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Dead Drunk

Gil VanWagner

Copyright Gil VanWagner 2012

Published at Smashwords

PART ONE

Hi. My name is Buddy and I am an Alcoholic. I didn’t start out that way. I finished that way but I am going to undo that. It is time to recover. Time to heal. Twelve steps. Forty-five steps. I don’t care how many. I choose to heal. That is the first step. Today. Actually yesterday but it took me a while to get pen to paper.

This is my story. It may seem a bit sporadic, spontaneous, or just plain fucked-up at times but it will be the truth, the whole truth, and everything Perry Mason held holy and true. I have no reason to hold anything back and I am going to stop blaming others, excusing myself, and shifting my shit to everyone and anyone else. I can do that now. I am dead.

Been dead since 1979. Died of a bunch of things, some big, some small, but the result was the same. I was dead at 59 years old and died an old man. Took a lot of stuff with me when I died and it has been with me ever since. I am about to let most of it go. You get to watch. You need to watch actually because we are all in this together. Learn from me. I might be slow but I’m gonna get there. I am about to heal and soar or wherever it is I am supposed to do. After all, I deserve joy just like any Pope, President, Movie Star, and anyone else you think matters. I matter. Just as much as you do. We all do. Now I am going to fix some things that I should have fixed a long time ago. It begins with fixing me. Took me twenty-nine of your years to realize I could not, should not, and would not do it alone. Did not work for the fifty-nine years I lived and didn’t work for the twenty-nine I’ve been dead. Time to change something. My reality needs a shift. I choose to heal. Listening, Big Kahuna? I am going to do the hard stuff and peel back my soul for me to see.

So let’s get started. I’ve got a lot to do and places to go.

I did not start out as an Alcoholic. A long time ago, over 80 years, I was just a kid in Brooklyn. Along the way, I crawled into and out of the bottle. That comes later though and there is a lot to tell about that so let’s just talk about me being a kid in Brooklyn. It was 1920 and, as they say, I was born at a very young age. My sister, Eleanor was already 3 years old and my brother John was on the second of what would be his thirteen years when I came along. Paul followed me two years later and Tom completed the set when I was 4. It was an active house, kid wise, for the whole time I lived at home with Mom.

Mom ruled the roost. Mom ruled the roost for as long as I can remember. Dad was away and she said just to let folks know he was dead. So we did. All of us. Dad was dead. Somewhere in some home or something but he was dead if anyone asked. Pretty soon, no one asked any more. For me, the lie became the truth because we told it so much. For the family, Dad became the deep dark secret. Mom thought she and Eleanor kept the secret from me. Dad had Schizophrenia. In the 1920s, you might as well be a Leper. There was no treatment for that and mental illness was something you didn’t even talk about. Lock them away and deny they even existed was pretty much par for the course.

As a kid, I did not know any of that. I just knew Dad went bonkers one day, hit my mother, then tried to hit me and my Mother took the beating for us both. That was the day I began to hate him. Still do but that will pass as I share more of this. Hated him. I have some memories of him being Dad in a way but the memories that were mine for the rest of my days was his attack and then his absence. Mom had him locked away and I was glad. He should have been killed if you asked me and I was quite content to say he was dead. After all, I spent my life, and beyond, wishing he was. For me, he was dead. I did get to beat him up a lot but that was later when I was drunk and looked for him in every big guy around. I was barely 5 foot 6 and 130 pounds but I was a scrapper. That comes later though. It just started back there in Brooklyn.

This retrospective thing is harder than it seems. The time lines and exact sequence get a bit fuzzy but I’ll do the best I can. As a kid, I had a bit of an attitude. Eleanor was Mom’s favorite. She was pretty much every one’s favorite. Mine, too. Paul was the smart kid. He was polite and obedient in school, home, church, and just about everywhere. Sure, he got into some trouble but his trouble was bush league compared to mine. Tom was the youngest and the biggest. I was his big brother but he was bigger than me by the time he started school. I did not like that much but basically shut up about it.

John and I were really close. It kinda pains me to talk about him. John and I shared things the others did not know and that made him and me as close as brothers can be. He was two years older but we were like twins, we were so much alike. I loved being around him. Even when we fought. I learned a lot about being tough from him. He did not let me win unless I actually won. That was an important lesson.

I showed off for him a bit. Used to put a chip right on my shoulder and dare the kids in the neighborhood to knock it off. I was scared but no one but me knew it. Kinda hoped no one would take me up on the dare but a few did and I let them have it. Usually, I won. Sometimes, I lost. I never said Uncle though. They could try and try and I would rather die than say Uncle. They might beat me up but they would not beat me. My brothers, Tom and Paul, both got a bit mad when I was in fights. As if it embarrassed them to be my brother. Not John though. He was ready to save me if I needed it, but I rarely did. He usually patted me on the back after I had a good fight. One time, he helped clean me up so Mom and Eleanor did not see the cuts. I loved John.

