The Lou Gehrig’s storm hit our family with the ferociousness of a hurricane made only of machine guns and the most poisonous of the poisonous jellyfish, all of which were also experts at shitting on our faces. The storm killed my Father, weakened my Mother, left our house an un-kept junkyard, and planted the old I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-because-my-Father-is-dead on my siblings and I.
Despite all the loss, we did end up in the green in one area: Funeral Wine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Note, when speaking about alcohol, if a writer uses ten or more exclamation points, he or she is an alcoholic]
My Mom, always being sort of a dumb ass, shit fucker when it came to math, vastly over-estimated the amount of wine we needed for the funeral’s after-party. I’m not sure that it is actually called an after-party. I think most people use words like “Reception” or “Open House” or “Last Remembrance” or “Let’s let the shittiness continue as we all stand around in hot clothes taking about how great a dead person was and how much it sucks to be here talking about him or her in the past tense.”
To me though, it was the after party. It was the end of what was and hopefully will be the most difficult year of all the living I’ve done and will do. It was the closing of a chapter, and the beginning of forgetting about hard times. Nothing helps me forget names, faces, proper word pronunciations, societal rules, and anxiety provoking events like wine. It has a nice warmness that let’s me think in more peaceful, happy terms. God I sound like an alcoholic.
After the after party was over, after we had awkwardly thanked everyone for coming and agreed with strangers about what a great man my father was, my sister, Tiffany, and I huddled together to help collect up all the things we had brought: all the pictures of my dad, all of his running medals, all of the flowers, the leftover programs with a picture of his pre-Lou Gehrig’s face. Much to our surprise, we ended up with four full cases of wine.
Me: Holy fucking lord. Tiff, check out how much wine we have left over.
Tiffany: Shit.
Me: [Slightly drunk and thus slightly miscalculating] This will last us forever.
Tiffany: [Less drunk and better at math] I bet this lasts a year.
Me: [Bringing to light the fact that my little sister Michelle is an adopted Native American who, despite my best efforts to dethrone her, remains to be the most wild and reckless drinker in our family] Yeah, as long as Michelle doesn’t get to it. [Holding up hand for a high-five that Tiffany decided not to participate in]
It was a blessing, a pure, unadulterated blessing from God, whoever and where ever he or she is, if anywhere at all. I figured maybe my Dad had something to do with this over-estimation, that he knew we would need the wine to help us mourn his loss. I’m sure my Mom came to him and asked how much wine we should purchase for his funeral after-party. I’m sure he had a small, more reasonable number that he plugged into some formula:
Reasonable # of bottles of wine for a funeral after-party X # of years with Lou Gehrig’s disease X # of caretakers that actually wiped my ass at some point X 14 = # of bottles of wine for funeral after-party
I pictured him in bed having the conversation with my Mom.
Mom: Bob, how much wine do we need for your funeral after-party.
Dad: [Taking a second to realize how strange it feels to be part of the planning committee of his oh funeral, having always assumed that someone else, everyone else would plan such an event, that dying meant your work was over, that the living had the responsibility]
Mom: Answer me god damn it. I can’t plan this whole fucking funeral by myself. I need your help. It is, after all, your funeral. Do you think 20 is enough?
Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]
Mom: Thirty?
Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]
Mom: Fifty?
Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]
I imaged my mom writing down the word wine and next to it placing the number 100.
So the funeral ended and we were up to our balls and pussies in wine. Sure we couldn’t ask our Dad for advice any more. We couldn’t watch another Jazz game with him. We couldn’t go on a walk with him and talk about politics or which pet we liked the most. He wouldn’t be there to see any of us have children. He wouldn’t help us pick out our first home. He wouldn’t be at the table for Thanksgiving dinner. He wouldn’t make plans to visit us over Memorial Day. But, fuck, we had enough wine to not have to think about any of that for awhile.
Tiffany and lifted the boxes from the car and set them down in our elevator (No big deal), the same elevator that we had placed in our house so we could get our dad in and out in his mammoth wheelchair, and sent them to the basement. We unloaded them and set them down around our basement bar.
“Holy fuck, we are set for awhile,” I said looking at the 6 or 7 boxes.
And we were.
Any occasion that popped up we would go to the basement and grab some funeral wine.
Mom: What should we bring for Easter dinner? I don’t feel like cooking.
Me: Well we’re obvious just bringing funeral wine. The read question is white or red?
Or
Me: I’m going to Park City to act like a rich asshole for a couple of day.
Mom: Okay, you got everything.
Me: Yep. Oh wait, I’m going to bring some funeral wine.
Or
Me: [Entering party] I hope everyone likes wine, because I brought two bottles of the shit.
Party-goer: That fucker brings wine everywhere.
Or
Me: [To myself] I think I’m going to get drunk alone tonight.
Me Too: That’s a great idea. Why don’t you go downstairs and pour yourself a glass of funeral wine. Fuck using a wine glass. Use a regular glass so you can hold more. Then you can unwind and take a load off, after all you’re depressed and nothing cures depression like drinking alone in a dark basement while thinking of all you lost.
Me: Great idea. You think I could take down two bottles.
Me Too: Well, you did last night, so I’m not going to bet against you.
I would often catch Tiffany down in the basement.
Me: What are you doing down here?
Tiffany: Just reloading on some funeral wine.
Me: Yeah, I hear ya. I drank two bottles last night.
The supply seemed endless. Every time I thought we were finished, that we would have to find another source for free alcohol, another box would pop up. It wasn’t until my last couple of weeks in Utah, just before my jump to Los Angeles, that we finally ran out. It was sort of an emotional bottle of wine. I got to it before the rest of my siblings, and, like several other bottles before it, I decided to drink it alone on our back porch, an area that my dad considered his favorite part of the house.
As I drank it, I reflected on how everything changed so fast, how we had gone from being a functional, well-adjusted family to a bunch of winos in just two years. We had to rebuild, start over, try to fill the many gap my dad’s absence left. I reminded myself how awful it was watching him die, sitting next to his bed trying to understand the words he forced out of his mouth with all his might. I reminded myself how I dropped the ball a couple of times, like when I started fake vomiting every time he took a shit so I could get out of cleaning it. I reminded myself of how he always wanted the best for us and how he thought going off his respirator was in our best interest as well as his. I reminded myself of how he told me that I would be successful at anything once I decided what I wanted to be successful at. I reminded myself that he loved us and we loved him.
Then, I reminded myself that I still had half a bottle of wine sitting next to my sentimental ass.
I called myself a fag for getting all emotional and filled my cup to the top again. I lifted it to the sky and said, “Cheers Dad. Thanks for everything, especially all this delicious, mother fucking funeral wine.”