The first of three creative non-fiction essays, written spring semester 2014. Presented at Shippensburg University's Annual Student Research Conference. Rejected by Brevity Magazine for online publication. Still the only thing of any worth I've ever written, and though half of my blog audience has probably read and edited this particular piece 10 times over each, it's still the only work for which I have pride. A year later, I drink my coffee black and eat dinner once a week with my mom and her husband, but I still feel the same. Enjoy.
I drank my Wawa coffee everyday over break. I’m addicted to caffeine; I need it to avoid a throbbing headache and awful attitude. Since I paid for it, I went all out; splash of non-fat French vanilla creamer, a packet of Sweet and Low, a quarter of the cup low-fat French vanilla steamer, the rest split French vanilla and regular coffee.
I work 40 hours a week at home. Money goes to car insurance and gas; heat, electric and cable/internet at school; a long list of fines for a very big mistake I cannot share here; my recreational activities—like stoges and beers and Wawa coffee.
My dad works 60 hours a week all the time. Money goes to everything. Food, water, heat, the joint rent for my brother and I, his own mortgage, even my mother; he pays it.
Homemade coffee is more my speed. Heat steams upward out of the mug and moistens my face, the strong aroma wafts up my nose, whereas store-bought cups’ lids cap in condensation and perky balm. I hate to spend money on something I can easily do myself; splash of skim, one packet of all-natural calorie-free plant derived sweetener, 8 oz. of strong, bitter coffee. When my mother left, I took the sweetener to school, and when I came home for break, I left it there.
My dad does not use sweetener, his coffee is doused with light cream. When I first got home from break, I asked him to pick up some, if he could, from the store, if he went. I forget what he said, it was something like, “get a list together for me, I’m gonna go food shopping soon.”
I never got a list together; I rarely ate at home. When my mother left, we stopped eating dinner together as often. My dad works 60 hours a week, I work 40.
My dad gets upset with me; I go out a lot after work, my nights often spent drinking at my friend’s apartment. My dad comes home after work often to an empty house, (my brothers are out, too,) his nights often spent drinking alone. When my mother left, us kids stopped sleeping home as much.
When I come home nightly before I make swift exit, the conversation is always the same.
“How was work?” I inquire, trying to stomach my nerves for the reaction I know is to come.
Dad replies, “eh, work,” blowing out a solid, half optimistic sigh as he releases the words like a tire quickly losing air.
“I know, we’ve gotta start that business, man.” I lack consolation here, what else can I say? It irks him when I say ‘man,’ but dad doesn’t feel right anymore.
“Or, you get really rich and take care of your pops,” he retorts jokingly, using the other disliked name I call him. Regularly making light of the heavy; a quality I’ve adapted.
I laugh, then break the news; “alright, well I’m going to Sabs’,” referring to my friend’s apartment, and almost colliding with my last syllable—“Oh, SHOCKER,” dad snarks.
I mock. “Aw, shocker.” Once again, nothing to respond. I’d say sorry, but the words don’t take form. We have trouble admitting our wrongs, though I less-so than him, another quality I’ve adapted.
On the next hung-over mornings leaving the apartment, Wawa is my first stop, either on my rush to work, or on my rush home to grab my uniform before work. I wouldn’t have time to make coffee at the house. Plus, we don’t have any sweetener.
Some mornings, when I was home, I’d go to get my coffee just to get out, just to smoke a cigarette.
I didn’t want to come home for break. My job is exhausting, mentally and physically, and being at home is similar. I often fled to my friend’s apartment. She didn’t have sweetener either, but Wawa is closer to her place.
I could have gone to the store and bought sweetener. I made excuses; I was too busy, it wasn’t my responsibility. I could have asked my dad again, or made a list, but I didn’t want to put more on his proverbial plate, already piled high with inadequate feelings about fatherhood and his failed marriage.
If I spent more time with my dad, I wouldn’t feel the guilt run so deep, like a creek frozen-over, rush propelling under the translucent, placid façade of solidity. When my mother left, so did my dad’s former self, leaving the shell of a man, only a damaged, child-like soul remained.
A few mornings, my guilt brought him coffee from Wawa. “How do you like it?” I’d ask over the phone.
“French vanilla, three-quarters of the cup, half of the remaining space regular, the rest, cream,” he explained slowly, so I’d understand and wouldn’t mess it up.
My dad’s pride almost kept me from getting him Wawa coffee once when we went Christmas shopping together. When my mother left, all the responsibility fell on him.
I bought the cup anyway; “I’m an adult, I understand, I’m here for you,” I often said, about more than just coffee.
Back at school, I don’t have to escape my house nightly just to retain sanity; neither do I feel guilty for abandoning my father. I have to go to school, it’s my responsibility.
I made coffee at home this morning; splash of skim, one packet of all-natural calorie-free plant derived sweetener, 8 oz. of strong, bitter coffee. Yet to my dismay, I am running very low on sweetener, with no list to write my dad, no dad here to get it, and no Wawa to run to.
When my mother left, she left her three children and their dad to pull life back together, to take on all the responsibility at once. Thus left my ambition to grow up and here I am, without any sweetener.
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