The Drunk

The Drunk

The doorbell rang twice. I raised up on an elbow to see over Pinky's head. It was 1:30 in the morning. Immediately following the second ring there was urgent pounding on the door. An emergency. As I walked out of our bedroom door, I saw the baby through the open door of his room. Scott was awake, standing up in his crib, watching. I stepped into the living room and turned on the light and the pounding on our apartment door finally stopped. I went back to the bedroom and retrieved the pants to my uniform. As I put them on, I was wondering what could be happening. I could hear a car idling outside, and there was the familiar sound of rain--nothing else. As I passed the closet in our four foot hallway, I reached in and grabbed the hammer from the toolbox and gently kicked the closet door shut as I passed. I was across the living room in a few steps. I put the hammer on a chair near the door, the handle out for easy access. I pushed the drape aside a few inches and looked out. An empty, four door, late model Chevrolet was idling in front of our apartment.
"Who is it," I asked. I tried to sound threatening, voice like a chain saw.
"Got car trouble," a slurred voice rumbled outside the door.
I opened the door slightly to get a look. He already had the screen door open and was crowding up onto the door sill trying to get out of the rain. He was a head shorter than I, and all that I could see was a pink bald spot surrounded by white hair atop a rotund body barely covered by a tan military style raincoat with a hand grasping the collar on each side pulling the coat up to ear level.
As soon as the door opened, he took several tiny shuffling mamma-san steps, gently pushing on the door, coming part way into the house, inching forward, as the door opened.
"Gotta come in a minute...," he said.
He looked up. We were almost nose to nose. His face was red, especially his nose, a drinker's nose. His blue eyes were pleading.
"Please," he said.
Alcohol hung in the air around us. Maybe he was a fire hazard, but he was physically harmless. As I opened the door, he staggered and almost went down. He had leaned on the door not only to get out of the rain but to assure himself the dignity of upright posture. I caught his left elbow. His left foot moved quickly, he recovered and stood. This wasn't his first time for such assistance. He knew how to use it, too well. He rose to his full height, clasped his hands beneath his paunch, and surveyed the apartment like a captain taking command of a new ship.
"Nice place you've got here," he said, pursing his lips out in approbation.
One moment unsteady, the next he had summoned a presence. He seemed about to make a suggestion or maybe give an order. He took off his coat, handed it over, nodded for me to throw it as he gestured at the chair. He just pointed to the sofa and took a few broad-based steps. He accepted the support that I gave at his left elbow as he turned to sit. About half way down he relaxed completely, hitting the cushions with his full weight. He would have gone over backwards had he selected one of our straight back chairs. Our seat cushions and his round body gasped together, releasing their last air from the compression. A small fart punctuated the halt of his downward progress. He beamed with a satisfaction that gave me cause for concern. He was too comfortably seated.
"Ohhh. Thanks. God bless ya," he said. "sh 'cold out there." The gratitude in his voice was heart felt--difficult to resist.
I closed the front door. His car was still idling . No problem. He just needed to make a phone call.
"So. Whatcha do? Work I mean," he asked.
Scott started crying. I ignored him for a moment.
"I'm a doctor," I said.
"Might have known. God bless you," he said. The voluble old guy tilted his head down to his right side and held his right index finger up near his ear. Rosy cheeked, he looked like a mall Santa, greeting the next tot in line.
Scott began crying in earnest, so I walked over and looked in his room. He was still standing at the end of his crib. He stopped crying.
"I'll get you a bottle," I told Scott. He started crying again as I headed for the kitchen.
"Little fella wants his bottle. I can understand that," my guest said with a hoarse chuckle. He slurred, "I’m kind of a bottle baby myself."
Pinky was still asleep. I stepped to the kitchen and got a bottle out of the refrigerator. I made the few steps to his bedroom and handed him the bottle. He stopped crying, pushed the bottle aside, and held both hands in the air to be picked up. He squeezed with his little arms as I lifted him out of the crib. I put him on my hip and walked back out to the living room.
"You at Madigan?" the colonel asked. "Best hospital we used in twenty years."
I assented with a nod.
"Captain or major, son?" he asked, speech slightly slurred.
"A captain," I replied.
"You opened the door. Saw that black stripe...those pants," he said. He was getting maudlin. "I just wanna cry," he blubbered.
I was a little uncomfortable...too sentimental for me.
"I could just as well have been an elevator operator," I tried to head him off with a joke.
"Knew it would work out. I saw those pants. Just like family," he was crying. "What elevator?" he asked.
"Are you in the Army?" I asked.
He recovered a little. "Retired in sixty three. Twenty three years in Signal Corps."
"You had a black stripe down your pants too?"
"Sure did," he said. "Colonel, full bird." he said swelling with pride, with a serious demeanor. I thought he was going to salute. He turned into a colonel.
I didn't want to tap into the war stories. I had to get to business.
"What happened to your car?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Somethin broke. Terrible noise. Transmission," he said, thick of tongue.
I decided to go have a look; at least, I could turn off the idling engine. I was hoping to discover a simple problem with the car. Instinctively, I wanted to get him on the road.
