Vacation. A break. Time off. It’s supposed to be a chance to relax, kick back, lighten the load and enjoy the view, right? Well, mine was…sort of. It was a time away from not having a job, or no education. It was a chance to get away from the suckish hellhole that my life usually is. Some of the time though, vacation was a constant reminder of all the problems I have. It was a reminder of the shit I have to deal with and have yet to deal with. I don’t even know where to begin on this long bus ride (because that’s what it was. A bus ride, a few layovers and a very scary flight to Chicago) of a vacation…
Seattle: We left Monday. Everything went fine. Excluding the fact that the shuttle to take us to the airport was 45 minutes late, which wound my mother up like a toy screw. She was so frazzled when we got there, everyone was frustrated within the first 10 minutes of being in the gate. We got on the plane, exhausted (it was like 4 in the morning), and flew, connected, and flew again (with some time zoning problems in there) to Seattle. The city was amazing. Modern, cool, edgy, everything about it just screamed young and upcoming. And apparently that’s what it was. Thomas and my mom ditched me and my dad to see the Space Needle (I don’t do heights. Let me repeat: no heights) so we sat and just sort of watched the city pulse. It was awesome. The air was cooler, no sirens, no horns honking, pedestrians crossed the streets with sense and reason and trucks and cars stopped and started with the lights like they were supposed to. It was fabulous. Even the policemen, the few I saw, were on bicycles, that’s how low-key this place was. Nice way to start us off.
Portland: On the way to Portland, we stopped at Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood. They were absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen snow-capped mountains before, not like that. And it was epic. Obviously we took a bunch of pictures, and then we were back on the bus. Now, the drive to Portland is way longer than I seemed to have calculated without any sort of map or knowledge of the area prior to this trip. I assumed all the cities on this journey were relatively close to one another, a few hours at the most, making the time on the bus minimal. Ha! We lived on that bus. And the trip, which we’d booked through AAA, was mostly older people. Like seriously, everyone on the trip had at least, 30 years on us. At least. I don’t have a problem with driving, really don’t. When I’m doing it. This was a jerky bus, that was not under my control, that forced me to be seated in a tight space for extended periods of time, with people that generally annoyed me. By the time we reached Portland, I was pretty sour on the whole thing. The city was nice, but lacked the personal charm of Seattle (I apologize if any of you live in Portland. Just wasn’t my cup of tea. Plus, like I said, I think my opinion was a little skewed). We went on a dinner cruise and toured the city a little bit, then it was back on the bus the next day.
Coos Bay and Eureka: Coos Bay is a small town in Oregon, that allows gambling. We stayed overnight in a “family-friendly” casino (please, can anyone explain to me the point of bringing little kids to a casino when they aren’t allowed on the floor?), where I found a relaxing outdoor hot tub, that I kinda wish I was sitting in right now because that would be absolutely wonderful. Well, now that I think about it, maybe not in this disgusting humidity. There, the weather was perfect for it. We didn’t tour the town, I didn’t even leave the hotel. Eureka was pretty much the same thing. There was a pretty house in town that belonged to some important guy that got rich off the Gold Rush in the 1800’s but other than that, the town wasn’t supposed to be a point of interest on the tour. It was a place to stop for the driver to rest until our final destination. The house was stunningly beautiful though. It took this guy like 14 years to build it and send for his ever-trusting fiance, who lived in Boston at the time, but she came, they got married and lived there until they died. It was rather sweet.
San Francisco: This city was made for me. There is nothing way to put it. We got there and Thomas, who had been telling me about the auras he sensed throughout this entire trip, explained that this city’s aura sort of matched mine. We were there for two days…not long enough. We toured the pier, Chinatown, Japantown, saw the sea lions, the Golden Gate Bridge, saw Alcatraz (didn’t actually see it, like go over to it but we viewed it from shore), it was incredible. There are no words to describe how much I would have been willing to stay in that city. Then, things started heading downhill.
I don’t know if it was the exhaustion from being on the trip. I don’t know if it was being forced to spend so much time with the same amount of people in such a confined manner. I don’t know what it was. The first night in San Francisco, my father drank, what I considered, an excessive amount of wine. I got upset, he got upset, we all got upset, but the problem remained unspoken. No one said anything about it. It hung, like the stench of alcohol on a sleeping man’s breath. Stale and disgusting. We made it through the exhausting ordeal with our transfers being cancelled and then home, where my dad drank steadily throughout the day until we actually lost him. Thomas came downstairs and asked where he was. I found him outside, asleep, on the deck, in the dark. He was totally asleep. It took a lot of convincing, but I got him back inside and arranged on the couch to the point where he wasn’t going to roll off or anything. I don’t know what to do. As I write that sentence, it’s like the hallway clearing in high school just as the bell rings. Lockers echo as they slam shut, doors latch and papers scatter to settle in the emptiness that you’re left in. You’re alone, completely alone, and yet there are hundreds of people surrounding you at the exact same time. My father could be an alcoholic. I don’t want to say he is, because he doesn’t believe he is. I am so quick to label things, to put judgment and names to everything. Sometimes, I want that. Sometimes, I think with names and labels, it’s a little easier to manage because then I at least have a thing to address. I have something to talk about, even if it’s just a concept. It’s a concept with some sort of identity. When I put on a label that weighs 50 lbs. and my dad can’t swim, then drop him into a 300-ft. deep swimming pool, well, then labels become a problem. And this problem isn’t my own. It’s a communal problem. Like hepatitis in the local watering hole. This doesn’t just affect me, my parents, Thomas…it affects all of us. My dad is at an age where part of me feels like it isn’t worth doing anything. He’s comfortable, he doesn’t believe anything is wrong so just let him be. But I want my dad around. I want him to walk me down the aisle, I want him to kiss his grandchild on the forehead after the nurses clean all the birth goo off. I want him to be here. I mean, wasn’t that my biggest fear as a child? Wasn’t letting go and losing someone one of the hardest challenges I have ever faced? Oh, wait, I’m speaking in past tense. It is the hardest challenge I have to face. There isn’t a past tense of this. I am still randomly overwhelmed by moments where I remember that the greatest (and sometimes the worst) people in my life are mortal. We aren’t demi-gods, with a chance at immortality if we perform heroic acts. We aren’t going to live forever because that’s what we promised our daughters so they would stop crying for the millionth time. It doesn’t happen. Nope. False. Denied. Those Greeks, man. They knew what the hell they were doing when they wrote all those myths. They nailed humanity right on the head. I feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. I always make wings of wax, flying on the belief that things are fine and that my dad, hell, my whole family, everyone I love, is going to be okay, and then something dramatic happens, and my wings melt. This time, it was his drinking. I was coasting while we had a good vacation and then his sobriety brought me down to Earth once again. I can’t keep letting him, or myself, lie. There’s no point. I’m not fooling anyone. In the end, the wax will melt, and I will fall. I might as well pack a parachute.
Stuck Between Lucy and Lucy 