My younger sister and I
started flying alone after our parents divorced in 1974. At nine years old, I
soon became familiar with the Albuquerque airport. I would descend the rolling staircase onto the tarmac, holding
my little sister’s hand as we walked toward the adobe terminal and look for my
father. He would be inside wearing
Ray-Bans, jeans pressed with a crease, a big turquoise belt buckle and new
running shoes. He would pick up my
sister, who is seven years younger than I am, and hug me too hard. Soon enough I would learn that he
smelled like pot.
The summer he wasn’t waiting
at the gate, arms crossed and Ray-Bans on, I didn’t panic. The gate emptied and
we were the only ones left. I searched the faces as we went down the escalator
and continued to scan the crowd gathered around the baggage claim. I found a
pay phone, expertly dialed “0” before the number, gave the operator my name and
it rang forever before she told me to try again later. I repeated this routine countless times
for several hours.
I dragged our avocado green
Samsonite into the ladies room, helped my sister use the potty and held her up
to the sink to wash her hands.
When he finally picked up, I
could hear him smiling at the sound of my voice. Then I told him where we were. His voice was curt,
insinuating he’d been told the wrong date. The tenuous grasp I had on my father
was always in jeopardy. I never told anyone about this until I had my own kids.
Only then did I panic.
He rapped his chunky
turquoise rings on the Volkswagon’s steering wheel in time with the Flying Burrito Brothers and
sipped on the bottle of Dos Equis he had wedged between his legs as we drove north. Five years later I would feel a chill
of embarrassment during Drivers Ed class when I learned that this was actually
illegal. It had never occurred to
me that it was a crime.
Summer visits with my father
meant backpacking. On the outside of my father’s frame pack hung a large clear
thermos of Jose’ Cuervo silver tequila that I gulped by mistake, thinking it was water. I thought I
had swallowed the fuel for the propane stove.
My father laughed and told me
that the next time we drank tequila together, it would be because I’d turned 18
and he was free from child support payments. He was buying.
He still owes me.
2007 previously published in The Sun in a slightly edited version
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.