I took Scott to his room, swung his legs over the side of the crib. He grabbed me tight around the neck with both hands and wouldn't let me put him down. The willful grip of those little arms surprised me. He wanted to protect me or to be protected--maybe a little of both. For just a second, I felt like blubbering with the Colonel.
Sentiment yielded to reality. The danger that we had pulled together to face was Colonel Santa Claus entrenching himself in our living room. I put Scott back on my hip. I didn't want to take him out in the rain, so I altered my plan.
"Would you like to use the phone?" I asked.
"To call Cora," he mumbled.
"The phone's in the kitchen," I said. I pointed.
"Wonderful little woman," he said with feeling. "Love her. More'n I can say." He wasn't moving. "Finest little woman...ever known. Nothing she wouldn't do," he said, blubbering incomplete thoughts.
"How about I call for you?" I asked.
"Good. It’d be nice," he said. He picked up where he left off, crying again, "Don't know why she keeps on." Then he started sobbing, "Loves me so much. Got her out chasin’ me round again." He struggled for control. He stopped crying. "Sorry," he said, sniffing. "Sorry."
"I know, Colonel. I need her number." I asked.
"736-4427...uh...2447...uh...736-2447."
"Your wife?" I asked.
"Daughter-in-law...real gem. Tough for her. Three kids. Husband in Viet Nam."
"Right. Colonel, you never told me your name," I said.
"Ed," he said. "Ed Callahan. "Your little trooper sure takes it all in doesn't he? Doesn't even blink."
"He's got a pretty good stare, doesn't he?" I was dialing as I asked him, "Cora, right?" He nodded, "yes."
"Hello. Is this Cora?" I asked.
"No. Who is this?" came the angry question from the other end of the line.
"Doctor Walker. I'm calling about Ed Callahan."
"Never heard of him. It's 1:45 in the morning. You ought to mind what you're dialing at this hour," the voice rasped. The line went dead.
"Sorry," I said softly to myself as I cradled the phone
"Oh, no," I thought to myself. "That's not good. If I can't find her, what then?"
"What's going on?" said a sleepy but insistent voice from the bedroom.
I walked to the bedroom door and said, "I've got a retired colonel on the sauce. He needs a ride. I'm trying to call the daughter-in-law."
"What's the baby doing up?" Pinky asked, her voice rising slightly in pitch.
"He won't let me put him down."
"I'm getting up. I'll make him some coffee," she said. "Sounds to me like he needs some coffee." She was up and putting on her robe.
"First, hold Scott," I said. "I want to go turn the car off. Maybe see what's wrong with the transmission." Scott hung on tight again.
"Go to mom," I said handing him off. "I have to go outside in the rain."
I opened the door and trotted to the car. I sat in the driver's seat. The gas gauge said half full. Good. It had an automatic transmission. I pulled the shift lever from park to drive, and the car was in gear and moved forward a few inches. There was a horrible metallic scraping from under the car. I put it back in park, got out, kneeled on one knee and looked. Under the transmission there was a partially crushed 20 gallon metal barrel that said "Janitor in a Drum". It had been run over and almost crushed but still contained some soap. I stood up and looked behind the car. A slimy trail marked the car's course. He had driven down VA Drive, but on the shoulder and in a few front yards, not on the road. For a few seconds I tried to imagine where he had driven that car to hit a full barrel of "Janitor in a Drum". There was no other damage to indicate that he had driven through a fence or a building.
I lay on my back on the wet pavement, scooted under the car, and pushed on the barrel; but it was firmly wedged. I turned around and kicked it. Unbelievably, I had no luck. Damn! I shut off the engine. The colonel needed a ride and a bed. I had to find Cora.
Scott, was on the floor staring across the coffee table at the Colonel who was sipping a cup of coffee. Pinky was sitting in a chair across from him. The colonel was garrulous. It was old home week. She had gotten all the skinny: how his wife developed breast cancer and died, where he had met her, their last three duty stations, their last trip together, his wonderful daughter-in-law...and more. The coffee was doing its work.
The Colonel began playing peek-a-boo with Scott, hiding his face behind his hands. He was making friends all around. Moving in with us, that's what he was doing.
"What's wrong with his car?" Pinky asked.
"Nothing except that he ran over a steel barrel filled with soap. It's still wedged under the transmission. I couldn't get it out."
She was ready with the next question.
I preempted her firmly with, "We have to find the daughter-in-law."
I turned to the colonel and asked him, "Where does Cora live?"
"1342...uh...1432...uh...anyway...142nd," he said.
"Can you remember the street, Colonel?"
"I42nd Place...yes, 142nd Place."
"In Tacoma?" I asked.
"Yes."
"What's your son's name?"
"John."
I went to the kitchen and dialed information. They had a number for John Callahan at 1342 142nd Place. I dialed 736-2477, and Cora's sleepy voice answered. I was relieved.
"I'm sorry to wake you. My name is Duff Walker. I've got your father-in-law in my front room. He's been drinking."
"Oh, Dad," she said to herself. Her voice held neither surprise nor worry but a profound weariness.
"Don't let him go," she said. "Where are his keys?"
"I've got them in my pocket," I said.
