a bar. The whole thing made me feel kind of sick, and much more sympathetic to this situation. That was, I believe, the point. It's led to me reading a lot more about the issue, and even, against my better judgement, watching the much talked about video from the shooter. I've come away thinking a few things.

1. A few months ago, one of my friends posed as a question if men felt the same pressure from the media to be thin, or to otherwise fret about their own bodies. The simple answer to that is: yes, to a degree, although laws of masculinity require a certain amount of guys to pretend that they don't. However, even then, body image is not really the scourge on males, that it is on women. The real scourge is the glorification of sexual conquest. In the same way that women feel a societal pressure to look the right way, men feel a societal pressure to have a certain number of notches on their bedpost. And in the same way, TV and Film have exacerbated these ideals. I might point out the obvious glorification of Barney Stinson on How I Met Your Mother, however, Barney's a stereotype. But how about the good guy protagonist, Ted Mosby? Even though the show hinges on Ted looking for love and a monogamous relationship, the show is an almost non-stop revolving door of sexual partners. The Wiki counts 20 in the nine year run of the show. Entertainment seems to indicate, while a man's worth may not be predicated on ONE woman (the way it has been in the past for females), his worth is predicated on the presence of ANY woman. The exploration of this could be a study in and of itself.
2. Men feel unreasonably defensive of these kind of accusations. This is a strange "defender of the faith" mindset I find myself fighting on a daily basis, whether I'm defending other Mormons, Men, the State of Utah, the Republican Party; even when said entity is doing something I disagree with totally. I don't believe in sex outside of marriage, why should I feel any desire to stick up for guys who grope girls in bars and whistle at them on the sidewalk. I should be just as quick to condemn that kind of behavior.
3. That said, I take great umbrage with writers like Jessica Valenti of the Guardian saying things like, "Rodger, like most American men, was taught that he was entitled to sex and female attention." I must have missed that day of pre-school. This is where the reality of the shooting and the perception of reality start diverging. Watch the tape. Listen to Elliot Rodger. He was clearly a textbook narcissist. A narcissist in the way of Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. The reason he ends up on a rampage and most men don't isn't because he's the only one who never had a girlfriend. It's because he's the type of person who feels entitled to EVERYTHING HE WANTS, and if he doesn't get it, it's because something's wrong with the game. While I may venture from time to time into what another demographic might be thinking, I feel uniquely qualified to speak on behalf of guys who don't get dates. Most of my friends have spent some time in that demographic. As have I. I even discussed above the way the Entertainment Industry affects the expectations of young males. But here's the thing, usually this psyche is turned inward "What's wrong with ME that girls don't want to date me? What am I doing wrong?" In that way, the effect is internalized into depression, and lack of confidence. This is similar, to my eyes, to what happens to girls who don't fit the perception of a "perfect woman". Elliot Rodger goes on a shooting rampage because he belongs to psyche that believe that he is perfect, or as he said in the video "a perfect gentleman". This makes him an asshole. It also is what leads him to think that something is wrong with society.

Now let me end with a thought that's cropped up in the past few days. I don't know the answer. I'm not trying to score any points in the race or gender debate. Let's say a prominent woman says something like this: 

"If I'm all alone on a street and I see a man in front of me, I cross to the other side of the street." 

Is that an unfair thing to say, or is she just being cautious and practical?  Mark Cuban has been criticized for a similar comment,

"If I see a black kid in a hoodie on my side of the street, I'll move to the other side of the street."

Are these two statements comparable? If you feel that the fictional woman is being unfair, how does this make you feel about Cuban? If you feel that Cuban is being racist how does this make you feel about the fictional woman? Are both right? Are both wrong? Like I said earlier, its all muddy waters.

London So Far...

