Kelsee Baker
They say the runt of the litter is the first one to die. They say it’s the weakest, that it won’t grow up and become strong like the other pups.
At least that’s what my father told me.
Me, the runt out of four older, tougher brothers who’d already learned to hold their liquor by the time they were 12. I shouldn’t have to tell you how hard it was growing up in a house dominated by this drunken, masochistic excuse of a family. It didn’t take long for me, the skinny little runt, to learn my place in the liquor-soaked patriarchy led by my father.
I kept to myself most of the time, finding solace in taking long walks down the boulevard during the day and bumming cigarettes outside of Dega’s Play and Trade at night. Tuesday nights were the best at Dega’s. Five bucks and you could get in to see all of the city’s greatest underground folk acts. Not to mention that Dega’s was the only place that had a liquor license, booze always flowing and the tunes always rolling into the night.
It was after a few of those intoxicated escapades when I started to realize how consumed I was by the environment around me. I constantly offered to buy more rounds, refused to stop downing drinks when it was time to close; but there was something else, something a little smaller and nearly unnoticeable had I not begun to tap my foot along to one of the musician’s common-time beat.
Stumbling closer to the stage, I drowned everything out and focused on his fingers picking away on his acoustic. Delving further into this musical bubble slowly encasing me, he began to sing:
“Life used to be good. Now look what I’ve done.
I’ve ruined my temple with drugs. My mind is gone.”
A whirlwind of memories started to play in my head—all the nights I’ve wasted here, drunk and falling into debt. His words sent shivers down my spine.
“How did I get this way? It’s so unreal.
I’m no longer a person. I can’t even feel.”
His stage presence was haunting. I closed my eyes to delve further into the music, shaping my fingers to each chord. I was in tears by the end of his set.
A roar of applause erupted from the crowd, and it was at that moment when I realized what I wanted to do with my life. I, the runt, was no longer going to wallow around in the filth created by my booze-laden household. I, the runt, realized what it was going to take to get me out of the shithole life I was living.
I managed to get a stable amount of pay busing tables at a diner not far from my house and began to save money for a used guitar from Dega’s. Saving money was easier said than done, as I was able to rake in a decent amount of profit only to blow it all again with drinks and cheap thrills. After an ebb and flow over three months, I was able to save about $40, not enough for a great guitar, but it was enough to get something playable.
After one of my evening shifts, I brought my savings jar home and put it above the refrigerator to conceal it from the family. I planned to take it to the bank the next day so I could be on the way to my future.
I slept better than I had in months, probably over-confident of the fact that I’d finally been able to save enough for a guitar. Filled to the brim with excitement, I bounded downstairs to the fridge, feeling my hand around for the jar, but I could only feel air.
Frantic, I began to pace around the kitchen, trying to recollect if I’d moved the jar during the night. Running about the house, I milled through every room until I was interrupted by the drunken steps of my brothers stumbling inside. I poked my head around the corner, and, lo and behold, there was the jar swinging back and forth in one of their hands.
“What the hell, you guys? Did you spend all that?” I grabbed the jar.
“Uh, yeah, we went to Dega’s and got what? Four, five rounds?” They started to laugh, drunk off their asses and completely carefree.
“It took me three months, three damn months to save all of that, and you shitheads blew it all on booze! What the hell is wrong with you?” They keeled over from laughing. Filling with anger, I clenched my hands into fists, ready to throw a punch. If they’d have been sober, there was no chance I’d get out of a fight without at least one swollen eye. But drunk, I could pack in a few before they’d have a chance to fight back.
As their laughter reach a crescendo, I could take no more. I closed my eyes and poured all my anger out through my fists, slugging left and right, not caring where the hits landed. A few muffled grunts and small screams ensued before I opened my eyes.
All four of my brothers sprawled on the floor, eyes swollen and blood flowing from their noses and small cuts on their faces. I looked down at my hands, bright red and raw from the sheer force of my bottled-up frustration. Behind me, I heard the sound of someone clapping slowly. I turned around to face my father, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, son, I didn’t think you had that in you. You aren’t as weak as I thought.” He crossed the room and put a hand on my shoulder.
“But dad, you don’t understand. I spent so much time trying to get money for a guitar, and those idiots spent it on booze. I’m glad I did it, but I shouldn’t have beat the shit out of them like that.”
“How much did you save up?” he asked, and I explained how hard it was trying to get money in between struggling with my own alcoholism and sheer laziness. Knowing that he probably cared less and less the more I spoke, I wasn’t surprised when he stopped listening entirely and walked away. One by one, my brothers left the kitchen, leaving me with the empty jar. The awkward silence that ensues after a heated discussion suffocated me.
What else could I do at this point but move on? I was most likely going to fall further into alcoholism, end up a poor old man, and die a lonely death like all of the other men in my family. Oddly so, I felt a queer satisfaction from the thought of living the rest of my life in frustration, trying to piece together this hellish puzzle I called a life.
