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We were in the kitchen he was telling me the in and outs of life to me, an adolescent of 12 who was 22 years his junior.
“Don’t let them fuck with you boy. You have to be above them and think the way they’re not thinking. I swear to god Zachary, you’re a smart kid why don’t you use you’re head.”
At this point his voice would rise, waking the neighbors up enough to put their hand on the phone, but not enough to call the police.
“Why don’t you use your head and stop acting like some kind of a jackass. Think about yourself and not your stupid friends, where the fuck to you expect to be when you grow up” I was just looking for his acceptance.
As a song went on, my father would poor the rest of the whiskey into his glass Putting the bottle down he would light a cigarette.
“Stand attention boy, and salute this well worked soldier” and with his cigarette in one hand he picked up the whiskey bottle in the other and proceeded to sing the death march song.
The smell of the cigarette and the alcohol reeked off his breath. This was a jacket that was worn by all my teachers and loved ones. To this day, walking by the outside of a bar can lure me in by smell alone, giving me the hope I would be able to find my loved ones inside. A reunion of my senses brought to me by products to that kill my senses.
The bottle was stiffly held by the neck and at the end of the song the bottle would drop quickly into the garbage can and my fathers straightened right hand would fly to his forehead shifting his weight quickly and announcing to the kitchen how drunk he had become.
“Let’s go four-wheel driven. Get the keys to the truck.”

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