One day, John was perfectly fine. Went to Coney Island and we had a blast. We argued a bit about some candy. I swiped it and he knew it and said so. I told him to get off his high horse and have some. He ultimately did but I was pissed that he got all high and mighty about it. Heck, I swiped a lot of stuff and he did not get all high and mighty before. Why this time?

I never did get to find out. We came home from Coney Island and John got sick and died two days later. Just like that. Poof! Gone. I thought they were just kidding at first. No way that could happen. Not John. He would be alright. Then they had him in a box and I cried a bit but stopped when I saw other kids watching. Then we went to church and they took him to a graveyard and put him in a hole in the ground.

It was really weird being there. Felt like it was a dream and I would wake up any moment. The alarm never sounded though and John was really dead. He did his school work. He tried to be good like they taught us in school and church. He was a good kid. None of that mattered. He was dead. Thirteen years old and he was dead. I was already eleven and wondered how long I would be around.

What hurt the most was that folks moved on. Kids in school said they were sorry and all. The Priests came by…first for those Last Rights, then for the Funeral, and then for some comfort or something. Neighbors brought food and gave sorrowful looks. All that lasted a few weeks and then it was like John wasn’t ever born. Even in the house, I would bring him up and pretty soon Aunt Edith and Eleanor asked me not to bring him up since it was so tough on Mom. They were right. It was tough on Mom. I stopped bringing him up. Pretty soon he was as dead as Dad was only I did not want John dead. Still don’t. It hurt not talking about him. I should have spoken up. I killed him by letting others forget about him. I let him die. Shame on me. Looked for John in the graveyard for a while. Just me. His grave wasn’t marked but I knew where it was. Pretty soon, I realized he wasn’t there and wouldn’t be back. Pretty soon, John was gone for real. I stopped going the graveyard. I stopped looking for my brother. He was gone.

After that, I hardly ever lost a fight. Fought to show John how tough I was. Even without him around. Fought to beat up anyone that reminded me of my father. The same father that wasn’t there when John died. I hated him even more because of that. Wished he had died instead of John. Wished he was gone for real. Now, that would be something to talk about. I would have shouted it to the heavens. Ding, Dong, the Fucker’s dead!

I do not want to sound negative but hate is hard to paint in other words. My hate for my father had many causes and I watered it well in its own darkness for the rest of my days. Beyond as well but that is why we are having this talk. My youth may have been fatherless but it had good stuff too. Mom was one of the best things. I was always awed by her. She hid her sadness so well. She taught school and I bet she was one of the best teachers there. She talked of her students sometimes and I saw how much she cared for their education. She pushed them hard, especially when they had their heads up their asses. She made a difference in many of their lives. I just never heard any one of them thank her or anything like that. She did it because it was her place to do it as a teacher.

She taught all day and then took care of us each night. Aunt Edith helped out too. She was Mom’s sister. I liked her. I think she liked me, too. We lived in her house on Avenue N. I know it was her house because her kids took every chance to remind us of that. Sometimes subtly. That meant Mom or Eleanor were in earshot. Sometimes not so subtly. That meant it was just us boys. Just us Van Wagner boys. That’s the way it was. Seemed having us all crammed into the house was something some of the kids did not like. Can’t say I blamed them. Probably woulda been pissed if folks crowded me in my own home and all. It was pretty crowded. Aunt Edith liked having Mom there but there were a lot of us crammed into her house on Avenue N. We had our five, until John freed up some living space by dying, and her four. Elbert was the oldest and Elbert was the holiest thing a person could be. Elbert was a Jesuit.

There were Priests and then there were Jesuit Priests. I didn’t know what made Jesuits so special but heard quite routinely that Elbert was a JESUIT. Someone would say Priest and Aunt Edith, my Mother, Eleanor, or Ruth, Elbert’s sister, quickly corrected them by saying, “Elbert is a Jesuit.” Seemed to be very important so I played along. Elbert was alright and seemed like a nice guy. Elbert was a kid though before he was a Priest and Elbert swiped a few apples right along with me before he got all high and mighty after he became a Priest. Not just a Priest…a Jesuit! Priests were pretty much assholes though so that meant Elbert the Jesuit was a super-asshole in my way of thinking.

Priests did one thing very well. They judged. Evidently they were born better than the rest of us sinners. Selected by Jesus while still in the womb or something so they had what it takes to be a Priest. People really respected them. Just because they were Priests. That made them better or something. They farted like us and their shit stunk just like ours but that didn’t matter. They were blessed and then sat in Judgment over us.

Mom liked Priests. Guess it was kinda like having a man in her life so she went to see them each time she could. That meant on Sundays, Holy Days, and a few days a week when and if she could. She spent as much time as she could down the block at Our Lady Help of Christians Church. I did not mind but she always tried to drag us along.

