Month: April 2019

“Well, it was like I said, I’d been drinkin’ at the Tortoise for a few years, and at this point I was almost up to the legal drinkin’ age and people seemed to have accepted I wasn’t goin’ to be run out of town by their dirty looks and their comments in the bar, so the looks became shorter and the voices quieter. Sometimes, they didn’t say anything or even try to make eye contact. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still hear their thoughts or feel their eyes burnin’ holes in the back of my head.

“Anyway, the looks and whatnot I could deal with, but at the time, I was still young and still angry. I’m still angry, but I don’t wear it like some sort of badge like I did then. Pap used to tell me to pour the anger into my work, but I didn’t listen. I let it fuel my drinkin’ instead.

“I wasn’t so angry I ever said anything stupid at the Tortoise. I wouldn’t be talkin’ to you now if I had. I had my fun with the air in the truck tires, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy the rage, so once a month I’d go around and howl at the moon.”

“You’d howl at the moon? Like a dog?”

He ignored me, “you know the hill toward the other side of town, away from the Melanski? The one where all the folks who make their money elsewhere live in the big white houses with the huge front porches and the wrought iron fences? Once a month, when the moon was full, I’d leave the Tortoise early. I’d stop at Coop’s Liquor Store and get a bottle of whatever was cheap.

“I’d set out toward the hill mumbling to myself about how I’d been wronged and how I was going to make all these bastards in the town who took the name Holmes in vain. As I got closer to the hill, and further into the bottle, my volume would rise and I’d rail against them, calling out how it wasn’t my fault.

“These people on the hill didn’t know how good they had it. They lived up above the rest of the town. My grandfather, he’d built his house right in the middle of the town, close to the mills and the river. He’d hired local men to build it. He didn’t want any of us to forget what we meant to the town.

“Up on the hill, those people my father would rub elbows with to keep the mill running, they didn’t care about the people in the mills, or those of the town. My father did. It’s what made him so desperate. He knew just who was being let down by the failure of the mills. That’s what I’d tell the whole town as I climbed the hill.

“I’d get to the top ‘bout the time I was at the bottom of the bottle. I’d rain my fury down upon Berwick – sound carried from up there – I’d recount all the cuts and sleights I’d received since my father’s death. I’d rear my head back and call out names; at the top of my lungs I’d list the hurts they’d caused me and the common folk of the town. I rained truth down up on them. Not that any of them heard it.

“The police would come get me and haul me in. Pap would bail me out the next morning. He wouldn’t say a word. He’d take a bit out of my pay and that would be that. After a while, folks came to expect my full moon ramblin’s, and they just kept doing what they’d always done: ignored me.

“I know they all hated it, but they couldn’t do anything about it. Your Pap had something on Judge Duval, so he wouldn’t ever let them prosecute me.

“Well, one night, it must have been August – it was so hot and humid it felt like you could cut through the air – I went too far. People had gotten used to seeing me at the Tortoise and monthly rambles, but I wasn’t any less hated. And I myself was still angry, and feeling like I had to prove myself.

I’d had a full day at the cemetery. We’d had three or four burials in the middle of needing to get the grass cut. When I got down to the Tortoise, I hadn’t had more than a glass or two of water. In those days I wasn’t drinking as much beer on the job, so there was room for a bit of water. 

“I’d skipped lunch as well with us having so much to do, so my usual hit me hard and fast. I was rolling by the time I headed out howlin’. 

“For the first time in my life I picked up a bottle of Coop’s Homemade at the liquor store. I’m not sure why I did it. Must have been the heat, ‘cause Coop’s was legend in Berwick for its ability to run small engines an in a real pinch, cars. It was best served cold, but I was still parched from the day, and rollin’, so I dug right in.

“When you’re young, there’s no statute of limitations on the number of stupid things you’re able to do, drunk or otherwise. With Coop’s shine in me, I was delirious, roaming the streets, roaring into oncoming traffic, careening off signs and buildings, a menace to objects both mobile and immobile. 

“At a certain point, things became a blur. Even now, I only remember pieces of the rest of the night. I think I’m lucky to be alive, and after that night, I know the list of those who wished I wasn’t increased by quite a few.

“It’s a wonder I made it anywhere I was so belligerent. I still don’t know how I did it. Spirit of my father maybe, but he was not a vengeful man. Anyhow, I ended up outside the Tavern, and then I was through the door.

