He drinks Bloody Marys at nine thirty in the morning. He says it clears his head. He says that he needs his head cleared at nine thirty in the morning. He gives me a taste. It’s spicy. He’s not supposed to. I’m only eleven. My mother has made it explicitly clear that I’m not to taste any Bloody Marys until I am at least thirteen. “When you’re thirteen,” my mother says, “then you drink all the Bloody Marys you want.” I don’t like to wait.
He orders his Bloody Mary. He waits. A good Bloody Mary is not to be hurried. He waits for the vodka to be ready. He waits for the fresh vegetables to be cut. He waits for the bartender to mix it. There is a bartender this early in the morning. I can’t wait until I am thirteen and can find a use for a bartender at nine thirty in the morning. He waits for his lawyer to call him back with news of his custody battle. He waits for his old car to give up and leave him stranded. He waits for his high school sweetheart to come back to life and give him a hummer. He waits for his check to clear. He waits for the waitress to leave our table before making a lewd comment about her breasts. I have to wait until I’m thirteen to laugh at his lewd comment about the waitress’ breasts. I have to wait until I can have a custody battle and wish for my high school sweetheart to come back to life and give me a hummer. I have to wait before anyone tells me what a hummer is. I have to wait to find out exactly what goes into a Bloody Mary. All this waiting.
He waits for his wife to get home. He waits a few moments for her explanation before he yells at her. He waits until the kids go to bed before he calls her names. He waits for her to yell and wake up the kids. He waits until both of his kids come out of their bedrooms before he reassures them that everything is all right and that they should go back to bed. He waits until the kids have returned to bed before he really lays into her. He waits until she shuts up before he makes his threats: the kids, the house, the car, and the goddamn dog.
“The dog’s mine!” she screams. He waits until the police show up at their door to find out all of the laws and stipulations involved in a domestic dispute.
“What if I were to throw her out?” he asks.
“We’d have to have proof that she’s endangering you or your family,” the officer says.
“Does the dog count?”
The officer laughs.
He waits until the officer has left before he turns to her and says, “I’ll have the goddamn dog.”
He waits until she leaves in the middle of the night with the kids before he calls the police again. He waits for them to explain that a child has to be gone 24 hours before they can technically be considered missing.
“They’re not missing,” he says. “I know exactly where they are.”
He waits until the police tell him that there’s nothing they can do before he makes his way to the bar at nine thirty in the morning where there is a bartender on duty ready to make him a Bloody Mary.
He waits until my mother is not looking before he lets me taste it. It tastes spicy. I wait for the initial burn in my throat to subside before I smile at him and say, “That’s really good.”
He smiles back at me, and nods his head. “Just you wait,” he says, “when you reach thirteen, a whole new world opens up.”