Paul and Eleanor usually went by choice. Tom went just because he was told to go. John and I went when she caught us. We knew the routine and the times and just made sure we were somewhere else when she went. Ended up being a very special time. Stolen time. Time we likely would have been kneeling and praying and hearing what miserable sinners we were. Instead, we played tag, shot marbles, explored the neighborhood, and just enjoyed being together. I liked it extra special since we sorta earned it by making sure Mom did not catch us and make us go to church. After John went away, I did not like the time when I avoided church. It was kinda sad and lonely but it was better than being forced to hear the Priests and walking away feeling like shit. I could feel like shit without their help. Who were they to add to my shitpile?

Mom worked hard and I wished she did something that made her feel good. Instead, she went to Our Lady Help of Christians or visited my wife-beating daddy that was supposedly dead. She worked hard and should have done something that had her smile or laugh. Heck, she would have been better off shooting marbles with me than going to church or the loony bin. I would have let her win some of the time. They didn’t.

It was the Great Depression. They only called it Great after it ended. It was anything but great at the time. I might have only been nine when it hit but I knew how the bread was buttered. For a lot of folks, it was not buttered. Heck, it was not even bread. Mom always made ends meet though and I was impressed. There were no soup lines on Avenue N and my brothers and sister and I ate every day. While some days, it was heavy on the potatoes and light on the meat, we ate. Mom made that happen. Her and Aunt Edith…two Women took care of themselves and a whole bunch of us kids.

Tom was too little to notice and that was the way it should be for a kid. He was five so he was too busy learning about life and books and things to notice that the School of Hard Knocks officially opened for just about every adult alive at the time. Times were tough and somehow we all made it. Even those folks without a Dad. Mom made sure of that. She handled the Great Depression without a man, buried a son two years into the Depression, and kept right on doing what she did best. She worked, went to church, took care of her family, and pretended she was alright. I loved my Mom.

Having a school teacher for a Mother presented some challenges though. Mom wanted us all to be good at school and routinely reminded us of the value of an education. Whenever we went to Manhattan on the bus, she pointed out the business men. All in suits with brief cases…all looking very important and very rich. She said each one of them went to college. Eleanor was earmarked for college. We all knew that by the time she was in fourth grade. Paul and Tom were college bound. Paul was younger than me but better known in school since he was one of the smart kids. Tom was just likable in every setting.

Me? Unless Reform School qualified as higher learning, the idea of me going much passed High School was rarely mentioned. I had a bit of trouble reading and bluffed my way through most classes and cheated on the really important tests so I at least passed. It did not start that way. I was reading pretty good just before I started school and for a little while after even. One day, I was reading aloud and stumbled over a big word. While I concentrated on it and broke it down to syllables in my head, the teacher moved to the next kid. Next thing I heard was the word that was forming in my head coming out of someone else’s mouth. She spoke it with an attitude that cut my confidence like a knife through Jell-O. Then I heard a snicker or two and knew I was not such a good reader after all. The words got harder after that and the first of the C’s appeared on the report card.

That was alright though. While other kids were home reading, I learned the lessons of the street. There were certain areas of Brooklyn, most within walking distance, that were a hell of a lot different than Avenue N. On Avenue N, we had kinda of a mix of folks but most were pretty tame compared to other neighborhoods. Heck, compared to some of the rougher neighborhoods, Avenue N was Park Avenue. Even the men coming home from work in the evening seemed softer. Nicer.

It was mostly a white neighborhood. Lots of Micks and a few Guineas thrown in for color. A few blocks away, it was a cornucopia of Jews and Jesus knew what else. Some of the areas were damn near dangerous. That was where I went while the other kids read. Mom did not know. She thought I was wandering around the neighborhood and playing with the others kids. After John died, I did not really hang out with anyone else. Being alone was safer.

Even my time with Paul and Tom dropped off after that. Quite frankly, they were too soft for me. They brought into too much of the school and church crap for my liking. I loved them and all but just did not have much in common with them. They read while I explored. They studied and made A's and B's while I did not and barely passed most classes. They did the Altar Boy, help the Nuns, and be good for Jesus stuff. Me? I lived in the real world.

One day I watched Tom from across the street. I came home from one of my outings and saw him before he noticed me so I slipped behind one of the big maple trees to watch him. He seemed to be playing but I knew he was bluffing. He was hanging around outside just to see something so I laid low to see what he was up to. I figured it out pretty quick. Tom was there as the men came home from work and he watched like a puppy waiting for his master to come home. It was when the night eased the day away, the smell of supper filled the neighborhood, and the flow of the evening washed over the entire block. The men came home from wherever they were for the day. Some had briefcases. Most had lunchboxes. We were more the lunch box bunch than the suit group. I could tell the men were tired from work but happy to be home. Tom pretended to be playing with some trucks on the lawn but he spied them. There was a look to them. Ruggedness. Most looked dirty from the sweat of a good days work. I bet they smelled all musky and manly. Tom watched them come down the street and turn into this house and that house, just not our house.

