God, Are You Up There?
By Darrel Bird
Copyright 2010 By Darrel Bird
Darren Bond sat glassy-eyed as the loud music pulsed and thumped against the walls of the room. He looked around at everyone sitting cross-legged on the floor. There were towels stuffed under the door to keep the marijuana smoke from seeping out of the room, and you could get a hit off the fog alone. The music had begun to sound like screeching tires in his ears, and he thought, How did I come to this?
Darren’s head was swimming as he sucked on his third roach. He had already been drinking most of the afternoon, but neither the marijuana nor the beer was doing much good. He looked around the room at the men he had come with and wondered what he was doing there. He gazed at his grungy friends with their long stringy hair. Then he reached up and touched his own head, and his hand came away greasy.
He thought of his wife, waiting at home with their five kids, and a twinge of guilt went through him. He knew he ought to be getting home. He said to the guy nearest him, and to no one in particular, “Hey, I’m goin’ home!” Everyone was too stoned to notice. Darren walked out the door and staggered to his car. The sun was still shining as he gunned the ancient Olds, eased out of the driveway onto the street, and headed for home.
The next morning he awoke with a roaring headache, and staggered to the shower to get ready for work. Darren worked for a building company, just off one of the main drags in the city. They built prefabricated houses. The wages weren’t so hot, but he liked the variety of the work. He could do most anything construction-related. He had been in and out of the building trades most of his life. He never had any trouble finding jobs; he just couldn’t stick with them.
Another Monday morning. He remembered the song Johnny Cash had out a few years ago, “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” The song saddened and touched him with its true image of an alcoholic’s life.
His wife walked into the kitchen to start breakfast, but she said nothing to Darren. She didn’t have to. Darren recognized the hurt look on her face. There was hardly enough money for necessities, even before he wasted it on partying. Once again he had blown most of their money on liquor and Benzedrine. He had started taking Benzedrine, which cost about twenty dollars for a line of ten. He could drink all weekend without passing out if he juggled the Bennies just right. His life had become a burden, and it was a constant battle to keep his home life together. He wanted to keep it together, but it seemed as if his whole life was on a downhill slide.
His thoughts went back to a time a few years ago… He had sat at the side of the road near a bridge, drinking beer, and had prayed to the God of his youth that he would live to see his baby daughter grow up.
Crap, he thought, as he headed for his old broken-down dirt-white Olds. He got in and slammed the door, switched on the key, and checked the gas gauge. He only had a quarter of a tank, and that old sled was the biggest gas-guzzler in town.
“Crap, crap, crap!” he exclaimed, giving the steering wheel three hard whacks with the palm of his hand. Here he was, starting out on another Monday morning, hardly any gas, a whole week to get through with no money, and the rent due. He thought, Nothing ever changes in this frappin’ world! But he gunned the Olds out into the street, oil smoke billowing out the tailpipe, and headed for his dead-end job to support his dead-end life, a life that held no hope. But then one of his favorite songs, the Eagles’ “Hotel California” came on the radio, and he promptly forgot about the unpaid rent.
He got out of the car in the parking lot and slammed the door behind him. Then he saw his painting buddy get out of his car and head toward him. “Hi, Darren,” James said, as he fell into step with him. “What did you do this weekend?”
“Oh, not much,” he lied, as he wiped his sweaty brow. “Crap, it’s gonna be a hot one.” Darren wanted to change the subject. About twice a week, James would ask him to come to his church, where his wife was the pastor. Darren always managed to put him off.
James was a decent guy, and he didn’t want to offend him. James was a small thin man who wore his brown hair short. He was just about the fastest man with a paintbrush Darren had ever seen. He never spoke a curse word even if he banged his thumb with a hammer. Darren knew that just about every sentence he himself spoke had to be initiated and baptized with a swear word. “Crap” was his new favorite word; he had a few choice others that he brought out only on special occasions, although he had tried to swear less since James had come to work there. At least James’s soft voice didn’t aggravate or intensify a hangover. Darren liked to work with him, even though he thought James was a little quirky.
Somehow, he made it through until Friday. He and James had done a good week’s work. It made him feel good to work a week with not much to drink. I’ve been too broke to drink, Darren thought, as he began to wash up his painting tools.
As he was squirting water into a bucket, James came over and joined him at the water hose. “Say, how about coming to our church Sunday?” James asked casually, as he began to clean his brushes.
Crap, there goes that church business again! Darren thought, as he worked savagely at a brush. I ain’t seen the inside of a church in so long I done forgot what they look like! But all he said was, “Maybe next week. I got something going this weekend.” He lied.
No use telling him I’ll end up drunk all weekend and broke again on Monday. Nothin’ ever changes in this frappin’ world, Darren thought, as he slopped the water out of the bucket and quickly threw the brushes and rollers into it.
He walked across the compound and lined up behind the others in the pay line, as they poked and hit at one another good-naturedly. He got to the pay window in a few minutes and reached for the oversized payroll check. It was as if they thought the size of the piece of paper they paid them on would make up for the lousy wages.
Who they foolin’? He thought, as the woman handed him the check. She frowned as if it was coming out of her own pocket. “Stupid broad,” Darren mumbled under his breath.
He walked hurriedly across the compound, out the gate, and over to the liquor store that sat next door to the building company. A little bell on a worn cord jingled as he opened the door. He felt slightly guilty as he walked to the cooler and took out a tall six-pack of Coors beer. The guilt left quickly as he thought about the beer he’d guzzle before he even got home.
The store attendant was his usual sullen self, and said nothing as he plopped the six-pack down on the counter and handed Darren his change. And a how do you do too, jerk wad, Darren thought to himself as he swiped up the few bills.
He got back out to the Olds, sat behind the wheel, and popped his first top of the weekend. He had downed most of two beers by the time he got to the Red Rooster Tavern. He sat in the parking lot, drained the second can, and scrutinized the silly wooden rooster atop the bar. He had no Benzedrine so he was buzzed in the heat by the beer.
He went into the tavern and spent the next two hours downing one draft beer after the other. Finally, he noticed the time and decided to go home. It is already six o’clock, fer cripes sake! He thought, as he looked at his watch.
“Crappy world never changes!” he said savagely, as he drove the Olds into the driveway. He noticed the tall grass in the front and back yards. “Crap, I gotta mow that!” He slammed the door, staggered into the house, and flopped down in his old, worn easy chair. His wife had purchased it second-hand from somewhere. He plunked the remains of the six-pack down beside him and popped the top on a not-so-cold one.
The kids all scrambled to the back yard. They knew he would beat the tar out of them if they
made too much noise and commotion in the house. They had witnessed their dad do that many times, swatting first one and then the other across the back of the head with his palm. Darren’s favorite threat was, “I’m gonna knock your block off if you don’t seddown!” Then he would “knock their block off” before they even had the chance to sit down. Or sometimes he grabbed hold of their ears as if he was bulldogging a steer.
His wife passed by on her way to doing whatever it was she did to keep the house halfway together. She didn’t say anything to him. In fact, she didn’t say much at all any more.
Crap! What is there to say? He