Page 6 of Behind the Lights

Thanksgiving day, my dad and I got invited next door to eat and spend the day with Ricky’s family. Since my dad wasn’t good at cooking, we showed up with a store-bought pumpkin pie and a can of whipped cream. My dad and Uncle John sat and watched football while Ricky’s mom and grandma made dinner for all of us. We played in his room until the food was ready because it was cold and rainy outside.

After everyone ate their fill and the kitchen was cleaned up, Uncle John left as did my dad because he had work the next day. My dad was a mechanic and rarely got week days off. I stayed over at Ricky’s, so Mary could watch me while he worked.

The change in my dad since I broke my arm was like night and day, but I wasn’t sure what to expect when Christmas came. The week before he’d surprised me by taking me to pick out a small tree to set up on the table inside the front window of our living room. I knew money was tight, so we grabbed a couple inexpensive decorations for it and a strand of lights. I didn’t care how big or small it was, or if it shined so brightly you could see it from the moon. To me it was the best tree ever because my dad and me picked it out and decorated it together.

On Christmas morning, my dad came in to wake me up.

“Merry Christmas, sleepy head,” he said, pulling the covers off me. “Why aren’t you up yet?”

I shrugged, not willing to hurt his feeling by telling him I didn’t expect to find any presents under the tree.

“Come on, looks like Santa came last night,” he said, the twinkle in his eye told me he wasn’t kidding.

I bolted upright, wiping the sleep from my eyes and stared blankly back at him.

Amused at my reaction, he cracked-up. “Come on, let’s go.”

I ran out of my room and down the stairs, surprised I didn’t trip and tumble down them, and beat my dad to the living room. On the floor sat a large box with my name on it along with a couple smaller presents sitting on top of the table. And over the fireplace, was a stocking with my name on it and it was full. I couldn’t help the happy tears that came while taking it all in.

My dad hugged me, something he hadn’t done in a long time. “I think those have your name on them. Go ahead, dig in.”

I grabbed the big box off the floor first and ripped the paper to shreds opening it. Underneath the wrapping was my very first race track. The same one Ricky had. I ran my hand across the front of the box, afraid I was still asleep and dreaming all of this. I couldn’t believe my dad got it for me.

“Here’s the stocking Santa left for you.” He took it off the hook and handed it to me before taking a seat on the creaky old beat-up brown couch we had. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t believe in Santa because I didn’t want to burst his bubble. The elated look on his face as he watched me open everything made keeping that secret worthwhile.

Chapter

Two

Spring, 2003

It was spring break, and we were beyond bored. Not a good recipe for two pre-teens. My dad was at work, and Ricky and I were hanging out at my house with the promise that we would check in with Mary every couple of hours. We had the music blaring; our love for metal was well underway and were jamming out on our air instruments to Metallica’sSanitarium.

When the song was over, we went to the kitchen to try and scrounge up something to eat, when Ricky stumbled upon a bottle of Stoli vodka that was tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets. It had been there for some time and I never saw my dad drink anything other than beer, so I’m guessing it belonged to my mom.

“Dude,” Ricky said, pulling it out of the cupboard and waving it around.

“Huh, what’s that?” I asked, leaving the pantry and heading for the refrigerator.

“Vodka bro, Stoli. Think your dad will be mad if we try it?” he asked, but the grin on his face let me know it wasn’t really a question. His mind was already set on doing so.

“I dunno. He got rid of all the bottled stuff a long time ago. He probably doesn’t even know it was up there.” I stuck my head in the fridge, hoping to find stuff to make sandwiches with. “Score!” I yelled, grabbing the loaf of bread, mustard and cheese slices. “Let’s go back to my room.”

Ricky brought the vodka with him and when we got up to my room, he opened it. I threw together a couple of sandwiches and handed him one. He took a swig out of the bottle and instantly started choking.

“It burns,” he howled.

“Ha, you sound like that chick from theExorcist. It burns.” I attempted the voice while cracking up before taking a bite of my ghetto meal. To this day, I still crave my poor man’s sandwich fix. It reminds me of home when we’re on the road.

Ricky kept coughing.“Here, dude,” he handed me the bottle, “try it.”

What the hell, I thought taking a swig and spitting it out. “People really like this?”

He was rolling on the floor, laughing his ass off. “You’re a wuss, dude.” He took a big swig, making a face before swallowing it and was soon back to choking.

“I’m a wuss? At least I didn’t choke,” I reminded him.

“No, you spit it out. That’s even worse.” He took another drink. “After the first couple of swigs, it doesn’t burn so much anymore.”

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