That night, I heard Tom crying in his room and went to see what was wrong with him. I sorta already knew but did not let him know that. After all, I was four years older and a helluva lot wiser. It took a while but he finally told me that he wished he had a Dad like the other kids. I held him and let him just sob a bit. Then I comforted him. I let him know there were things he did not know and that he was a lot better off without a Dad. He asked me why but I didn’t answer. He was too little to understand evil. He was too young to know about the bastard that was not dead but was said to be dead and should have been dead. He was too little to know about hate and how sucky it was to have a father like the one he had but did not have. I held him and felt him. The inside of him. He was so young and better off not knowing the truth. The truth was cold and tough. He was just a kid so I held him while he drifted off to sleep. Sweet dreams, kid.

Grammar School and High School pretty much blurred for me. While we had Nuns in Grammar School and regular teachers in High School, my time there filled a square. I guess there should be more memories and laughter and stuff but I was not that kind of kid. Most folks thought I had an attitude. They were right. Mom went to Parent-Teacher nights and came home with the standard stuff. “We don’t know what to make of Buddy. He’s moody.” It was always variations on that theme. The talk when Mom came home from those things was pretty much the same each time.

She waited until we were alone. Usually at the kitchen table. I knew it was coming. She knew I knew. Then she asked what was the matter. The way she asked it always got to me. It was so filled with love and caring. At that moment, I wanted so hard to tell her I was sorry and that I wished I was better in school and that I would make her proud of me and that I would be the very best I could and she could brag about me the way she bragged about Eleanor and Paul and Tom. I wanted her to be happy. All she did was sit and ask me that question with those eyes that made mine want to cry I loved them so much. So would just ask “Buddy, what’s wrong?”

I wanted to say all those things but my answer was pretty much like the question. My answer was the same each time. “Nothing, Ma.” Then she asked the follow on questions and I gave the follow on answers. We had it down like a dance team. It was one of the most private times I had with my Mom and it broke my heart that it was about her embarrassment about my performance in school. She was so caring at those times. I ached to see her so hurt and was very sincere when I promised her I would do better. I meant it each time. She believed it each time. Then I would go back to school.

Teachers are rats. They knew my Mom was a widow. They knew she raised four kids, mourned for one, and worked her ass off. They could have been a little gentler in their report about me. I was not a thug or nothin. Books were just not my thing. Conjugate your own damn verbs. Who cared about the Magna Carta, the Armanda, or the price of tea in China? I was a kid in Brooklyn for Christ’s sake and would be a working man in Brooklyn, and then a dead guy buried in Brooklyn. What the fuck did I need to study for? Teach me to swing a hammer or a fist or drive a nail or a taxi. Teach me something that was gonna make me a buck. I could add and subtract. I could read alright. Nothing they covered in class prepared me for other than pleasing the teachers and getting good grades. A report card never fed nobody but the damn school board. Keep me the hell out of it and leave my Mother alone, you pious bastards.

Yeah, I guess school was not my thing. But there was one thing about school I kinda liked. More and more as the years went by. There were girls in school and that made it almost worthwhile to go there each day. Alright, most days but even when I played hooky, I liked the ladies.

This retrospection thing is a process that made me color outside the lines. Way, way outside the lines. The very thought of how I felt about females helped me see how much crap I brought into over the years. Sex was the first and greatest separator and I believed so much of what was wrong about it that it was a wonder I did not crack up. I felt so guilty about my feelings and thoughts that I wondered if they had the wrong Van Wagner in the nut house.

Sex was something littered and land-mined with Don’ts. This gender with that gender only…if not, you were unnatural and went to hell with all the other freaks. Sex after marriage only and not before because…well, because Jesus said so. Or God did. Someone did and you just do what you are told. You don’t know shit so get married and then two of you cannot know shit together. That would help. This body part went in there and only there…..not there, not over there, not under there, definitely not through there, and don’t even think about anything below here or above there. Women that dressed this way were whores. Men that acted that way were leeches. Looking at these kind of things was sinful. Sex was for pro-creation, not recreation. Thinking those thoughts was perverted. Sex was basically wrong and the surest way to burn in hell. Make babies with it but don’t get in the habit of enjoying it or…well, or else.

Well, based on what I liked in life, I was pretty much doomed. I was a child prodigy of evil when it came to things carnal. Took that with me all the way to the box and beyond. It wasn’t always a bad thing. I first thought sex and all things related to sex were beautiful. As pretty as any rose in any garden and as stunning as the peacock in full feather. Felt hints of that every day in my life. Felt it guilt free when I first discovered girls were different than me.

There was something very special about females. I noticed it very young. Noticed it even before I noticed the budding breasts and shaping curves. Maybe it started with Mom. Most likely. She was the one that showed me that strong and nurturing were not contradictions. Eleanor had that ability too. I loved her so much. She and Mom were strong women. That was where it started.