Due to popular demand, (as in someone suggested I do this, and no one argued) I'm writing on my experiences in London for Maymester in general epistle form in this blog. And since my chances of remembering much of this when I get back are slim, and since I have a few minutes to kill, I thought I'd drop a line to the American Public to let them know how things are going, in bullet form:

• I didn't bring a camera. I know, I know, memories and posterity and blah, blah, blah. I lose things, cameras included. I despise asking people to take my picture, with my own camera. I refuse to see the point in taking pictures of landmarks. I'm not going to forget what Parliament looks like, people, and if I do, I can google it. I'm starting with this so everyone knows, the only pictures of me in London will be ones where one of the girls in the group pulled me into the frame to prove I was there. They might post them on Facebook. I'm not dating any of them. Don't bother asking, Mom.
• The real purpose of my trip is to get a taste of what's playing on the West End. So far we've seen Matilda, Wicked, and The 39 Steps. My thoughts on them individually, in hollow bullet form:
• Matilda is really good. It's an adaptation of the book, not Danny DeVito's 1996 movie, which I was greatful for. Not that I don't like the DeVito version; I do. But I loathe attempts to turn movie into musicals (a hatred that has only increased in elitist fashion since I realized the title to the abominable Elf: The Musical was, in fact, Creatively Bankrupt: The Musical. Furthermore, setting the musical in Great Britain, like the book, as opposed to the film, allows for the musical to be a lot more British. The standout in the cast was the 8 year old that played Matilda, and the grown man who played the Trunchbull. I'm generally against drag for comedy's sake (for reasons of feminism, not homophobia), but all moral quandries aside, it was a really remarkable performance. It was so good we waited outside the stage door for autographs, which I never do.
• I was actually really surprised how much I liked Wicked. I've already seen it, about 8 years ago on Broadway, and any time you see something that has actors REALLY associated with the characters (i.e. Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenowith), you run the risk that you're just going to see someone doing they're best impression of the first actor on stage, always falling short (see Creatively Bankrupt: The Musical). However, I think the West End actors are really unburdened by the expectation to sound and act like the originals. The Elphaba, played by a Dutch actress, seemed weirder and quirkier than the last Elphaba I saw. Her personality on stage actually made it worth seeing a second time, despite semi-obstructed seats.
• We saw The 39 Steps today at a matinee. So far, so good as far as plays are concerned. The comedy seems to really play up in London (there were a few British in-jokes that brought the house down, that left this reviewer out in the cold). It seemed like a deceptively difficult show, but one that played up its own cheesiness and delighted in over the top Hitchcock references. I would recommend seeing this one. I know I'm due to get a show I really don't like. Or a show I decide not to like to seem smarter than the rest of the group. I don't know when that's going to happen though. I'm seeing Titus Andronicus tomorrow at the Globe.
• I should thank my orienteering merit badge for finally coming into use. I have mastered the tube like Edmund Hilary mastered Everest. By which, I mean, with the help of the natives.
• I will almost certainly write more when I get the chance. Just wanted to prove that I am, in fact, in London, lest anyone think I'm hiding in Salt Lake somewhere.

A Final Toast to Lester Bangs...

I have a hard time articulating why the untimely death of Philip Seymour Hoffman depresses me so much. I never met the man. I know little about his personal life, other than that he had been in a 15 year relationship with the mother of his three children. And yet, as I look over the facebook feeds of my friends, theater junkies and civilians alike, there does seem to be a level of mourning for him that seems to match my sentiments.

As an actor, PSH did all the little things your theater professor begs you to do: make strong choices, be fearless, play every small part to the hilt. The baseball fans out there would most likely agree that PSH seemed like the Hollywood answer to Dustin Pedroia. The idea that he would relapse into heroin addiction makes us ask the same unsettling questions that you ask yourself when you watch the Best of Chris Farley: What unbearable demons was this man living with, and how did that affect his art? Am I enjoying the very thing that made him so uncomfortable in his own skin?

