My father was an alcoholic.
It’s an easy thing to say, but it doesn’t really convey the uniqueness of any individual experience.
I remember my first actual driving lesson.
I’d already been mowing the grass on our Craftsman riding mower for a while,
so I understood the basics—turn the wheel, push the pedal.
But I’d never been behind the wheel of a real car.
His car was a shitty 1980-something Honda Civic hatchback.
Primer grey, 4-speed transmission.
It reeked of Merit cigarettes—
butts scattered on the floor, ashtray overflowing.
“This is how you hold your scotch while you drive,”
he said, placing a lowball glass between his legs.
It was full when we got in the car,
now just a few sips lower.
I didn’t always recognize the abuse
when it was happening,
or when it was about to get worse.
“Ease out on the clutch.
When you feel the car start to move,
let go of the brake and hit the gas.”
I followed the steps.
The car lurched forward, sputtered, and stalled.
The jolt caused his drink to splash.
His backhand landed hard—
my ear exploded in pain.
“Spill my drink again and you’ll be sorry.
Now do what I said—
find the friction point, then give it gas.”
This wasn’t like the mower.
I restarted the engine,
hand on the clutch, foot ready on the gas.
This time I used the handbrake instead of the foot brake.
Revved the engine up,
released the clutch—
The car screeched, tires spinning gravel,
and I slammed the brakes.
The pain came twice as hard this time:
right side from his fist,
left from where my head hit the window and frame.
“Don’t fuckin’ burn out my clutch,”
he growled.
The car stalled again.
His drink splashed again.
And again the blows came.