There was more though. Women get something. Something I only sensed but they knew. Something sweet and mysterious. Something warm and magical. It was like they knew a secret that we all knew at one time but forgot along the way. I felt that from the very beginning. Put a set of tits on that and I was helpless to resist.

I got all tongue tied and quiet around them. That was easy to handle. Just bluffed a bit with the boys. Bravado. We played grab ass or did silly stuff to pretend we were not paying attention to the girls. That worked for a while. Right until their chests pointed in my direction. Seems like their flesh was even more alluring then. My body felt it and that did things to me that were tough to hide. That bulge in the pants showed up more and more as the girls shaped in such sweet ways.

Mom did not talk about sex except to say it was for grown-ups. I thought about asking the priests but figured they did not know much about sex with the whole celibacy stuff and all. They covered coveting pretty well and coveting was not a good thing. In my young mind, sex involved a whole lot of coveting.

John and I talked about it and it turned out he had the same issue. He explained a few things but I kinda suspected he made up most of what he said. Later in life, I would know that to be the case but he was my only source of info for a while so I listened to him.

Tried to pass on my knowledge to Paul and Tom but they went all quiet and stuff when I did so I did not bring it up again. When John died, I was alone and it was harder and harder to handle what happened to my body. That’s when I discovered the dirty movies at the little Arcade.

They had quite a few machines in one of the shops just a few blocks away. Not as many as in the Arcade on Coney Island but enough to keep me busy when I scrounged up a few pennies. A dozen or so machines with cartoons and even a Tom Mix adventure you could see whenever you wanted. There were three machines in the back corner that the owner guy kept me away from for a while but I tried them once and was pretty much hooked.

This was definitely not the Katzenjammer Kids. I slipped the penny in and turned the handle slowly. A woman was there with hardly any clothes on. The gulp in my throat damn near choked me. I looked around to see if anyone saw me and the owner guy just sorta smiled and waved his hand to say it was alright. It was our little secret. I continued. She was kinda pasty white and definitely a woman. She moved in tandem with my hand and danced like she was on fire. She took off her clothes. I saw her tits! She had big tits. Lady tits. Right there! She had nipples and everything. It was beautiful. Then, Poof! She was gone.

I kept my eyes to the peeker thing for a while and then reached for another penny. It took me a minute to find them and then I dropped them on the floor. My hand shook as I picked them up and pushed one into the slot. This time I moved the handle slower. I even paused a bit on some of the frames. Tried to catch just the right one. The one with the tits all front and center. One time, I saw the best picture ever. It is still there. Right in my memory. It was her tits and her nipples but it was also her eyes. Her head was bent a little and she peeked up. Kinda like a kid being all cute. She looked right at me. She knew I saw her like that and she was alright with it. It was her picture and she shared it with me. She loved me right from that picture. I wanted to stay there forever.

The other two special machines had pictures of women too. One of them had a guy in it and the woman there touched him and even kissed him in ways not covered in any book in any class or any school that I ever knew. That one made me feel a bit strange. I liked it but the one with the Lady with the eyes, I called her Carol, was my very favorite. My all time favorite. Sometimes I saw her in other women and that was a nice thing. I wished John got to see her, too.

High School and things were alright. I was not much of a joiner. Made some coin by doing odd jobs. A guy hadda have some spending money and Mom did not have much to spare with all us kids and everything. That didn’t leave much time for band, school office, clubs, scouts, and that wussy stuff. The other kids that had some money and a father did that shit. I was pretty much on my own most of the time and did alright. Sure, I pinched some candy bars but most of the guys did. Got caught a few times and Mom boxed my ears and made me go to confession and that sort of stuff. I never got a rap sheet. I was just a kid and most of the cops knew times were tough. It was all sorta innocent.

Some of the guys started drinking beer when they were only in Grade School. I waited until after Eighth Grade. Maybe a swig or two earlier but that summer was the summer I discovered the taste of beer.

Beer was a good thing. It was cold and refreshing. It was also a helper. It helped me talk. A few beers and I remembered some of the comedy things from the radio and told them like they were my own. The guys laughed and I laughed just as much. It was a nice time. We didn’t hurt anyone or nothing. Just a few beers and we laughed and joked and were happy. It felt nice on a summer night. Mom never suspected anything. I think Eleanor did but she only asked me once and I merely said Nah and blew it off. I was a bit more careful around her after that.

Most of the guys I hung around with drank. Even a few of the girls did. First girl I ever kissed was one of the girls that had a few beers with us from time to time. I was not the only one that kissed her but I liked kissing her nonetheless. We only kissed a few times. She was nice and everything but I think she was after somebody other than me. Still, it was nice kissing her. Learned a thing or two about kissing from her and that was part of growing up.

My brothers were surprised when they heard I drank beer. I told them that was not all I drank and that really impressed them. It sorta impressed me, too. Even if it wasn’t true. Not then, at least. I felt tougher or something. There was something I had and they did not. I was better, even if only for a bit. Based on what I knew about life, being better for a bit was good enough.

