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Benny at 23: Visiting Dad My father, reading the obits, sits opposite; “you ever know a kid named David Thirk?” he asks. “Yeah, we were sort of friends in grade school,” I lie. Dave was what we called a dirtball, no dad, wore Iron Maiden t-shirts, took 3rd grade twice— a big kid, beat me up a lot.
“Sally from down the street said he killed himself,” my dad’s girlfriend chimes, “it’s a shame, he was a young man.” I remember he smelled bad and his mom had pretty eyes.
So, I’m sitting there with my dad and his girlfriend and I can’t help but think Why is it a shame for the young to die? Why was it a shame for Dave to walk into a bathroom, fill the tub, kill the lights, and bite the razor? That son of a bitch finally ran into something or someone his own size, and as it is with the rest of us, he got licked. Luckily I learned early there’s no shame in being beaten if you’ve got the balls to admit you’re done. And I’ll be damned if Dave didn’t earn, just by running a vein, what he beat out of me years ago.
Benny Drinks his Father low water; there was a sand beach below the rocks. I remember my father calling the lake “the drink.”
“The drink” escapes with me now, remembering that first drink, that first taste and fall, the weariness, the treading to float.
“Sink or swim,” my father yelled, standing above me laughing. With success came a shot of blackberry brandy, 4 years old and learning to swim.
I’m in the bar again. I lift my drink and swallow my father and the lake in one gulp.
In Between Benny’s Napping Dreams, The Gods Whisper Secrets less than a pawn—
another awkward assemblage copper coins and flea cursed sofas pizza boxes and 12-gauge shotguns
are what you are one of the billions a genetic culture a case of probabilities
the time not yours the place not yours We tell you when what how to drink to smoke
you’re nothing but a monkey that can’t dance a tripped up and out disappointment hell, you’re not even yourself
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