My father took us snowmobiling at the house of someone he’d met a few nights before at the Goose Pond. He would do this sometimes, strike up barroom conversations with strangers and then make us awkwardly socialize with them. It was one of the things he and my mother argued about. “He said we could come by any time on Sunday,” my father told us. “He’s got a trail right in his backyard. It will be great.”
It was a freezing day. Even in the car, with the heater blasting, I felt cold. The guy, my father’s friend, was young-ish, with a big bushy beard. He introduced himself as Paul, which was unusual, because I still didn’t call many adults by their first names. Paul turned on the television for me and my brother, and brought my mother and father into the kitchen. “I made us some dynamite martinis!” I heard him tell my parents.
Paul had a great TV, much nicer than ours at home, but the living room was kind of disgusting. The rug crackled as you walked across, like there was food in it.
There was nothing on TV except Wide World of Sports, and I soon found myself listening more to the adults talking. Paul was doing most of the talking. He had a booming, enthusiastic voice, it wasn’t hard to eavesdrop. The funny thing was, he was talking about all this really personal, heartbreaking stuff, but in a loud, cheerful voice. He was saying how his wife had left, but he was glad to be rid of her, but that she’d wanted the house and he hadn’t wanted to give her the house and weren’t lawyers bastards? He just went on and one.
“It’s a nice house,” I heard my mother say, one of the first sentences she’d managed to get in.
“Let me give you the tour,” Paul said. “Ellen, you’re going to love this place. This place should be on the historic register. Wait’ll you see what we did with the upstairs.”
I’m not sure why I did it. It wasn’t like there wasn’t open liquor around my house all the time. Maybe it was because I resented my father dragging us to these stranger’s homes, wondered how he could so completely ignore how much my mother and brother and I hated it. Maybe because I was feeling sorry for Paul, who for all the happy boom in his voice seemed like a lost soul in this house, his casual use of a “we” that no longer existed when he’d talked about the upstairs. Maybe I was just bored.
I went into the kitchen and poured myself my own martini. I drank in quick sips. It was horrible-tasting but I managed to keep it down. Then I poured myself another one and did the same thing. Paul had made a big pitcher. I was pretty sure no one would notice.
“What were you doing in there?” my brother asked when I returned to where he was watching television.
“I was thirsty,” I answered.
I’m sure it would have shown if we’d stayed inside the house. But as soon as Paul came back from his tour, he said, “Okay, everyone, get your coats on, it’s time for rides.” In the cold air, I didn’t have to say anything, so no one could hear my speech slur, and everyone was walking funny in the icy snow so my own lack of balance fit right in.
“This is a beauty,” Paul said, as we approached his snowmobile. It was yellow and black, very cool looking.
“This here is my pride and joy. Don’t know how I’d get through the day without it.”
Paul started it up and first took a ride himself. He drove really fast, in figure eights. The snowmobile lifted entirely off the ground in a few spots. He returned back to where we were standing, freezing, and said,
“Okay, who wants the first ride?”
“No way you’re getting me on that thing,” my mother said.
I raised my hand, like I was in class.
“Okay,” Paul said. “A brave soul. Hop on, my friend.”
He didn’t take it easy on me. He drove just as fast as he’d been driving solo. Probably he was drunk, too. I hugged onto the back of him, hugged as tightly as I could, closed my eyes. The wind was whipping by, but I couldn’t feel it. I felt like I was doing tumblesaults, felt like I didn’t know which way was up or down, felt like I was gliding, gliding, like I wasn’t on a snowmobile or any kind of vehicle or machine at all but just gliding along something so smooth, and twisting, doing my own figure eights but in mid-air.
So this is what being drunk feels like, I said to myself. No wonder my father likes it so much.
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