I was not lonely after a few beers. After a few beers, it did not matter that I did not have a Dad. Most of the guys I drank with had a Dad and they wished the hell they didn’t. Gave me one up on them. Heck, after a few beers, I forgot about John for a while. That was nice in a way but I usually felt bad the next day. Like I left him or something but that was silly. He was gone so how could I leave him? So I had a few more beers in a day or so and then I missed him a bit less. I think him and me would have had a good time getting drunk together. He was a lot of laughs. I was too and he could have seen it.

During High School, we were taught a lot about Europe and stuff. Seemed like there was a lot of worry about Hitler and what happened over there. Seemed pretty far away for us to worry but each day it was more and more something that became real. It showed up in the papers and in talks around the neighborhood and even at the dinner table. Europe got a bit closer to Brooklyn every day. Pretty soon, some of the older boys signed up from high school, a few even sooner, and went to Europe to fight. I wondered if I would be able to do that.

Imagined what it would be like to fight over there. Saw some things in the newsreels and it seemed like the movies come to life. The guys looked tough. Most were just a bit older than me and I bet I could be that tough. They trained you and all so it wasn’t like you were just handed a gun and told to shoot the Krauts. It was all professional and patriotic. Folks respected you even if you did not get to college or become a priest or anything like that. Hard not to respect someone that fought for their country. As I moved through High School, I did not talk much about it. Somewhere along the way, I decided it was my ticket out of Brooklyn. I could see the world and be something. Somewhere along the way, I decided I was going to join the Army.

I joined right after High School. Mom was not happy about that. She was not happy about that at all but a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Soon after High School, Brooklyn was a memory, college was off the plate, and I left to save my country from Hitler and those evil Germans. Only made it to Newfoundland and fought other GIs but it was one heck of a good time. Paul joined up after me and Tom after him. Three Van Wagners wore the uniform. My brother Tom came home a hero after being hurt right in Germany when an artillery shell sliced up his leg. He was alright and all but I was scared for a while that he would not be. After I found out he was, I was kinda jealous. Paul did not get hurt or nothing but he also never got busted like I did. Seems like I was a bit of a fuck up in the Army, too, so opted out as soon as they furloughed us after the war. Never saw any action but learned how to fight a bit, drink a lot, and get by with a bunch of guys from Georgia to California and all points between. Came back to Brooklyn and looked for something better than the Army. Just me and thousands of bozos just like me. We came back from a war many of us never fought to conquer a world that was not quite ready for all of us. I wondered what the fuck I was gonna be when I came back. There were ten of us for each job and I was not about to live at home like some kid. Basically, I was scared shitless. Wished the war had lasted and I could have hid out in battle. I think it might have been easier.

Coming back from the Army was a mix of good, not so good, and downright bad. My brothers and sister had College to do or finish. Tom and Paul both had good discharges, some rank, an education, and opportunities. By the time the war was over, Eleanor was married with kids and doing very well for herself. Once she married, it was like she was gone in that she was not really part of our life anymore except around holidays and sometimes not even then. Mom had moved out of Aunt Edith’s and had an apartment on 32^nd Street. She did that so Eleanor had a place to go when her husband Paul went to serve in the Army. Evidently, there was some controversy about Eleanor coming back to live with Mom at Aunt Edith’s so Mom moved out. Not sure what all the fuss was about but it lasted for the rest of Mom’s days and beyond. Families were stupid and stubborn at times. Wished Mom did not have all that junk added to her plate but she did and that was pretty much that. Me? My own drama kept me busy.

I pretty much stacked the deck against myself with my high school performance, unimpressive and aborted Army career, and limited skill set. I exited the Army and looked for any job at all and hoped a plan would materialize so I would survive. Truth be told, it was pretty much a blur, as if I was shell shocked without ever being in the action like the other soldiers. Guess it was pretty much a self inflicted wound.

I treated it with antiseptic in the form of alcohol. It worked pretty good. It must have because I don’t remember the specific issues just that there was a lot of them and somehow I made it. Brooklyn was a pretty big place but there were only so many union halls, employment places, job sites, and wants ads to go around so I hung out in the one of the bars to fill the time until I came home from the job search. There were a few guys like me so we swapped a few lies and commiserated the hours away.

I made enough money to get by, barely. There were a few chances for me to join a Union but seemed there were a dozen of us for each opening and someone that knew someone always got the card before me. I needed that damn Union card and got to be a regular at the hall and the bar just near the hall. Pretty soon, most of the members knew me so I was close to being the one in a dozen that got that card. It was just a matter of time.

The Union was the ticket and I knew it. Union folks showed up at the hall and went to the job site. You couldn’t be fired. Only the Union could let you go and no idiot would want the Union to do that. The pay was a helluva a lot better that you could make on your own, ever. I centered my job search around the Union Hall and hoped I got my membership soon. Between hunting for jobs, scrounging for cash, and trying to convince myself I was not a loser, those early days after the Army pretty much sucked and the days ahead did not hold a helluva lot a promise. I was desperate inside and frantically tried not to show it outside. I did not want to prove the people that thought I would fail right, even more than I hoped to please the few that still believed in me.