“I can only imagine what a sweaty mess I looked like as I slammed through the door. The cold air jumped up and slapped me, but it didn’t sober me up. The lights of the room blurred around me.

“I remember sliding into an empty chair at the table of Stan Millen, my pop’s old drinking buddy, who’d made his name in synthetic sportswear. The mayor was sitting nearby with his wife. Pap’s face flashed through somewhere. There was a lot of shouting. Big Mike Tatum – Pap ever tell you about him? – the old foreman at the mill – mid-level employees could drink at the Tavern during the week, but Fridays and Saturdays the were at the Tortoise commiserating with the rank and file – punched me. I pulled on the sleeve of Zeke Watson’s sport coat. A table of kids I went to high school with was laughing. Your mother gave me a pained smile and a towel full of ice. I woke up in my bed at the cemetery.

“That’s what I remember from that night. I don’t know how I got there, or what I said, but after that night, Pap drank with me at the Tortoise the next couple full moons, leaving me to understand maybe I shouldn’t go back out howlin’.

“And things were worse than ever in town. People wouldn’t even look at me with disdain anymore. Those old ladies at the grocery store, who hated me, now they looked at me with pity or they’d just shake their heads in sadness.

“Give me disdain and anger any day of the week. Pity? Well, that’s ten different kinds of worse.”

Santiago Holmes died of liver cancer at 60. He’d lived a hard life, never missing a day of work and missing even fewer nights at the Tortoise. He’d pushed and punished his body because of a slight he never quite understood.

Or maybe he knew just what he was doing. Maybe drinking himself to death was a long slow suicide right in the public eye, where they would be forced to feel it. It was him thumbing his nose at those who blamed him for their hardships, as he showed them he was no better off than they were. He wanted them to understand they were the ones who had driven him to this. He wanted them to feel guilt.

After the first night at the Tortoise, he never again contemplated being a favored son in Berwick. He told me, “Once people have made up their minds about you, they aren’t going to change.”

I tried to refute him, telling him I found it hard to believe people could not put aside grudges and move on. I was younger then, more optimistic. He said, “the only thing people dislike more than fear is change and that’s because they fear it. Those mills were dying long before my pop even thought about having a kid, but do you think any of these bastards saw it comin’?”

I started to answer, but he kept on.

“No, they didn’t, because they didn’t want to, because they would have to change. The name Holes represents the owner they were always fighting against for ‘more’ and it came to represent the people who they came to see as having taken their work away from them. It doesn’t matter for one second that it wasn’t me who was in charge of the company. I have the name, and they aren’t going to change their anger against the name.

“Not that it was our fault. They all should check the names on their mailboxes for more people to blame. It wasn’t one person. It was everyone.”

“What if you tried to explain that to them.”

“Kid you are somethin’. You think any of these old coots would listen? They just wanna hurry up and get to Mt. Hope. They don’t want to sit around thinking about philosophy or using logic.

“No, they want to knock off whatever work they can find and slide into the Tortoise for a beer and a shot and a chance to take their turn bitching about what could have been if they’d just had one break in life to a roomful of other ‘wouldabeens’ and ‘couldabeens’ too afraid to call them on their bullshit or see the truth.”

“But if that’s the case, and it isn’t your fault, why don’t you tell them?”

“You’re not hearing me. They don’t want to hear what I have to say. They’ve fallen on such hard times; they resent everything about me even though I don’t have much of anything. Pap did me the unfortunate favor of giving me a full-time job, which is more than a single one of these bastards has right now. You think they an to listen to a word from the person they think ruined their lives but has somehow managed to ‘land on his feet?’”

Using up a courage I did not know my teenage self to possess, I asked, “But you had to have tried to tell them it wasn’t your fault at least once?”

His eyes went elsewhere, remembering some event or time, and then a mask of black rage, darker than any I’d seen before covered his face, “I tried to make it right once, but it only made things worse.”

“How?”

“I’d been drinkin’ at the Tortoise for a couple of years. I’d even come to the point where they didn’t like having me there, and they let it be known in the awful glares, but they didn’t spit in my path anymore.

“Each night, once ol’ Pete Smallman had served me my first round, the place forgot about me. They’d rant about how bad things were in town; how they couldn’t believe the mill had closed, but the number of times they’d put emphasis on the name ‘Holmes’ had almost stopped.

‘Yeah, they’d say my name loud enough to where I couldn’t help but look up. When I did, I’d see a roomful of eyes staring back at me in the expectation of my saying something. I know I’m a drunk and a bum, but I’m no fool, I wasn’t then either. 

