“Hello, my name is Lyle. And I am an alcoholic.”
“Hello Lyle, and welcome.”
Well shit, everybody else was saying it. So when it came to me I just followed suit.
Matty was always after me to join something like this. Said it wouldn’t hurt to treat yourself like one even if you were only a heavy drinker. (Then the first thing they do is get you to stand up and say you are one.)
All these people look fucked to me. Praising God and talking about religion as their saviour. I don’t care much about any of that because I never really believed in anybody’s God, or any of that bullshit about his boy Jesus. Sure he was probably a nice person trying to make the world a better place, but this group he’s got working for him now are a bunch of wackos.
That fat one’s got her eye on me. I don’t know what she wants but I never trust a smile that big. She must think I’m some other drunk who comes to meetings. If she moves this way and starts talking to me about her boy Jesus, I might deck the chick. Not that she’s not a nice person and all, but man these people are freaky. I need a drink.
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This time I told ‘em to give me the good stuff. Sometimes a man deserves the good stuff. Now let’s see if I got any coke. Shit! Guess it’ll have to be with ice. Damn! Don’t have that either.
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Good morning to me.
Guess I’d better be making my way back to work. It’s been nine days now and they can’t hold my job forever. I can’t imagine how much they’ve got piled up. I’ll bet that little Mexican fella’s been working his tail off just trying to keep up. I better get back to work.
It amazes me how much time a man spends working. All that energy going into making shit just so rich folks can waste. Look at all those people making oil. Some of those jobs are dangerous. And freezing your ass off outside just so people can drive a Hummer.
I could sure use a hummer.
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“Thank you Gonsalvo, that’s very kind of you and your misses.”
Old Gonsalvo’s wife made me a nice card. Says that in their tradition when a woman dies all the other ladies cry for her soul. It’s to make sure the man upstairs notices (and nobody slips through the cracks). And right on this card is a lovely green tear made from fabric. That’s nice, real nice.
“My wife say you come for dinner”
“Oh no, thank you Gonsalvo. I’m perfectly fine.”
“No, my wife good cook. She say you come tonight. Make special foods.”
Well, I never was much for arguing with a woman.
Turns out ol’ Gonsalvo ain’t Mexican at all—they’re from the Philippines. Guess some uncle called them over and croaked while they were on their way. Said he was gonna pick up the tab for travel expenses but nobody knows what happened to his dough. (You know how immigrants don’t stand much of a chance with the law.)
Decent place, rosaries everywhere. And the food was good except too spicy. But it was still good. When I first looked around I hardly noticed him but they had a young son lying on a mat in the corner. Looked a little deformed and I think he was crippled too, but nobody said anything so I didn’t ask.
Funny part was the way they talk. They can’t say “fff,” so instead they go “pu.” Like when they tell ya where they’re from they say “da Pilipine,” cause they can’t make the “fff” sound. After a couple drinks (I brought some just in case) I kept asking just to hear it again. I wonder if the boy’s name was Pil or Pred. Maybe on Halloween they dress him up like Prankenstein—I should stop.
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Reminds me of when Marty McTie was in court for a misdemeanor and the judge asked, “How do you plead?” And he said, “Fucking awful your honour.” Man that was funny. That old judge waived the charge but gave him 30 days for being such an asshole. Can you believe that? 30 days just for being an asshole.
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“Mister Murtz, asshole. No pay good. I say puck you, Mr. Murtz. Asshole boss. You, me, we start shop. Make good money. Okay?”
“Now hold on Gonsalvo. Sure Murtz is a jerk and not loose with the cash, but to start a business you need lots of dough. You can’t just open up shop.”
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“Hello Miss MacIntyre. Nice to see you to ….. My wife, no she’s not inside right now, I’m sorry to say she passed just over a month ago. Weak heart ….. Yes, she was a very fine woman …. Thank-you Miss MacIntyre.”
She won’t remember a damn word I just said.
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Immigrants have a rough go, they really do. Nobody loves ‘em except their own. I can’t imagine moving all the way ‘round the world to somewhere where I don’t speak the lingo. They sure must have powerful reasons.
I remember us boys at the butcher shop used to chuckle whenever one came in. I’ll never forget this Polish or Ukrainian or Czechoslovakian guy. He was older (like a man) but still pretty ignorant. And he wore an old beat up sports jacket (like they all did) with a cap (like they all did).
When he came up to the counter he’d say, “Hello somebodies, I want to buy some pig on a chop.” I was standing right behind Billy Skyvar one time when he went, “Ah, would that be a pork chop, sir?” And the guy went, pretty loud, “Yeess!”
Then when Billy was getting his chops the guy goes, “And four pounds chicken tits.”
We started to laugh right there in the shop, right in front of him. Then Billy goes, “Uh, do you mean chicken breast, sir?” And again he goes, “Yeess!”
I had some good laughs growing up. I really did. Belly laughs. And some pretty good friends too. That’s because we all lived in the same boat so people were good to each other (kind of like immigrants).
Billy Skyvar and Marty McTie went to the same school as me. And all three of us quit after grade ten. Billy went to work on some uncle’s farm and then into the lumber business with a cousin or someone. Marty went to work on the railroad (and we always used to whistle that song whenever he’d walk in).
My kid brother, Terence, was the best man at my wedding but if he’d died sooner it would have been a tossup between those two. Yeess! We sure had some good times.
Back then everybody lost a brother or a sister or someone young. The deal wasn’t that big. If your mother went to the hospital to have a baby, you knew damn well that something could happen and maybe only one of ‘em was coming home. That’s just the way things were back then—nobody knew any different. That’s why I don’t understand rich people like John Tillman, flaunting their wealth and prosperity. Don’t they know we’re all in this together? Don’t they remember?
(Maybe Gonsalvo’s right. Murtz is an asshole.)