To me, Philip Seymour Hoffman will always be Lester Bangs. I would rank Almost Famous as my favorite movie--one that speaks to me in new ways every time I watch it (which usually ends up being several times a year). It's not his biggest role. It's not one of his three Oscar nominated roles, and its nowhere near as physically impressive as his turn as near-midget Truman Capote (which will probably be his most historically remembered role). Apparently, he shot all his scenes in a day, and with the flu, no less. Yet for some reason, when he talks to the young William Miller, it always felt like he was talking to me. I posted what I'll call his "uncool" spiel on my wall in tribute. In reality it's something I felt like Philip Seymour Hoffman might have said to me, if he were my over-the-phone mentor.

We share some background. Both athletes as kids, who got really interested in theater in high school. Both of us have struggled keeping our weight in check, and dealt with the good-ol' Anglo-Saxon pastiness. I have a feeling if we swapped girl stories our love-lives might have had similar arcs and valleys. After all, "girls will always be a problem for guys like us, but most of the great art in the world is about that very problem." I think, if anything, this reminds us all how important it is to find comfort in our own skin. To be able to reach out to others. For someone who I never spoke with, PSH had a profound effect on me, albeit with the words of Cameron Crowe, Aaron Sorkin, and John Patrick Shanley. To all the roles that should have been...it's truly our loss.

Guys Like Richie Incognito

“Guys like Richie Incognito made me hate playing football. The NFL should throw the book at these types.”

This is a facebook post I threw up monday after reading about the treatment of Jonathan Martin of the Miami Dolphins by essentially a team captain. I acknowledge two things: first that this is way more topical than I prefer to be with my facebook posts. Second, that I was a bit vague, and I feel like those who played football with me, and those who are considering having their sons play football, probably deserve a bit more explanation as to what I mean.

I played football for 8 years. From my 4th grade year, to a few days before my senior year started when I handed in my pads, Football was my life. All other interests came second. I spent all my time watching, reading, playing video games; anything with football in it was in my wheelhouse. So when I say that guys like Richie Incognito made me hate playing football, I don’t mean that the world was full of Incognitos and I spent 8 years living in fear of them. It means that a few players and coaches that embraced the worst parts of football culture, ultimately lead me to abandon my dream of playing Davis High Football my senior year.

My football career didn’t get off to the greatest of starts. I was always big for my age. In 4th grade, I was way too big to be playing with other fourth graders, and about 10 pounds to heavy to play with the fifth graders. In Northern Utah, sixth grade is the first time that big kids can play with their age group. As a side note, this is asinine. Allegedly for the safety of smaller players, this rule fails to account that at younger ages smaller players DOMINATE the big ones. Big, docile kids like me obviously wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Instead the Wasatch Front Football League in all its wisdom decided it was better for kids like me to play up with kids with two more years of physical development. Oh, two years up I was one of the smaller kids on the team. By far the smallest lineman.

Anyway, my first year of football was memorable in several ways. First, we did not win a single game. As I recall we didn’t even come close. Second, my coach would not refer to us by our first names, and encouraged us to do the same. So for those three months, I was Smith, usually said with a great deal of disdain. Because third, I was really bad.

So my fourth grade fall went like this. I’d spend my days as Nathan in the advanced class. I had friends. I did well. I felt pretty confident. Then I’d go home, and after about an hour of unwind, I’d strap up my pads and my mom would take me to practice. Then I was SMITH, the useless. The head coach and defensive coordinator, ran practice in a manner that made me equally terrified of both (something unusual for me at that age, six months later I’d be chatting up a Weber State political science professor at a fundraiser my uncle threw). The line coach was a nice guy, he had a son my age, who was playing up and was slightly better than me (being at least 30 pounds heavier).

