#FUCKED UP LATE 50s SNOOPY ON MY DASH???

[taxicabmag]

A Story by Sherri Harvey

How to Learn to Love Liquor

I start practicing early. When I’m nine years old, I master the art of making a stellar vodka martini for my dad because he calls on his way home from work and reminds me of the instructions he gave me yesterday. First, put the martini glass in the freezer so it gets nice and cold. Then in the silver bullet cocktail shaker, pour three shots of premium vodka—Stolichnaya. I know the difference between Stolichnaya and Gordon’s—even if I can’t even say it. I call it Stoli for short, like an old friend I have known since first grade.

I use the biggest shot glass on the shelf—the one my dad brought back as a souvenir for me from his Caesar's Palace Las Vegas trip last year.

I put two ice cubes in the silver bullet. Not three, not one, but two. I set the silver bullet in the freezer next to chilled litre of Stoli that lives there. My dad will be home in an hour. I already know this ritual. I set my Snoopy watch for 50 minutes, go start my addition and subtraction homework for Mrs. Howard’s math class tomorrow. I sit at the glass dining room table with the brass frame. After 50 minutes, I return to start preparing.

I open the freezer and carefully avoid touching the bowl of the glass—I only grab the stem. (If I grab the bowl, I compromise the temperature.) I make sure my fingers aren’t wet—I know, wet, they will stick to the glass. I shake the silver bullet seven times. Not five not six but seven. Using the strainer, I pour the mix into the frozen glass. Then, I gingerly slide three Sugarfina olives on a toothpick and stick them in the glass. I dip my finger in the jar of olives and drop a smidgen into the vodka. I hear my dad’s voice caution: Not too much!

When my dad comes home from work, and he yells out, “Hey Bartender, can I make it a double?” I laugh like he laughs: a deep rolling guffaw that makes his cheeks red. Only my cheeks aren’t yet red from addiction.

I carry the cocktail into the living room to my father, using both of my nine-year-old hands to hold the stem. He is sitting in the pleather recliner with his navy blue checked tie loosened around his neck and his feet propped up on the gold velvet footstool as a Now-100 Ultra Slim burns in the ashtray on the brown wood coffee table next to him. I hold my breath as I walk through the recently-exhaled smoke and hand him his drink gingerly. I watch him bring the concoction to his lips, close his eyes for a second, and swallow. I notice his Adam’s apple as it bobs with each sip. I look him in his glassy blue-green eyes as I hear him say, “Exxxcellent! I’m so proud of you!”

When I am 14, I practice sipping Canadian Club before bed when I can’t sleep. I pour myself a healthy shot (using what my dad thinks is the most treasured favorite gift he ever gave me: the Caesar's Palace shot glass) and slowly raise the glass to my lips. As I get the shot glass close enough to smell it, I try not to gag. I hold my nose and stick just the tip of my tongue in. I feel the burn on my tongue. I see my mom smile as she saunters into the kitchen. “Oh, that will help you sleep. You’d be better just to swallow whole.” I direct the heavy shot glass towards my mouth, close my eyes to stop the tears from escaping, and say a little prayer that it will go down quietly. I toss the glass quickly, feeling the burn all the way down through my throat, my chest, and finally, to the pit of my stomach. I wonder if swallowing fire would burn less. As my head spins, I make my way to bed, hand over mouth, and hope I don’t throw up.

When I am fifteen and my dad moves out to his own apartment, I watch my mom open a bottle of wine to unwind after she gets home from a long day of work as a Delta Airlines Ticket Agent. I am sensitive to the fact that customer service is hard work and she needs to relax. Plus, I remind myself that we are celebrating her independence. I have a glass with her because I know she doesn’t like to drink alone. She picks her second favorite tonight—Beringer's White Zinfandel, because she knows I will have a drink with her, and as she pours the pink elixir all the way to the top, she smiles at me like she is giving me a precious gift. I take a sip before I spill it, then raise the glass to toast. I ask myself if I will ever start to like the taste of any liquor. I watch her finish the bottle while I am working on my first glass of the sweet pink drink. I look at her and say, “You are the coolest mom in the world” to remind myself—all my friends say so.

