Tag: writing

I spotted him sitting in the corner. And he wasn’t alone. I knew it. I just knew it. 

With a deep sigh, I made my way across the room. He sat there with his dad—my grandpa. I liked my grandpa. He was the kind of guy who radiated happiness. Or at least that’s how I remember him. He seemed like a kind person, always laughing and cracking jokes. Most of his teeth were missing, but that never stopped him from flashing a grin.

He was a proper boozer. From what I know, he drank a lot his whole life. Spirits, beer, wine—whatever was going. He loved his coffee too, but only if it came with a splash of rum. Sometimes more rum than coffee. And if rum wasn’t on hand? Anything over 40%. My dad? Same story. Beer and spirits, mostly—but I doubt he’d ever say no to anything else.

Could alcoholism be genetic? Some say so. I don’t know.

So there they were, sitting in the corner. Grandpa waved at me with his usual grin, of course. He was happy to see me—and, to be fair, I was happy to see him too. I just wished it were under different circumstances. This was the first time I’d seen him in a pub. Actually, the first time I’d seen him anywhere other than his house. It was strangely refreshing.

I sat down with Grandpa on my left, my dad right across from me. I ordered wine and lit a cigarette. Something didn’t feel right. Suddenly these two had so much to talk about. One of those domino-effect conversations where you fall down memory lane and every story unlocks another. At first, I went with the flow. I laughed. I added the odd comment. I tried.

“So how long has he had his shop there? That must be well over 30 years now—I remember going there as a kid,” said my dad, eyes lit with nostalgia.

“Oh yes,” Grandpa nodded. “He opened it a few years before you were born. We went every morning to get fresh bread. The whole place was there—it was the only shop. And he knew everyone.”

“I remember drinking apple juice in his shop…”

Grandpa laughed. “Old Wilder had a bit of a drinking problem. He’d have a little half with most of us every morning. ‘To start the day right,’ he’d say. He didn’t want you to feel left out, so apple juice it was. But this juice… let me tell you—it sat on the shelves for years. No one would buy it.”

“I can’t stand apple juice now,” said my dad flatly.

“No wonder! That juice had a proper kick. You always made a funny face.”

“How much booze did he go through?”

“A bottle each morning, I’d say.”

“To start the day right,” they said in unison, chuckling and shaking their heads.

As time went on, my dad showed no sign of wanting to cut to the chase. I felt the frustration building. I tried to jump in. We broke the ice—so why not now? I thought I had the right. We’d agreed to meet to talk about us. But he had a different game plan. One I didn’t understand. He’d either ignore me or dismiss whatever I said.

“Your mother used to grow strawberries in the back garden. They were shit. Every year I told her to move them to the front—more sun there. But she never did,” Grandpa said.

“The strawberry dumplings she used to make! And she’d get mad when we ate the strawberries on their own!”

“Yeah, because those were from the market—expensive and bloody good.”

“Yeah… those were bloody good,” my dad echoed after a pause.

The strawberry talk ended, and all three of us sat quietly.

“Look, I know it’s been rough lately,” I blurted out, awkwardly. “I just want to know what’s going on with us?”

No answer. Grandpa was still wandering through his strawberry patch. Dad was staring into the ashtray like it had something important to say.

“You know… we hardly see each other,” I added. “We don’t call each other… that much… anymore.”

Grandpa seemed to snap out of it. Dad kept searching the ashtray for meaning.

It felt so unfair. Grandpa had no idea what this meeting was supposed to be. He’d just been dragged along. He probably thought the family was getting together. I couldn’t blame him. And I didn’t. I felt sorry for him.

But I was angry with my dad—for using him as a shield. A distraction. And for giving that ashtray more attention than his own son.

“Jesus! Can we talk?” I said, my patience fraying.

“Not now, alright?” my dad mumbled without looking up. “I need a piss.” And he left the table.

I sat there for over an hour without getting a real chance to say anything. My dad kept dodging eye contact. I could smell the guilt on him. He knew what this was about. He knew damn well. But maybe he just couldn’t face it?

“…aaah, we always had hens, but you have to keep an eye on them,” Grandpa said suddenly. “They can be pretty cheeky. And they shit everywhere.”

“So when?!” I cut him off.

“When what?” my dad asked.

“When can we talk?”

“We’ll talk later,” he said quickly, scanning our glasses. “Same again?” he asked, gesturing toward the bar.

Later. When later? He couldn’t even answer a simple question without deflecting. It was like talking to a wall. A wall that poured drinks to shut you up. The air felt thick and strange, like I was suffocating on my own frustration.

And then it got worse.

The pub doors burst open and footsteps echoed through the room. With profound heaviness, I looked up. There they were—his wife and his daughter. My sister.

Is this for real? I asked him to come on his own—and he brings the whole family? I was angry. So angry. But I didn’t want to shout. I didn’t want to fight. There was no aggression in me. I just wanted to cry. I felt helpless. I couldn’t stand it. I realized how silly I’d been—expecting to have a few drinks with my old man and actually talk things through.

For a second, I even considered flipping the page—letting it go, having fun instead. After all, this was my family. I looked around the table—Grandpa grinning, Dad clinging to his pint and staring into its depths. His wife was laughing loudly, ordering a gin and tonic. And then… there was my sister. I loved her dearly. But I wasn’t happy to see her—not right there, not right then.