My coach seemed to embrace player hierarchy. I was stuck of the second-string defensive line, which they’d send in a couple of times a game because the league required every kid to get to on the field for 10 plays a game, no matter how worthless. We ran a 5-2, which means we had two linebackers, who were the anointed kings of the defense. I stepped on ones toes once and got slapped upside the helmet. (Revisiting this all now, this whole thing seems really reminiscent of Ender’s Game, with the main difference being that we couldn’t win a game, let alone an alien war). These two linebackers would seek me out to run hitting drills against me. Typically a coach wouldn’t let his best players spend all their time against the worst player on the team, but again, it was a strange coach. So we’d run open field tackling, or quarter eagles or drive blocking, and I’d usually end up on my back. This would get the backers high fives from the coaches and teammates, and humiliate me to the point where I’d start trying to pretend I was sick to miss practice. My parents were suspicious of the coach, but they have a zero tolerance policy for pretending to be sick.

Aside from all this my helmet was too small the whole year and gave me constant headaches. This worries me a bit now that I might have given myself some long term brain damage, being so young.

Most of the time, those of us who sucked were left on the sideline watching practice. I was probably the second worst player on the team, so even amongst that group I was a target. I remember getting spun around by my helmet by another player on the sideline till my facemask got ripped off. The other player and I got in equal trouble for “horsing around”. Even more vividly I remember being allowed to join in punching and kicking the worst player on the team (another 4th grader) till a few parents in the parking lot came out and stopped us. Now, not only was I a scrub, I was a bully. The coaches never addressed this situation.

I remember my coaches yelling a lot. It seemed normal to me at the time. Coaches on T.V. yelled a lot too. But it really bothered my dad, who promised me about 4 weeks in that if I stuck out the season he would make sure I never played for that coach again. Now it strikes me how insane the yelling was. The oldest kid there was maybe 11. The Quarterback got non-stop verbal abuse. He was also blind in one eye. I’m not sure if the coach ever knew that, but a half blind quarterback sounds like the set up to a joke; not an issue that should have driven a 50 year old man into screaming fits.

As bad as that first year was, it got better. The next year, I decided to play up two years again, because my coach was still coaching the sixth grade team. So as a fifth grader, I played with 7th graders. My coach was Kelly Oram, who would later become my favorite teacher in High School. Mr. Oram spent a lot of time individually with us. He seemed less concerned by wins and losses. He didn’t treat anyone like 10-play kids. A few of my older brothers friends were on the team and looked out for me. My dad even took some time out of what was then a very busy schedule to coach the line. We only won one game, over Roy in October. But that season made me actually enjoy football for the first time.

The next several years I got to play with my age group. I didn’t need protectors anymore. I was actually an asset to my team. I worry that at times during these years I was more Richie Incognito than I’d like to think. But as I made friends with the kids I played football with, my love of the sport increased.

Ultimately, my junior year at Davis, I ran into an assistant coach whose philosophy resembled my first coach. Back was the poisonous environment of my first year. While I keep a great admiration for almost all of that coaching staff, that one assistant brought back everything that I hated about football. It wasn’t so much the yelling. It was the belittling; the way he could make you feel so small and worthless. That senior group was a tough one, with a hierarchy. At some point my cleats got taken out my locker (I generally kept it unlocked, who steals cleats?) I tried to practice in regular tennis shoes (which obviously wouldn’t work. The coach chose to single me out in front of the team, laugh at my excuse and send me back to the locker room. Finally, one of the starting guards lent me a new pair. I did not enjoy a single moment of football from that point on.

That coach left after the season, but my love of football was gone. I practiced for a few months, but I didn’t care, anymore. My play got worse and worse. I was worthless to the team again. I was losing weight, instead of putting it on. Finally, I gave up, and gave my equipment back. It troubled me my whole senior year. I felt like I’d let down my friends. I felt like a quitter. But the thought of another practice made me sick.

I can’t stand this idea that these strategies of toughening guys up through verbal abuse. I think its absolute bullshit. I think it has a lot more with coaches who aren’t smart enough to motivate players in positive ways. That’s not to say there aren’t times when getting in someone’s face is a good idea. I had great coaches who at times had to yell at me: Kelly Oram, Mike Belnap, Bob Kariya, Ryan Bishop, Quinn Gardner, even my own father. But it was different with them. It was never to humiliate me. They didn’t take their frustrations out on me. Good coaches don’t need to hurt their players to make their point.