When I am almost sixteen, and my friends come in the front door to pick me up before the football game Friday night, my mom calls out from the kitchen “Stacey, Ronnie, can I make you a drink? I am having CC and diet!” Stacey and Ronnie excitedly exclaim “yes, please!” I go in the kitchen to try to slow her down and laugh when Stacey calls me by my nickname: The Gestapo. I roll with it. I watch my mom fill a red plastic cup three-quarters full with CC and secretly cringe inside as she adds a splash of diet coke. I grab Stacey’s car keys and announce that I will drive, even though I don’t legally have my license yet for another two months. I listen to my friends giggle about the strength of their cocktails, smile politely and nod sympathetically all the way out to the car as they tell me how cool my mom really is. I tell them I already know.

When I am sixteen and studying for my English final on Shakespeare tomorrow, my mom comes in my bedroom with my Aunt Mimi and Uncle Brent to tell me they are going up to the Peppermint Twist Bar for Country Night to dance. I tell them not to stay out too late and remind her not to drink and drive. Then, I follow her into the kitchen to watch as she pours three stiff Canadian Clubs with a splash of Diet Coke into red plastic cups and hands them to my aunt and uncle. They dash out the front door.

As I try to figure out Hamlet’s hamartia, I fall asleep slowly, book in lap, then wake up to the red digital clock announcing 2:45. I feel the stillness in the lonely house. I get up and check my mom’s room. I am home alone. I throw on ragged grey sweats and flip-flops, grab my car keys, and head up to the Peppermint Twist. I storm in the front door, ignoring the doorman who laughs at me in my sweatpants with my sixteen-year-old swagger. I look out on the dance floor and see my mom and aunt and uncle busting a move to Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart.” I try not to explode with frustration. I watch them look up and see me. I stare, incredulously, as they run promptly off the dance floor to the bathroom—all three of them into the Men’s Room. I follow them in and tell them to get their asses in the car. I am sick of this. I tell them they are going to kill someone drinking and driving. They roar with laughter. I listen to them say my nickname: The Gestapo. I wonder if they even get the Hitler reference as they say that. I ask myself how they ever became ADULTS. But, as they start to follow me, I let out a sigh of relief because they are amicably leaving. At least this time. They grab their purses and coats, slam the last of their CC and diet cokes and follow me out. As we exit, my mom and aunt grab me by both arms (my uncle drags behind) and tell me how much they love me. I seethe with anger as they say their good-byes to their friends like rock stars saluting their fans. I congratulate myself that they follow me out.

In the car, I try hard to ignore their obnoxious singing to Garth Brooks playing on the radio. “I got friends in low places,” and louder—I wait for it “WHERE THE WHISKY DROWNS AND THE BEER CHASES.”  I cringe as they roar with car-shaking laughter. I vow silently to never pick them up again. I tell myself that I don’t care if they kill someone—that’s on them. I don’t admit to myself that I am lying.

When I get home, I watch them head for the liquor cabinet and make themselves another cocktail. I slam my bedroom door and scream “Fuck you guys!” I ignore the picture of my sister that falls off the hall wall and shatters. I am happy she is staying the night with her friend Dacia. I remind myself that I have to be up in three hours to take my English exam.

I consider going into the kitchen to grab a shot, but decide against it. Because I can’t stand the thought of looking at them. Because I have an English test in three hours. Because the sound of their laughter makes me want to run out there with a butcher knife. Because I resent the taste. Because I still haven’t figured out whether to be the sinner or the savior.  

One feels so right, but the other feels so easy.

Sherri Harvey spends her days pouring over words, galloping her horses, hiking with her dog, scaring her husband and drinking vodka, sometimes all at once. She has published in Eventing Nation and 3Elements Literary Review. She teaches English and Comparative Literature at San Jose State University. #sherricoyote

Pictured: Looking into the Sun, Colored pencil on paper, 2018. By John Collins, Taxicab Magazine’s Virtual Artist-in-Residence.