It would have turned out very different if not for one very special event that I thanked God and whoever else was up there for each and every day of my life thereafter. It was just an event but it was the one that turned my life around. The grand prize for me came in the form of a blind date. It was the first time I met Katie.

I was hers the very first time I saw her. She was so beautiful it stunned me that I was even at the same table with her, never mind her date. Red hair that set off her blue eyes, a shape that movie stars would envy, a smile that lit up her eyes first and then the room, and a voice that was gentle and knowing with each word. We connected for a blind date. I think she would not have taken the date had she seen me first but she was polite and kind the entire night. It was about ninety minutes into the date, the second dance, that I decided I would marry her. Took me a bit before she saw things my way but I never had such determination as I did that night. It was my single greatest accomplishment. It was my own version of heaven on earth when she finally agreed to marry me. Getting her to agree was just part of the challenge.

Lots of folks tried to talk me out of it along the way. My mother tried. Eleanor, Tom, and Paul tried as well. Mom even enlisted the help of her brother, my Uncle Gil, when it looked like I was going to marry Katie. Mom knew there was only one male on the face of the earth that I respected and it was her brother, Gil.

Uncle Gil was a success. He was a salesman for a steel company and he loved my Mother. Whenever we went over to Uncle Gil’s, which was not enough for my liking, he acted like he was happy to see us. He asked me about things and it was real asking. Not that just filling the square stuff. Uncle Gil cared and wanted everyone, even me, to succeed. There were not many people I wanted to be proud of me but Uncle Gil was on that list, damn near the top. Right after Mom and John.

He asked me to come over to his place so I did. It was just him and me and that sorta warned me what was up. He was polite but did not sugar coat the words. I liked that about him, even when I did not necessarily like the words he said.

“Buddy, your Mom is worried about you marrying Kathryn and I have to say that I share her concerns. Do you really know what you are getting into?”

That began the conversation. The naysayers had lots of ammunition. They had an atomic bomb in the form of Jack, Katie’s son. Unwed mothers were not exactly in vogue in the early 40s. Just about anything but in vogue. Uncle Gil went right to the Atomic Bomb.

“Buddy, tell me what you know about the boy.”

I stammered and stuttered a bit. Truth be told, I did not know much about Jack except that he was Katie’s son and she was all dodgy whenever I asked about the father. She just said they were not together and that she raised him alone. I met Jack a few times and he did not really take to me quickly. In fact, he did not take to me at all. It was hard to know what to do with the kid. I loved Katie and loved him since he was her son. I wanted to be a good Dad to him but wondered what the hell I knew about being a father. There would not be a warm up period. It would be, “I now pronounce you man and Wife. Hi there, Dad.” It scared the living heck outta me but I knew it would be right since Katie and I were destined to be together.

I did not say any of that to Uncle Gil. Basically, I bluffed that I understood what the adults called, the gravity of the situation. Knew that I was marrying someone with a kid and women with kids without fathers were basically seen as whores. Knew that it would be an issue for Church, family, and anyone that chose to question it. Basically, I did not give a shit about any of that. I loved Katie and Jack was her son and that was enough for me.

Uncle Gil did not attack. He questioned. He probed. He let me know that he agreed with Mom and thought it was a very big mistake. Then he did something that cemented my respect for him forever. He shook my hand and said something that stayed with me for the rest of my days. He looked me in the eye and said, “Buddy, make the choice that is right for you and then do the very best you can. I wish you all the best.”

There is time in life when you felt like a man. For me, it was that day and that moment with that very special man. I walked out into the afternoon with a new resolve. I was going to make the choice right for me and things would be alright. Uncle Gil treated me like a man and I was going to prove him right.

Now, if I just had a god damn clue how to do it.

Katie was the single best thing to happen in my life. She enjoyed things that I enjoyed and we explored each other like Columbus all over new lands. My day became two parts, the time with Katie, and the time I wished I was with Katie. I looked for jobs, and thought of Katie. I made plans for the future and thought of Katie. I stopped in the bar for a cold beer, and thought of Katie. Everything I did was about Katie. We spent every minute we could together. She worked on the trains for a while. She saw a lot of the US and had tons of stories about her time as a Hostess. She stopped that and lived at home with her Mom and Dad. That gave her more time with Jack and she basically learned to take care of a kid and was a Mom.

Her parents were kinda cold to me. They wanted better for her. I was always polite and sober around them but they knew my job situation and were not quite enamored with someone that got an odd job here and an odd job there. Katie’s Dad was a teacher and was proud of being a teacher. Shit, between Mom at home and Katie’s Dad at other times, seemed everyone in my life had an education but me. Katie’s Mom was a stay at home mom and she was kinda uppity but alright. Katie was the apple of their eye. Me? I was part worm and part unknown so they kept close tabs on me. If they thought some spray would keep me away, they would have used it.