My brother joined Coach Bishop’s coaching staff at Davis a few years after I graduated. I once flipped through the instruction book everyone on the staff had. It amazed how many of the rules that one coach had violated. Perhaps that lead to his departure. But honestly, I wish they had kicked him to the curb sooner, because he absolutely sucked the love of the sport from me.

This is why I feel so strongly about the Richie Incognito-Jonathan Martin story. I remember feeling like that. The fact that everyone involved are adults makes it more disturbing to me, not less. Football culture has an ugly side that it needs to change.

BOLD STATEMENTS

1. Who is the ESPN the Magazine Body Issue for? It's subscriber base has to be 90% straight males. So you send us an issue half filled with naked men? I understand some of the pictures are of women. But its 2013. Pornography is ubiquitous and mostly free. Nobody needs ESPN the Magazine to provide that. Are you making a statement about body image? Than why not show pictures of normal people naked rather that the top 1% of 1% athletes. This doesn't offend me as a prudish Christian. It offends me as a consumer.

2. Every cast member of Modern Family is replaceable. You could replace Ty Burrell with Zach Braff, Ed O'Neill with Ted Danson, Jesse Tyler Ferguson with basically anybody and it would be the same show. Try Community without Danny Pudi. Or Parks and Recreation without Nick Offerman. The show would be 50% less funny. The Emmy's should consider this next year.

3. I saw this great play where 2 guy and 2 girls came into the same room at different times and argued, it was called (insert name of almost any play since 1950).

4. Every musical is 30 minutes too long. There is absolutely no need for falling action in musicals. No one leaves the theater saying "But what happened to Character X?" They just want to talk about their favorite songs which almost always happened before intermission. Wrap it the eff up!

5. Cuteness is the most important evolutionary trait for animals in the world as human's rule. Pandas have been saved and protected by humans because we can't get enough of them. If Panda's looked a chupacabra we would have handed out a medal to the guy who killed the last one. In 1910.

6. Comparing someone to Hitler is a great way to say "I'm worried I'm losing this argument" or "I'm a colossal a-hole." The only exception is if your counterpart says "Don't you feel like we're a bit heavy on the Jews in our society" or "I sure could do with s'more lebensraum."

7. Did you just think "too soon" on that last statement? Grow up. It's not too soon if you weren't alive when it happened. If you were alive when this happened you're clearly reading over your grandchild's shoulder, so knock it off!

8. Oliver Stone thinks America should be apologetic for its past foreign policy. I agree. But not as apologetic as Oliver Stone should be for the last 20 years of his career.

9. To the drunk guy at the party that wants to get up in my face at the party because of my religious beliefs: You can take my decision to come to this party--despite not drinking--to mean that I'm here because I'm able to have friends who don't share my exact views of the world. Maybe we can reschedule your saving of my soul to next weekend.

10. You should watch Bill Burr's stand up. He's a pretty funny guy. I think you'd like him, if you can handle what we'll call "Massachusetts Language".

A Night Amongst the Casualties

When I drove up to Salt Lake this weekend, I did so with the intent of seeing the Dropkick Murphy's, screaming some lyrics in my heavy imitation of a Southie accent and god-willing bleed a little from my eardrums. I was not expecting to be served an plate of punk rock hors d'ouevres two nights prior. Little did I know I had a date with destiny courtesy of the Casualties.

The Casualties are a "real" punk band from the nineties. Not punk like Green Day; punk like Sid and Nancy. They were performing in the Salt House, which in a venue/warehouse I had never heard of. It's unclear to me if the Casualties had played bigger venues in their heyday or the Salt House was par for the course for bands with ever expanding earlobes.

