George Was

George was a drunk. But he was also political. He was a political drunk. He didn’t like the presidency. He didn’t like the plan or the cabinet or the first lady. So he drank. And he coped. He coped and he drank. He was a coping, political, drunk.

George had a wife and a son and a daughter and a son. His son was old, his daughter was a teenager, and his son was young. His wife was his own age. She was not a drunk and she was not political. She liked to cope though. Coping was a sporting similarity between George and his wife. She coped with many things. She coped by not drinking. She coped by not doing anything really.

George’s old son was much like George. He drank and he coped and he was political. But in that order. He was political only by George’s account and only when he was drunk. But George’s old son liked drinking and coping much more than politics. He much preferred the drink. He drank and drank and drank. And then he would cope. And then, if he was in capacity to do so, would speak on politics. He would mumble an incoherent passage on the presidency. George much preferred his old son to listen, or at least pretend to. George required an audience. Yet, this responsibility was preferably reserved for George’s youngest son.

George’s teenage daughter was not like her father, mother, brother or brother. She was unlike most. She did not drink. No, never. She was not political. No, never. She did not cope. No, never. She simply was. She went to school and came back. And then she would watch and observe. That’s what she enjoyed, the observation. The tendency of it all. Her father’s obsessions and her brother’s coping. She hated to watch her mother though. She hated to watch her mother’s cruelty. It was George’s teenage daughter’s attribution that her mother was the worst of the bunch. For her mother denied escape, where as her father at least presented one. Her mother denied love and denied affection. Her mother denied her youngest son. George’s teenage daughter was never able to forgive her for this.

George’s young son very much enjoyed baseball and coping. He did not yet have the capacity for understanding the drink, but most likely would in the near future. Baseball came first and then coping. He liked baseball and its effects on his ability to cope. When he was playing baseball his father was usually not drinking. When he was playing baseball his father was not screaming about the war. When he was playing baseball his father was happy. And then, after the game was over, and after the day was gone, his father would change. George’s young son did not like this change, yet was the only one pitted against it. He would look to his drunken brother and find no response. He would look to his observant sister and find no regard. He would turn to his mother and find her force. She would force him to go to the one place he truly felt he shouldn’t. It was an inherent resistance. A part of him, deep inside kept saying, “no.” But she would tell him to go anyway. So he would, and he would listen and respond to his drunken father.

George was a drunk. George liked politics. George liked to cope. George’s wife liked to cope. George’s old son liked to drink and to cope. George’s teenage daughter liked to observe. George’s young son liked baseball and coping. Yet, he was the most. He had the most. He, sadly, knew the most. And he always had to. So it was that the youngest was the oldest and everything else the same. And those that should have, did not. And so it went and so it goes. George’s youngest oldest son: a spawn of regret for one; the most worthwhile creation for all. So tragically worthwhile.

A guy