Genny.
Jason Long
Writing 121
“So what do you guys wanna drink tonight, you wanna get a case of Genny?” Alex asked Mike and Paul. They almost always drank Genny so the question was mostly rhetorical.
“Yea, that sounds good” Mike replied. “Do you think they have Genny Cream Ale?”
“I doubt it” Alex said. “They didn’t when I was there the other day, but if they do I’ll get that”.
Alex gathered up the empty returnable bottles and placed them in the case. He walked out the door and crossed the yard to the beer distributor to get the libations for tonight’s bash. It was to be an intimate evening just my Mom, her live-in boyfriend Alex, his teenage brother Mike, his friend Paul, and myself.
I was about 12 years old and my parents had been divorced for about two and a half years. I went to live with my Mom because of my Dad’s white-trash girlfriend and her kids. I had been living with Mom and Alex for almost 2 years and we were in our fourth apartment. We had gotten evicted from the other three because of Alex and mom fighting all the time. It was the perfect location for an alcoholic though; we literally had a beer distributor in our back yard. It was a daily thing for Alex to drink, but Friday night was different, it was the weekend, time to really let loose and have some fun. Almost every Friday Mike would come by with some friends and money for beer. They were brothers, and they literally had a symbiotic relationship. Mike was underage but had money; Alex was old enough to buy booze and was an alcoholic. It was sublime. I was too young to take part in the festivities, so that night I would just be a fly on the wall observing until it was time for me to play my part.
Alex was a man of considerable stature. By his account he was a former army drill sergeant, but he was a flagrant liar so I’m still not sure what parts or if any of his stories were true. He would tell elaborate tales about things like winning trophies in spitting contests. Fueled by alcohol his yarns would become more involved and less believable. The more he drank the more blatant his lies would become but he would tell them none the less and expect us all to believe them. The night would continue on with drinking games like Quarters, laughing, and jokes that would become more vulgar as they continued drinking.
My mom was boisterous when she was drunk. I never did like her very much when she was drinking. She seemed so naïve then; I think she actually believed Alex’s stories. Seeing her act so gullible made it hard to respect her. I knew he was lying and I was just a kid, how could she believe him? But I realized as I got older that she hadn’t really believed him, she just didn’t want to provoke his wrath.
“Hey Al’ I got some really good smoke, where’s your bowl?” Mike said.
“It’s over there on the shelf, pack it up!” Alex replied.
Soon the smell of burning marijuana filled the air, and the sounds of Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath flowed from the oversized stereo speakers. The group would continue to pass the metal pipe around, inhaling the smoke deeply into their lungs. Soon after large clouds of smoke would billow out of their mouths as they exhaled. Occasionally the sounds of violent coughing would come after someone had taken their turn on the pipe. The smell of the burning plant matter was inescapable. It rolled through the house like thunder clouds. Sometimes after the pipe ritual I would often feel myself in a dazed state, probably caused by the second hand smoke. The drinking and smoking would continue late into the night. I would never be an active participant in the activities but I was there to get them beers, or say something silly to make them all laugh. Occasionally I would sneak a beer out of the fridge and drink it in my room. One beer was never did much for me (even at that age) except loosen me up and relax me a bit. I had already been smoking cigarettes for a while before this, so I would sneak outside to my secret stash to have a smoke with my friend Terry who lived down the street. Sometimes Terry would come and hang out in my room and we would steal beers, smoke cigarettes and have our own little soiree. Soon the night would begin to wind down and the guests would go home for the night and it would be just Alex, Mom, and me.
“Make me something to eat I’m hungry” Alex slurred in his drunken state.
“I’m not getting out of bed to cook for you it’s four in the morning” mom responded.
“I’m fucking hungry make me some eggs” Alex retorted angrily.
“Fuck you go make your own eggs, what am I your slave?” I knew mom was also drunk at this point because she would have never pushed him if she weren’t.
And that’s where it would begin, soon the profanities would be flying and tempers would rise. I’d lay there in my bed scared and vulnerable; I waited for the initial strike when the night would come to its climax. He had hit her many times in the past but that night I’d had enough, if my mom were to weak to stand up for herself I would do it for her. Anticipating what was about to take place, I hid Alex’s hunting knife under my mattress. I’d lie there awake waiting hours waiting for the violence to commence, as I knew it would, it always did.
The arguments had a natural cycle that they followed they would start with some minor bickering, and then the yelling would start. Soon the remnants of old fights would be revisited and the low blows would start to fly. That’s when it would get physical. I would hear slaps and screams coming from the room next door, usually I would be too afraid to do anything. Alex was very intimidating, even to other men of his stature. I didn’t care anymore though; I was at the pinnacle moment when I could make my stand for my mom and myself.
I reached under my mattress and wrapped my not yet full-grown fingers around the leather handle of the knife. I open my door and stepped into the hallway where I could see through the crack in the door Alex on top of my mom slapping her continuously. Mom was screaming out in pain, begging and pleading for him to stop. He just continued slapping and punching continuously, calling her names no woman should ever be called. I slowly walk to the door, my body shaking in fear and anger. It was a large hunting knife that ironically I had actually bought for him the Christmas before. In my trembling young hand the weight was almost too much for me to carry, or so it seemed.
As I approached the door I had nothing but fear and anger racing through my mind I had no Idea what I was going to do. I almost turned back and ran to hide in my bed at least ten times in the eight feet I traveled from my door to theirs. When I finally got to their door I reached out my shaking hand and pushed the door open and there I saw the entire scene. Alex on top of my mom, he had her pinned to the floor, with one hand on her throat choking her as he slapped and pounded her face with the other. Blood was running from her nose, and I could already see her eyes starting to bruise.
With everything I had in my trembling torso I took a deep breath and yelled out his name as loud as I could. He instantly stopped and turned to the sight of me hold the shimmering blade up in front of my chest to make sure he could see it. Without my awareness, the words “If you touch her again I will slit your fucking throat” seemed to fly from lips. I didn’t recognize my own voice, for the first time in my life. I sounded like a man, no longer a boy.
Alex slowly brought himself to his feet, the anger had faded from his face and a look of fear slowly washed over him. I had never seen that look on his face and it was because of me. The moment seemed surreal. I thought later that he could easily have taken the knife from me and probably killed both of us. But at last I saw him for the coward he really was. He tried his best to intimidate me by saying things like “bring it on” and “you’re not man enough”. But I just stood there not saying a word never breaking eye contact with him. Finally he slowly started walking towards me, and fear almost overtook me, but I realized that he was just coming forward to walk past me and leave.
His head hung in shame, as I stepped aside to let him pass. He slowly walked down the stairs and out the front door. The last thing I heard was the sound of his truck driving up the quiet morning street. My mom had come to reality and realized it was over. A look of shock and relief came over her bruised and bloody face. I went to her and helped her to her feet. Her arms wrapped around me and I held her until I heard the sound of the police knocking on the door. It was then that we both knew this nightmare was finally over.
The only other time we saw Alex is when he came to our house escorted by his mom to get his belongings. As he packed his things the look of shame never left his face. It was at that moment that I realized Goliath had finally been defeated.