I ended up seeing the Casualties because I'm a lemming. I stopped in Salt Lake to see my buddies Aaron and Spencer on my way up north, and that's where they were heading. For the record, they are not punks. They're essentially hipsters with a scholarly appreciation of bands like the Casualties. So off we went. Needless to say, I was not "dressed appropriately". I was actually dressed unusually preppy: jeans and a light green polo shirt. Amidst a sea or gauged ears, liberty spikes, studs, tattoos and anti-establishment sentiment, I stood out like any of the other concert goers would have stood out at the College of the Cardinals. While I was initially self-conscious at the lack of metal in my ensemble, I was assured that punk music is all about rejection of style and social norms. So in a way, I was the most punk rock of anyone there.

The noise certainly did not disappoint. I stood in the back, away from the speakers and the mosh pit; both of which terrified me. The Casualties consisted of two mohawked guitarists, and a front man who looked like the love child between Kurt Cobain and the one of the Gorillaz cartoons. The stage/platform they were playing on was cramped as it was, only complicated by the apparent punk tradition of allowing members of the audience to climb onto stage and stage dive. It was surprisingly democratic. Though the mosh pit was at best five rows deep, those involved seemed to get the best of it.

I was on my way to bathrooms to check for bleeding from my eardrums, the front man stopped his yelling over power chords to begin just yelling at the audience. After a short preamble he got to his point:

"We hate racists! (Cheer) We hate Cops! (Cheer) We hate rapists!"

So much for controversial stances from our punk rockers. I'd suggest at least throwing in some solidarity of WikiLeaks or something, just to keep the squares on their toes. By the time the thrashing had started up again, one guitarist's mohawk had gone completely flaccid.

I did try a bit of moshing. I found it surprisingly satisfying. The precepts essentially echoed that of being an offensive lineman: keep your feet shoulder width apart, hands out front, put your weight forward. Were it not for the occasional flailing limbs into my face it would have been an utterly amiable experience. Given the amount of spikes, piercings and loose hangings earlobes it really seems like there should have been more carnage than there was.

Once I'd had my fill youthful mistrust of authority I went outside with the smokers, ironically, to get some air. At that point a group of concert goers violently dragged another out of the venue in a full-nelson. Apparently the punks self-police. Although it wasn't clear what somebody had to do to get expelled from this type of thing, I was definitely sure not to do anything that might get me full-nelsoned out.

While the concert died down--the lead singer declined to rejoin the band on stage for the encore--Aaron and I surveyed the crowd and noticed a studded 10 year old repeatedly jumping off the stage. Apparently his parents had dropped him off. While this is insane for several reasons, we couldn't help but admire the kid.

"That kid's gonna be able to kick both our asses by the time he's 14." Aaron remarked truthfully.

So the message of this post is that if you know that kid: do NOT mess with him.

Robert Gets Clean

This is a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing class. Hope you enjoy! 4-1-13

The room was a mess. It seemed as if a hurricane had attacked a city made of pizza boxes and beer cans. The bed sheets had fallen off, and stuck to the beer-glazed floor. It had been a rough night. Come to think of it, they were all rough nights. Robert lay asleep, half-hanging off the bed. In a few seconds, his alarm would shake him from his stupor. Today’s date had been marked on the wall calendar for weeks. Sera was coming. Today was the day. Robert had to clean up.

                As he opened his eyes he found himself face to face with the pamphlet, lying open, tethered to the vinyl floor. Step 4: The unflinching, unforgiving self-inventory. In the past 30 years, Robert must have hit that wall two dozen times. He held no illusions of what kind of life he had led. But all the same, writing it all down seemed more daunting than swimming the length of the Mississippi. Part of him felt that he had an alibi at the pearly gates if he didn’t put his crimes on paper. But he would have to change that. Today was the day.

