The Handyman's Apprentice

His father was your stereotypical Irish drunk who made a living as a handyman but only worked a few hours a day before he’d knock off early and pick up a quart of the cheapest generic liquor he could find - usually Pick N’ Save Five Star vodka.    Most days he was passed out on the couch before 2:00 pm.  I know this because I worked with both of them when I was high school and occasionally after I graduated.  

His mom was the long suffering type who always seemed to seethe just below the surface.  You never knew what would set her off.  One minute she’d be smiling like the buddha while her husband strode into the living room in his boxer shorts with a drink in his hand and the next minute she’d fall into hysterics because her son forgot to let the dog out.  She tried to hold it all together but sometimes she was even scarier than the father.  At least you knew what to expect from him.

We partied a lot together.  We’d skip school and go shoot pool or get a bottle of whatever we could afford - usually from Lee Love’s Liquor on Atkinson where they’d sell you anything if you could afford it and had the balls to walk in there in the first place.  Much as we drank though he began to prefer any other drug he could get his hands on.  He would not be like his father, he’d find his own addiction.  He’d steal his dad’s car and we’d go joy riding knowing that his parents would call the cops.  He stole a neighbor’s car and an uncle’s car.  It got to the point where I didn’t ask anymore.  I didn’t want to know.

As high school came to a close we were already drifting apart.  Despite my best efforts to fuck it up completely I’d gone to school just enough to graduate.  But by then he was already gone.  He bounced out of one rehab center after another and it was just a matter of time before he careened completely off the edge.  One day at lunch I heard he held up a baggie of joints and asked the cafeteria who wanted to buy some.  Busted.

From rehab it wasn’t long before he’d gone over completely - psych ward.  To hear him tell it afterward you’d believe he’d been born again.  But the story I got from others is that in the final days before he was admitted he was ranting about making the earth tremble.  He was later diagnosed as manic-depressive but he never disavowed his religious experience completely nor was his conversion complete.  He’d preach to anyone who’d listen about the evils of drugs and alcohol then backslide like a citizen of Sodom.  Every few months he’d be back to his old self partying harder than ever.  On one particularly memorable night he and a friend were so hard up they broke into the library for drug money.  They got like twelve dollars.

No one knows exactly what happened to him.  I like to think that his conversion somehow stuck and that he’s managed to find peace somewhere.  The memory of his decent left a profound impression on me.  Somewhere he crossed some line and it was no longer some adolescent game he was playing.  But where’s the line and how can you avoid it?  I read somewhere that living on the edge may have its dangers but it’s more than made up for by the view.  If you live too safely are you living at all?  Do our fears prevent us from living life to the fullest?  

I’m thinking about driving to Alaska this summer.  Crazy?  Sure.  Three thousand miles of open highway with bears and mountains and freaky hitchhikers and all of the other terrifying, amazing things that fill the gap between here and there.  Scary?  Maybe, I might get lost - but I’m hoping to lose at least part of myself and leave it in the wilds of the Trans-Canada Highway - I’d like to leave behind the part of me that’s always fearful of crossing that line and going too far, to blow out the candle that separates me from the darkness . . .