“There were always five or more of them, I wasn’t going to start something and get my body broken. I think they might have respected me more if I’d fought back, but I’d just as soon have them think me a coward. I didn’t even stare hate back at them. 

“Those nights, when they were particularly riled, I didn’t close the Tortoise. I’d leave early, slumping out soon after their comments, so they’d think they’d beat me. I’d go out to their trucks and let the air out of the tires. I didn’t stick around to see them rage, but I imagined it, and it always made me laugh.”

“Is that why everyone kept, or keeps, hating you so much?” I asked.

“I don’t think it helped, but it wasn’t what kept them fueled. No, it was the still the name no matter what else I did; it was always the name. At least it was then. Now, they hate me because it’s what their fathers and grandfathers did, and in this day and age, it’s a lot easier to just keep doing what ‘s been done than to have an original thought. 

“It doesn’t help much that I’m mean and a drunk. I don’t like interacting with these folks, and that puts them off as well. When you look like me,” at this he gestured to his dirt stained, worn out t-shirt and jeans, “folks tend to give you a wide berth and form their own opinions of you from a distance. It’s that much easier if they already have an idea of who you are from the gossip of others, or family traditions.”

“But what happened when you tried to explain you hadn’t run them out of their jobs? How did it make things worse?”

Pap was drunk the entire week after Gram died, right up to her funeral. He didn’t leave the cemetery shed for anything. He and Santiago Holmes sat there drinking Jack and Buds with Santiago leaving every now and then to tend to some piece of maintenance in the cemetery or to restock their supply.

“I’d go out to the store around 5pm and get us the necessary supplies to get through the night,” Santiago told me not too long after Pap passed, “we needed a bottle of Jack and two racks of Buds and maybe a package of hot dogs to heat up on the grill.

“I thought I knew from drinking, but Pap, man, he could pack it away. And it didn’t mess with him. He stayed steady. If anything, the steel in his eyes hardened, but he kept quiet, to himself. We didn’t say two words any of those nights. I think that’s why he let me hang around with him; I knew how to keep quiet.

“We’d sit in the shed, Pap in that beat up rocker he kept there and me on a bucket, and we’d put ‘em back and watch the sun go down over the trees. We’d sip ‘em slow letting the icy coldness of the beer cool the burn of the whiskey on our throats.

“Around 8pm, I’d grill up the dogs. I never had to force the food on Pap. I think he knew it’s what she would have wanted. That was the great thing about him: he did for himself, but he always took your Gram’s wishes into consideration. You could learn a lot from that.

“At some point, Pap would end up falling asleep in the rocker. It wasn’t much of a surprise as he’d been putting them away all day. I’d head up to the apartment and have a nightcap before turning in. When I came down in the mornings, Pap would be sitting in the rocker with a Bud, rocking back and forth nice and easy. We wouldn’t say anything, and I’d head out to get the early chores done.

“I wasn’t upset for a second about the extra work I had to do that week. Some men might’ve gotten a hair over their ass about having to put in the extra time, or effort, not me. Death is death, and everyone dies, and it isn’t worth getting yourself tied up in knots about, but your Gram, she was the wind in Pap’s sails. She kept him on course. A better woman hasn’t been placed on this earth, though your mama comes close. It does take time to grieve a woman like your Gram. I don’t know that your Pap ever came to terms with her passing. He was always a little off-balance, more ornery, a little meaner without enjoying it after she went.

“He was mad at the world and tried to fight the whole damn place to ease his rage at her passing. We all know how that battle turns out,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes going off somewhere only he could see.

I was so young at the time I interrupted with a question about how the battle turned out.

“You can’t fight the world,” he replied, “or at least, you can’t fight it and expect the outcome to be favorable. Life is going to move on as it moves on, and this world of people, places and things is not going to bend to the will of one individual.

“So you got dealt a bad hand, or you got hurt, or something didn’t go how you wanted it to go, maybe someone died, that is life, and this world doesn’t care. Some people in it, like your Gram, might try to lift you up, but the world is going to keep turning, whether you’re up or not. Life goes on. You can’t rage against the world. You’ll wear yourself and just make yourself angrier.

“Believe me, I’ve been fighting everything and everyone since I was 18. Pap was the one who gave me a chance, but I didn’t much listen, I just kept roaring at the world, pushing against it, resisting, and look at me now. I’ve got next to nothing. For all the fighting I’ve done, I’m still just a lousy drunk.

