"Honey, would you order me a gin and tonic? I'm going to freshen up in the restroom." Without
waiting for my response Susan began to edge her way past the crowd in front of the bar.
I felt my stomach tighten just a bit as I began to look for an opening in the crowd. "Why is it so
busy on a Sunday afternoon?", I wondered. Granted the bar is popular. With decent food and a good
beer list, it's my favorite place in town and apparently quite a few locals feel the same way.
They've got the upscale rural Washington atmosphere just right - dark wood paneling, grainy photos
of pioneers in their Sunday best standing on giant fir logs, an elk rack above the mantle of the
unused fireplace. The raised bar has brass trim and gold fixtures. Sandwiched between the
microbrew taps and the whisky bottles, two harried female bartenders dashed back and forth. Getting
their attention wouldn't be easy.
I didn't actually have to think the words of the little pep talk I give myself. "I've done this
before. Find an opening and slip through it, lead with my left arm, plant my elbow on the bar with
my hand up and wait to catch the eye of one of the bar girls. Wait for a break and say, "Tanqueray
and tonic please, double lemon and light on the ice. And a pint of the Caboose Stout." I can do
this and she'll be a while in the restroom so there's no real hurry. I'm not a kid anymore and I'm
not going to fail. Hell, I'm almost 60 and I've been doing this for thirty years."
Well, actually only the last five years or so. Before that we were Adventists and we didn't drink.
Drinking was one of the things I gave up for God. I turned to God because I thought was a failure,
unable to manage my own life. As my loving Father, God would succeed where I had failed, but He Who
was supposed to help me didn't, so after thirty years I worked up the courage to drop Him and take
responsibility for my own life again. God turned out to be a lot like my father, critical and
demanding. He demanded that I live a certain way and meet a certain standard, then condemned me
when I failed to measure up. Not that God didn't love me; He certainly did, and there would be
grief in His voice when He condemned me to the lake of fire for my failure to live His way. I think
Dad loved me too, but he was rarely a happy man and his cup ran over with irritation.
He was probably irritated that morning when he stopped at the bakery, gave me a couple dollar bills
and asked me to run in and pick up two loaves of bread. The bakery was a small house little
different in size or appearance from its neighbors, like them set back a bit from the street with a
rickety picket fence out front enclosing an unkempt yard. There was no sign; people just knew that
the blue house with white trim on Alder Lane was Pennel's bakery.
The front room was made over into the shop with a yellow counter across from the front door and
wooden cooling racks behind it. I'd been there once before to buy bread with Dad but that time
there was nobody else in the shop. We'd just walked up to the counter where Dad had told the girl
that he wanted one of the large loaves on the rack. She'd slipped the warm brown loaf into a paper
bag and handed it to him. He'd given her a dollar and we walked out together. This morning was
different.
I was just a kid, maybe nine years old. The people in the shop were all grown-ups. There were men
in blue jeans and t-shirts and women in short-sleeved dresses. I couldn't see past their elbows.
Some of them were talking to each other but most were just waiting. None of them seemed to notice
me. I was afraid to ask if they were waiting for bread, but since I couldn't see any bread on the
racks I figured they must all be waiting for a new batch to come out. I waited too, standing at the
back of the crowd by the door, savoring the fresh bread smell drifting through the room. "They'll
be out in a minute" announced the girl behind the counter.
Then I heard Dad growl behind me, his voice sharp with irritation. "What are you doing here? I
sent you in to get some bread. Give me the money." Before I could explain that we were waiting for
the bread to come out, he was pushing forward through the crowd and up to the counter. "Two loaves
please", he barked.
"Yes sir", replied the girl at the counter. "But would you like a cinnamon roll too? They're just
now coming out."
"No, just the bread", my Dad replied. His voice was nicer though, not harsh the way it usually was
with us.
I thought of asking if we could get a cinnamon roll too but when he turned back towards me holding
the two bags of bread, his lips were tight. He didn't look at me, just strode past me and out the
door. I followed quickly behind him. The car was still out in the street. I made sure to climb in
the back seat before he could slide in behind the steering wheel. I didn't want to keep him
waiting. As we drove off Dad muttered to himself, but loud enough for all of us to hear "I don't
know what's so difficult about buying a couple of loaves of bread."
No one said anything. When Dad was upset no one wanted to get his attention; no one wanted to be
yelled at. My sister looked at me with sad eyes. Maybe she thought I was a failure too. I looked
out the window wishing that Dad had never asked me to buy a couple loaves of bread.
Just as I wished that Susan would order her own gin and tonics. But of course, ordering her drink
was no problem. The two guys in front of me moved apart a little to let me through to the bar. I
caught the bar girl's glance and she replied "I'll be with you after I get these beers." She poured
a couple of pints and handed them out then mixed Mary's gin and tonic just as I asked her to, pulled
my pint of Caboose stout and took my Sapphire card in trade. I tipped her 20% and signed the slip
just as Susan reappeared.
Dad is dead now, and I'm not a failure any more.