Left Handed

20

My dad, am I right? He was a real joker. Do you want to know the real hot dope about my father? I'll tell you.

His name was Robert Paulson... that got you, didn't it? No. It wasn't. Robert Paulson is imaginary.

His real name is Joe Ortega. He used to sell marijuana for a living until Washington state made that shit legal. His guy just up and quit. So dad had to find a new supplier. It never once crossed his mind to change direction, sell something else. After all, he had become a pretty good salesman: he could haggle the shit out of anyone.

The new supplier, Grinder, was a real asshat. Sure he had the "good stuff" with the high THC content which would ensure loyal customers for a long time. But he also sold actual drugs. Like skag. And he urged dad to do the same. He refused at first.

He was in that weird counterculture sphere that idolized free love and weed and alcohol, despised the government whatever they did but despised real junkies even more.

So he hated Grinder but also saw no way to break his association with him.

Gradually he broke. I was pretty young when it started. Well, I'm still young but you know what I mean. One day he came home with heroine. Needles and all. The whole starter-kit. I didn't know at first. I was in my room, reading a book when my parents started arguing.

It was low at first but gradually got louder and louder. My mother never did anything; not even marijuana or alcohol. I have no idea how they put up with each other but, like the conversation that night, it devolved until it shattered.

When the shouting started, I began to cry. I couldn't help it. I only heard things like "Tracy" and "needles" and "dumb shit". But somehow I thought it was about me:

He locked himself in the bathroom. Mom kicked and punched the door but he didn't respond. When I peeked out of my room, she was crumpled on the floor of the hall. Her whole body shook with sobs. I sat next to her and stroked amber hair. It was the most adult thing I've ever done.

At one point she fell asleep, right there on the floor and I fell asleep, too. Dad slept on the bathroom floor, just behind the door. It was the last thing we ever did as a family.

In the morning mom tried the bathroom door again but it was still locked. She went away for a minute and came back with a hammer and proceeded to smash the bathroom lock to splinters.

The noise of the door breaking woke me. Also, it took at least ten minutes. It's not like mom is the Hulk.

For some reason she didn't send me away for this next part. She must have suspected what was coming. People don't stay in the bathroom all night if they can help it. And his phone was still on the kitchen table where he had left it last night. I think mom wanted me there to learn a lesson. Believe me when I say, I did learn a lesson.

He lay, fully clothed, in the bathtub. His face was pallid and clammy and his hair was plastered to his skull by sweat. When I stepped closer, the smell hit me. Urine and unwashed body is not something you want to identify with your father's smell.

I looked closer and saw his right arm had a belt cinched above the biceps. It wasn't too tight, though. Then I saw the needle marks.

In his left hand he had a syringe. It did not look clinical. I swallowed nervously.

"Mom? Is he... dead?" I asked.i turned to her and saw her blink away a tear.

She pushed me behind her and stepped up to the tub. I looked on from behind her as she placed two fingers on her husband's jugular and waited. She listened to his breathing. She removed the belt and the syringe and carefully placed them in the bin.

"Don't touch that, Tracy," she said. I nodded but as I was still behind her she added, "Did you get that?"

"Yes, madam," I answered. Up to that point in time and never again did I address her that way but the situation seemed to warrant it. Or maybe I had consumed too much historical pirate fiction by then.

"Good," she said. "It's disgusting stuff."

Then she slapped dad full on in the face. He groaned quietly but otherwise didn't move. She took a bucket from underneath the sink, filled it with cold water and splashed it in his face.

It did the trick. He hadn't overdosed. He was just sleeping very deeply and was now coming into the mother of all hangovers.

He tried to argue with mom at first but he didn't have it in him. And she did. Instead, he packed a few items into a duffle bag and left. He didn't even say goodbye although he called me in the evening of the next day and apologized and promised to visit soon.

He moved in with Grinder and together they built their little empire.

We saw each other on some Saturdays but they weren't happy days.

I grew distant from him. The visits became rare and far between until one Monday evening he burst into the apartment. He looked horrible. Skeletal. Mom jumped from the sofa and was about to tackle him when he got onto his knees and, almost like a supplicant, begged for mom to hear him out.

Once again she sent me to my room and I heard them argue. I didn't hear anything. I put on my headphones and listened to Release the Sounds. Somewhere during Ave Maria, my mother came into the room and told me to pack my stuff and that we were going to Spain to visit my grandparents and how it was high time I met them and ate proper Spanish cuisine.

Of course I saw through her ploy. I'm not an idiot.

Author's Note: So... this is probably the half way point. You made it this far. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed it and will accompany Tracy to the finish.

Any questions thus far?

Suggestions?

Byeeeeeee!