                As he surveyed the room, he knew a deep clean was overdue. It was necessary. He didn’t want Sera to see him like this. It was bad enough he was still in Nutbush, the pit of a neighborhood in Central Memphis. He might have been the last white man in a 3 mile radius. He hadn’t stepped a foot out of Memphis in ten years, and then it had only been a jaunt up to Millington to see his mother. But he could only fix a few things today, and the first would be the weeks of trash he’d let pile up. That was easy. Bottles, boxes and bags, all empty, like Robert. They were past sins, the easiest to let go of. He took out a garbage bag and filled it. And then another. After 8 bags he’d finally got the worst of it cleaned up.

                He stumbled out to the dumpster. The apartment next to his had the windows open to invite a breeze. No air conditioning in the summer was a fate worse than death. They had their radio on full blast, using it like a fan. He tossed the bundle of trash bags in. Done. Everything in those bags was behind him.

After the garbage was taken out, the floor needed to be scrubbed. The whole place was disgusting. Booze was the only thing that made it livable. Pops would have died of shame to see Robert scrubbing the floors, hung over. Pops had been a good-for-nothing drunk too, but his floors had always been spotless. Momma had made sure of that. She had been the ever patient Protestant woman. Cleaning up after her husband in the morning and praying for his soul at night. She got him to work every day at the airport. The key to functional alcoholism is a long-suffering woman. Perla had been that kind of woman. But Robert had found a way to ruin that too. He always found a way.

The worst of the stains wouldn’t come out, but at least now someone could walk from the kitchen to the bed without worry of getting trapped like a cockroach. The bed needed some work as well. Robert had shared his bed with a hundred other women since Perla left, but each one was just as anonymous as a bottle in a brown bag. They were all addicts, like him; victims to pleasure and a lure of painless existence. He had brought them all back here for a time, and they shared their drugs of choice: booze, coke, meth, sex. In the end the supply would dry up and both parties would move on. Being a drunk means a life of revolving doors. As Robert stripped the sheets he thought of everything and everyone he’d tried to use to black out his memory of Perla. She wasn’t like those other girls. She had been clean, pure. She’d never shared as much as a glass of wine with him. She wouldn’t even let him bed her till the Padre pronounced them man and wife. It was hard to tell what bothered Pops more: Robert marrying a Puerto Rican, colored and Catholic, or the fact that for one instance, Robert had seemed happy.

The trip down to the laundry room was unpleasant. Nobody in the complex cared about tidying up any more the Robert. The whole place reeked of sloth and vice. Oh, Sera was going to be in for a surprise tonight when she saw the landfill her father was living in. But Robert couldn’t fix that. He could just fix his apartment. As he threw his dirty clothes into the washer he caught his reflection in a mirror to his right. Lord Almighty, he’d gotten old. His hair was all white now, but his teeth were far from it. He looked every bit the town drunk. Well, it was time to clean that up too.

He left his wash in the dryer to go freshen up. Crime may be rampant in the area, but he felt all right leaving some old clothes unattended. He’d gotten used to not having anything of value. He had a medal from Vietnam somewhere in his house, which he supposed must be worth something. He chuckled to himself as he realized it had been 40 years since he did something respectable. And that was in Vietnam. Whole lotta good he’d done. Last time he checked the old VC had taken Hanoi, and his year of duty had been for nothing. It was fitting somehow. Everything in his life had ended poorly, why shouldn’t he be part of the first war America had lost? It wasn’t all for nothing, he reminded himself. Military pensions were the only thing he could subsist on, now that they’d taken his disability checks away.

Robert turned on the shower, which was freezing cold. The water heater hadn’t worked in months. It was actually a blessing in disguise, as the cold water made him feel more alert, more sober. This was the time. He was done with the sauce. He looked at his naked body and the toll it had taken over the years. He was fat. Scars ran up and down his body from bar fights and drunken accidents and God knows what else. He ached. This is what the glorious body God had given him had turned to: a beat up Volkswagen that ought to have been junked years ago.