“You can put all this negative ‘woe is me’ energy out there into the world, and fight everything you think is a wrong or a slight, but it’s never going to fill that hole inside of you that you’re trying to tape over with the anger.”

Seeing the confusion on my face, Santiago tried to simplify his point.

“Would you run head first into a concrete wall?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, saying you did, would you do it over and over again to try and bring the wall down?”

“No, that’s stupid. You’d knock yourself out.”

“Right, that’s what fighting the world is like.”

“And you’re saying Pap fought the world?”

“He tried to.”

“How?”

“He had been grumbling to me for years about how the Mt. Hope Cemetery Committee needed to stop people planting flags next to the stones of their loved ones on Memorial Day. They’d get caught up in the cord on the trimmers and were a real pain in the ass. 

“Well, he had enough, and he started writing the committee every week about it. They’d didn’t write back, call or acknowledge him in any way, but he just kept on writing them.”

“He did not.”

“He did. Did you know that when your Gram got her first diagnosis, he wrote to her doctors each week, and to specialists across the country, asking what else could be done, and were they doing enough? He’d read about something in some old magazine and ask why they weren’t trying that. He’d call them on the phone and tell them they were failing and promise to write to the Board of Health to have their licenses taken away.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That’s fine, you don’t have to, but it’s true. He raged against these things that either didn’t matter or were beyond his control. That’s why losing your Gram hurt him so much; she balanced him out. 

“She also took pleasure in his getting worked up. When he’d go off on one of his rants, or do something to put a burr in the side of members of the community – such as hiring me – your Gram would smile and encourage him, because she knew it gave him some small sliver of joy.

“She loved him, and he loved her back somethin’ fierce. Pap knew just what she did and what she meant to him. You might have thought he was just some ornery old man, who didn’t love anyone, but he was whip smart. He knew had a good woman, and he loved her.

“When we got to the seventh day of drinking, the night before your Gram was to be buried, Pap set out to dig the plot. I went with him, but I was just along to carry tools and the cooler.

“Pap was as determined as I’ve ever seen a man. It was going on midnight when we set out. He’d been at it with the Buds since breakfast, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. Most men would have been falling over themselves, but Pap seemed to have grown. 

“I’d always known him to be powerful, but a little hunched in on himself. As we walked down to the plot, he stood straight and tall, even under the weight of the plywood stencil we used to mark the plot.

“You know this already, but he had picked out a beautiful spot for her, right in the shade of those pines, looking out on the river. The night had cleared and the sliver of moon cut a shimmering path across the water and up to her stone. You couldn’t have asked for a better place for a soul to rest and look out on the world, at least if you believe in the spirit looking on from the afterlife and that sort of nonsense.

“What you don’t know is Pap dug that hole himself. By hand. He edged around the stencil, cut the sod into squares and removed each one as gentle as thought it were an egg in his hand. Then he set to diggin’.

“It was a perfect night for the work, no so cool’s you needed a coat, but the heat not oppressive either. There was a nice breeze coming with the moonlight up from the river. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough light to dig, but the moon was giving off just enough. It didn’t matter, Pap had dug so many, he could have done the work blindfolded.

“He was a strong man your Pap. Country strong, the muscle built through good hard work. He didn’t say a word the entire time we were out there, just set to the job and worked like a machine, shovelful after shovelful flying from the hole landing in a perfect pile on the uphill side of the plot. 

“I tried to help, but there was a sad firmness in his eyes that said ‘no,’ this was his job and he was the only one who could do it. It wasn’t worthy of the tractor and it certainly wasn’t worthy of a slob like me. I did what I do best and leaned on my shovel and made sure the beer didn’t get warm.

“I’m sure it sounds like what people expect of me when I sat I stood there drinking beer while Pap dug that hole, but there was nothin’ for it. I was in awe watching Pap assault that hole, sinking further into the earth with each shovelful of dirt.

“They don’t make ‘em like Pap anymore, that kind of hardness, that loves the work and embraces the challenge of doing something physical. The shovel looked so small in his hands, and the power, whether out of rage at your Gram’s passing or just from the years of working the cemetery, the dirt flew fast in an unwavering rhythm.“That’s the thing no one can find today, the rhythm of the work. They don’t see the music of it. Pap found it that night and the dirt sang from the hole. In no time, he was tamping down the sides, making the edges perfect for her.