I'll Take You to the Candy Shop

For the son of a functioning alcoholic, it may be surprising to learn that I didn’t know the difference between a bar and a liquor store until I was well into high school.  My parents had split custody after their divorce when I was four years old.  Because of this, every other weekend, I would pack a bag and my dad would take me from the bustling metropolis of Centralia, IL to the sticks.  Before we would make that drive, however, my father would take me to the Blue Goose for anywhere from thirty minutes to four hours.

The Blue Goose was a magical shack.  Free standing, though no larger than a convenience store, the walls were covered in shelves of dusty bottles I never once saw anyone purchase.  The floor was mostly filled with boxes of beer and the centerpiece consisted of three barrels filled with beer and ice.  It was from these glorious troughs that my father and his friends would shovel out their libations.

Four-year-old me thought this was totally natural.  The only man I ever saw working there, Dennis, used to throw pieces of Double Bubble at me when I walked in or whenever I got those dead hooker eyes that said, “I guess this is my life now. I’ll sleep on that case of PBR.   There’s plenty of soda and chips.”  I never saw Dennis do that with anyone else.  It made me feel special, which is awesome because I needed that.  I was obviously too stupid to realize this unique relationship was only unique because my recently-divorced father was the only man who would bring his child into a liquor store for more than a quick stop.

A child's only hope of happiness in a liquor store

To be fair, I was basically an only child (both brothers were moved out by this time), well-versed in entertaining myself.  I was the poster child for bringing your kids to liquor stores that operate as bars without proper bar licensure.  I would just curl into fetal position and hum to myself…LIKE ANY NORMAL CHILD!

When I got involved with chorus and speaking in junior high, my dad told me he was so happy I grew out of that shy phase.  I just couldn’t tell him it was all a result of having to ignore my present situation and absorbing way too many adult conversations at an early age.  My schoolmates didn’t understand my humor.  My dad could call a lady a drunk slut and get a shack-full of laughter.  All I got were looks of fear, but not the badass Machiavellian kind.  The kind that’s mixed with pity.  The kind one might have of a concerningly-dissheveled person walking too fast toward one.

Maybe you're just scared of how much you care?

If I had been better at reading context clues, I might have avoided developing my father’s colloquialisms.  This is the same man who wore a t-shirt and swimming trunks to our family Christmas dinner. 

This is why I am never in a rush at the liquor store.  If there were ever a reason to camp out at one, I would be perfect at that!  In addition, I almost never walk out of one without candy.

This is also why my boss thinks I talk like an 80 year old.  I’m not saying, “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” because I want to look older or retro; I’m saying that because I thought that’s how you told people, “I’ve had three beers and need to piss.”

It blows my mind that some counties/states won’t sell liquor and beer at the same place.  If the Blue Goose were under those constraints, they’d either lose all of their decorations or unceremoniously go out of business.  Conversely, anyone not from Centralia gets a similarly blown mind when he or she discovers that all of our liquor stores are drive-thru liquor stores.

Fast forward to Christmas of 2012.  My brother was up from his home in Florida, so Dad and his live-in were pulling out all of the stops. 

A moment to explain my father’s live-in.  My family doesn’t marry.  I mean, at one point, they did.  But then they all got divorced and apparently decided they were over it.  My father has been dating his girlfriend for over a decade.  She is, for all intents and purposes, my stepmom.  Her children call me “brother.”  That is less clinical than it sounds.  I call my real brother “brother.”  I call my cousins “cousin.”  It’s just a thing we do. 

Another moment to explain my brother.  He moved to Florida when he was fourteen.  He even dropped our last name for a while when he was married to a woman named Noel.  Apparently, she didn’t want her name to be too Christmas-y.  He’s now back to the Garland clan.

My old sister-in-law.

Back to the main storyline: my father and “stepmother” took my brother’s wife, his child and him to every place of note in Centralia.  One destination conspicuously not on the agenda was the Blue Goose.  It seems the ownership has changed in Centralia’s version of a hostile takeover.  The entire Blue Goose Crew (BGC) fled to a bar/liquor store (because, why not?) called The Caddy Shack.  I was worried that my father had learned how to drink in an actual bar (This isn’t entirely fair.  One holiday weekend, I went out with some of my friends from home to a dive bar in town.  My dad was there.  He was so happy to see me talking to females at a bar that he bought us all a round.  It was sweet.); my fears were assuaged, however, when he took us to the liquor store side of the establishment, reached into an all too familiar barrel and cracked open a Bud.  To this day, I’ve never seen the bar section of The Caddy Shack.

My imagined idea of what the bar in The Caddy Shack looks like.  I'll probably never know.

Not to be outdone, my sister-in-law and I got a bottle of Shiraz and passed it back and forth.  I am my father’s son, after all.