There was a part of Robert that was feeling better already. He felt like a hard exterior was being peeled back. The soft spot in his heart was opening again. Sera had that effect on him. She made him feel like he had a future. He’d named her after his mother, Sarah, but altered the spelling when Perla explained that the Spanish word será meant will be. He liked that. Sera could be anything she wanted to be. She didn’t have to be like her father.

The final step of the clean was the hardest. He needed to empty out his cabinet. He needed to get rid of all his alcohol. Bottles were easy. They were past sins. But these unopened bottles of whiskey? They were his future sins. If this hadn’t been the day he swore he would start his sobriety, one or two of these bottles would have been singing him to sleep tonight. He remembered his first drink as a teenager: a shot of rum. It had made his innocent head float gently into the clouds. It had made him feel warm. His first time being drunk he’d made sure that he took in every wonderful feeling. This was how Pops felt all the time.

He remembered the wine at his wedding: the taste of virginal bliss. He remembered sharing whiskey with his platoon the night before he’d seen half of them blown up. That was the only two images he could muster of them; their bodies blown to bits, and their immature giggling of the night before. Alcohol had marked every moment of his life. And that’s when it truly dawned on him: alcohol had marked every moment of his life.

This was the liquid that had made his childhood a nightmare. This was the poison that had lost him every job he’d ever earned. This was the rat piss that stole Perla from him. Perla could put up with it all, until he strayed. That was when she must have known that the alcohol had truly replaced her. When Robert could spend all night with another woman, just a bottle of whiskey and a bed, that was when the marriage was over. Robert only ever cheated once. But it was all it took for Perla to take Sera and disappear.

His knuckles grew white as he clutched the bottle of Jameson. How pathetic. He was a child that had been so obsessed with his candy; he’d forgotten to grow up. This bottle was the devil. He’d sold his soul for a quick fix. He took it right to the curb and threw it as hard as he could at the ground: steps 5 through 7 all in one. It shattered, sending shards of glass across the gutter. He felt a little weight release of his shoulders. He ran into the apartment and grabbed another one. This is for Perla! This is for Momma! This is for Sera!

At six in the evening a brand new silver Civic pulled into Nutbush. The driver, a sharp woman in her thirties carefully examined each street sign, looking for the right one. She was on a mission. She had come to the dirtiest part of the city to pull the last bit of her childhood out of it. She’d been a toddler here, but nothing looked familiar. Everything looked like a miniature Mexico now. She pulled over to the curb. A few Chicanas were loitering on the sidewalk.

“Oye, chicas. Estoy buscando los apartamentos Berclair.”

“You lost, girl. There ain’t no country clubs around here.”

The woman got out of the car. She was taller than the Chicanas had expected. But they were right; in a pencil skirt and high heels, she fit in about as well here as a presidential motorcade. She saw directly ahead of her, a sign with peeled white paint. Berclair Apartments. Just outside she saw a man sitting on the curb, hands cuffed behind his back. A police officer stood behind him, scribbling on his notepad. If only this had been the first time she’d seen this sight.

“Officer, that’s my father. I’m here to pick him up.”

The officer gave her an odd expression that was hard to read behind his sunglasses.

“Well, he made a pretty big mess. It looks like he made his own little Rodney King riot. The landlord said its gonna take him months to clean up all this glass”

“Look, I work for the state. I’d be willing to pay whatever in damages...”

“Nah,” the cop smiled, “just get him outta here and keep an eye on him. First time I ever seen him sober.”

 The cop reached down and unlocked the cuffs and took them off her father’s hands. The old man spun around, his eyes were full of tears. There was a look here that Sera had never seen.

“Papa, are you ok?”

Robert gave his daughter a fatherly look, one he hadn’t mustered in years. There were still 3 bottles of whiskey in the cabinet. He wanted them like hell. The withdrawals were killing him. In fact, they probably would. He would think about those bottles tomorrow. He’d think about them every goddamn day for the rest of his life. But he couldn’t even pretend he minded now.

“Let’s get outta here, Sera. My life is over. My life is over, and I’m ready to start a new one.”