When Katie and I dated, we got out from under her parents’ steely eyed watch whenever we could. We took Jack on walks to Prospect Park and even did a few weekends on the Jersey Shore, thanks to her dad and some bus fare from the Port Authority. Katie’s Dad got us there but she and I spent most of the time staying out of his way while we were there. I had not been to Keansburg until Katie’s Mom and Dad took us there. It was a resort town and it was a place where the world seemed just a bit less stressful. The summer nights there were some of the best times of my life.

One warm summer evening, Katie and I decided it was time to become man and wife. It was much more than a lark. We both knew we were destined to be married and be married right then. We talked about it a lot but that day we did it. Despite the naysayers and not-so-silent doubters, Katie and I got married in the place where, although neither of us knew at the time, we would spend the rest of our lives, Keansburg, New Jersey.

It was an August day and the ceremony at the Justice of the Peace was kinda short, considering it was getting married and all that stuff. He said a few words, we said a few words, and suddenly, Katie and I were Mr. and Mrs. William Van Wagner, and child. Talk about wham, bam. All the thinking. All the evaluating. All the family drama. All the second, third, and twenty-fifth guessing. Fifteen minutes and a couple of bucks later, and suddenly no one could put us asunder. Was a bit anti-climatic. We kissed and went out into the world legally wed. Let the fun begin! She and I had the same thought. Please dear God, let the fun begin.

At first, it seemed more like we were just sleeping over with permission. Her folks were not overjoyed that we married, nor was my family for that matter but I was not staying under their roof. We were married and all of that but those first few weeks in Keansburg felt like a honeymoon, which I would have taken but there was the whole thing with having to pay for it and all so perhaps the honeymoon would come later. Meanwhile, we were man and wife in Keansburg and could face that man and wife in Brooklyn thing after time on the Jersey Shore. Keansburg was a resort town and, when you were in a resort town, work was something you did somewhere else. In my case, work was something I did not do somewhere else but I missed it less when in Keansburg on those summer days and nights.

In Keansburg, there was a feel to the summer air. Special sounds carried on the smell of the water from the Raritan Bay. The moisture in the air refreshed. It was good just to feel the breeze at night. Lots of City Folks spent the weekends in Keansburg. Some families rented bungalows for the entire summer. Dads deposited the family there on Memorial Day and moved them back to Brooklyn on Labor Day. In the time between, the Dads worked in Brooklyn and came to Keansburg for the weekends. It was a place of a lot of average Joe’s like me. We had a lot in common and enjoyed each other’s company over many a cold beer on summer evenings.

I worried about finding a job and a lot of other things but Katie and I were together so it made all the other shit stink a little less. If I didn’t find work before September, we decided I would move in with Katie and her folks in Brooklyn until we could get our own place. That was just a reality. Meanwhile, we enjoyed the evenings on the Jersey Shore and hoped for something better in Brooklyn.

Time with Jack was easier in Keansburg. There was a boardwalk and they had some Kiddie rides. I was a hero for a bit for a few pennies now and then. Feed the kid a hot dog and let him have some candy and all was right with the world. Being a Dad was tough since I wanted to do the right thing by him but questioned each thing I did since he was not my kid. Katie took my last name when we married so she became Kathryn Van Wagner. She had Jack keep his last name though so Jack Shaeffer was my son. Just another reminder to him and me that he was someone else’s kid.

Looking back, I kinda screwed things up. Was too soft when he needed firmness and to firm when he needed softness. I questioned everything I ever did with him five times and then chose the worst of the possible options. Quite frankly, I was a pretty shitty father for Jack Shaeffer…except on those summer nights when he was a kid and we were just another Dad and another kid at the Kiddie Rides.

It was a time that was just right, without a whole lotta effort. Helped him onto each of the rides, buckled him for safety, and watched him enjoy each one. There were cars, planes, boats, a little merry go round, and even a whip. Jack liked each one. His favorite, and mine as well, was the train. It was a little diesel job painted blue and orange, a miniature version of the Super Chief or something just like the Super Chief. We missed one or even two of the rides on some nights we were there but I always made sure Jack rode the train. He and then his younger brother drove that very same train as teenagers but that was much later. The train left for its three loops around the tracks and Jack waved to me and me to him. The train completed the first loop and Jack waved as the train passed. I waved back. It was like his trip started new and I was at whatever station to greet him anew. There was another loop and we waved again. We said good bye and hello to each other more times and with more passion on that train ride than we did for the rest of our lives. For just a few moments, Jack waved to his Dad and I waved to my kid. Wish I had gotten a few pictures of that. Guess I actually had some, deep in my own special dark room. They added color over the years and belong in the Louvre as much as the Mona Lisa. I wouldn’t give them up for all the tea in China.