Reality sucks

I saw a fellow I worked with almost ten years ago the other day. He was wandering around the streets of downtown Guelph, dragging on a cigarette and heading into a bar. He once told me that he figured out he spent nearly $20,000 a year on cigerettes and booze. When we'd break for lunch at foundry we both worked at, he'd buy his food from the truck which often consisted of these sugar coated buns and cans of coke to wash them down. He told me he'd often skip supper so he could drink longer.

My father was almost always a happy person. He worked long hard hours doing very physical work almost always outside. Whenever you were looking for him, all you had to do was listen. He was known for always whistling a tune as he worked. As hard as he worked, he also loved his holidays and hobbies. He had his pilots license and owned his own plane. The two of us would fly to different places like Ottawa or Kitchener for Air shows or just around the country for fun. He'd always play jokes on me, once pretending he fell asleep in the back of the plane when I had the stick (I was only seven years old). He'd drive anywhere and everywhere. Florida about 100 times, Nashville, Vegas, California, anywhere. He once drove to Florida for 23 hours and the people he went with had to fly back due to a family emergency. Like me I guess he didn't like the idea of being alone, so after sitting on a lawn chair for a couple hours he got in his car and drove back.

My father was only back a couple months from driving to California and back, when we got together and he told me he was going to the Dominican. He just met my Maria for the first time and he made plans with us to do some stuff together when he got back. He also loved going out to dinner. He'd find new interesting places to eat and he wanted to take us to a new one he'd found.

My father, my brother and I also got together just before that and celebrated our birthdays. My father and I have birthdays just days apart in February. It was the first time we all got together in a few years. My brother and I weren't talking for a while because of a tiff we had a couple years back. I was told later that my father mentioned how he thought things were "finally coming together".

I knew something was up because I got a phonecall that the police went to my old address looking for me. They knocked on my door a short time later and told me my father wasn't coming back from the Dominican.

When I saw the always drunk fellow I worked with I just couldn't avoid asking myself why. I didn't wish he would have been the one to go instead of my father but I couldn't understand how someone who obviously abused himself could still be around when my father who didn't smoke or drink, was always happy and took care of himself wasn't.

I wrote the below a while back and when I dug it out of an old jacket pocket and it conjured up this story for me. My fathers name was Carlo. The last few lines are just a little play on words illustrating my frustration (say it out loud). My stepmothers name is Kay.

Reality

The man on the street
He lives out of the bottle
I don’t mean him no ill
But I just can’t fathom

Memories can take me back
And the dreams are so real
But I always get that slap in the face
Reality

Living on honey buns and whiskey
And living
But he can’t ever get to know my girl
My family

I hear the whistling in the yard
I smell the fresh cut lumber
See a small plane overhead
Slap in the face

If you see Kay, say I said hi
If you see Kay
If you see Kay
If you see Kay, say hello