"Good," she said, relieved. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. He hit a steel barrel of soap somewhere. The barrel is wedged under the car."
"Was he in a wreck?, she asked.
"No. I don't think so. But the barrel is stuck under the transmission. It drags. It makes a terrible noise."
"How bad is he? Drunk...I mean."
"He's having some trouble walking," I replied.
"Where is he this time?" She was desperately, trying to be polite but there was a trace of irritation. She was bone tired of retrieving the old fart. Then, I heard her crying softly.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's the third time this month. I'll have to leave the kids alone again." She summoned composure and asked, "Can you give me some directions?"
"We live on VA Drive. Take the Ponders Corner exit from I-5. Head west toward the Sound. VA Drive is the first left turn. We are in the first apartment complex on the right, number twelve. It's right on VA drive and you'll see his car in front."
"I'll be about twenty minutes. Please. Don't let him have his keys," she pleaded. "He'll take off again."
"I'll hang on to the keys. Our phone is 738-7397. Just in case.," I said.
"I'm on my way."
"Bye."
I hung up the phone. Old home week was still going on in the living room. There's nothing like a friendly drunk for a little conversation. He had grown expansive. Pinky and Scott were spellbound. The colonel was chewing on a cigar with his thumbs in his belt.
"Yes, little lady. That was in sixty three, before my wife died," I heard the colonel retelling his story as I returned to the living room.
"You must have seen all of Europe then," Pinky said. She was having a great chat. It could have been a bridge party.
"Yes," he said. "We grew to love Germany. We had a nice house, the best of the lot."
"Where did you live?" she asked.
"Right there on the base. They had the best PX in Europe. We could buy anything. Better than here."
"You miss the Army, don't you?" she asked with empathy.
He nodded, looking into his coffee cup. "Yes...things were different then. Yes, they were."
Pinky poured for him from the cup of human kindness. I had drawn a short cup that night, and I silently urged Cora to come save us all.
"She's on her way," I told him.
"She's a peach. I told you she was," he said thickly. "She's trying...t' track me down." He gave us a self-satisfied smile. "I'm more than she can handle."
"Colonel, there's a barrel crushed and stuck under your transmission. " I broke in, addressing the soldier, trying to ignore the drunk. "Where did you hit that barrel?"
"Captain," he said, his steely blues glaring at me. "I didn't hit anything." For second, a tougher full bird Colonel came out of hiding.
"The car will be okay. You can take care of it tomorrow," I said. "Satisfactory, Captain," he chose the words carefully.
The doorbell rang. I opened the door for Cora. The overlapping layers of clothing...nightgown, terry cloth robe and tan military raincoat... covered her knees. With a smile and a minimum of work, her face would have made her pretty. She was tired.
"Hi, Dad," she said. There was a sadness in her expression that said, "Here we are again."
"Hello, sweetheart. God love ya," he said. "Ain't she a peach?" he asked the heavens.
"Get your coat, Dad. Let's go home," she said.
Cora looked at Pinky. They could have had a real talk.
"Thanks for looking after Dad," she said.
"Its okay," Pinky answered. "I enjoyed talking to him."
Pinky and I, one on each side, gave the colonel a hand to his feet. Slowly but firmly he pulled his arms free of our assistance, one at a time. He walked to Cora and put on the coat she was holding for him. He was surprisingly steady.
Cora turned to me and said, "We'll do something about the car in the morning if that's okay with you."
"Sure," I replied. I took the Chevrolet's car keys out of my pocket and offered them in my palm. The Colonel grabbed for them. He was way too slow. Cora's right hand was quick as a lizard's tongue. She had the keys.
He opened the door and walked into the rain.
Cora had pulled up in her station wagon, across the street, headed the opposite direction from the Colonel's Chevrolet. Cora got in and started the engine. Pinky and I walked the Colonel across the street around to passenger door. He opened the door to get in. He had forgotten something. He leaned down and looked in at Cora.
"Gotta have my briefcase," he said.
We couldn't hear her reply inside the car.
"The appraisal...for the house," he said firmly.
There was a long pause and a muted reply.
"Give me the keys, damn it," he said. The unctuous elf had departed his voice and the full bird Colonel was back. "Now!"
We strained, still unable to hear her reply.
"I promise," he said softening again.
He had the keys. I had a feeling of foreboding.
He walked to his car, opened the driver's door, and got in behind the wheel. Immediately, he reached over the front seat not for the ignition. He grabbed his briefcase from the back seat. I was relieved.
Tomorrow, they would all be gone--the people, the cars, the barrel, the soap, and to a large extent, our recollections. We would not know how it came out.
No! He started the car. But it didn't move. There was a chance. His car lurched forward about ten feet emitting its horrible scraping sound. The crushed barrel hit a pot hole, the car bounced up, and the barrel popped out.
He was free. His headlights came on. Both cars remained there, idling for the longest time. Cora ended the suspense. Her station wagon pulled away first, onto VA Drive headed north. In a heartbeat, the Chevrolet slowly moved on to VA Drive headed south.
Both sets of taillights slowly grew smaller...and smaller as they diverged, then finally disappeared into the dark, lonely, and rainy night.