Our Living Room Cries, Her Coffee Cup Bleeds

I was fixated as a kid on a red and white checkered coffee mug, a cup that would never know the taste of java; in fact, it knew only wine, woman, and song. The wine was cheap, the woman my mother and the song metaphorical. Think Beach Boys 'In My Room,' moved to the front of the house with the atmosphere of Leonard Cohen's 'Dress Rehearsal Rag.' Our living room was an irony, its name an oxymoron.

This mug held court on the TV tray, itself acting as end table to the living room love seat. A white-handled prince among the ashtray, matches and cigarette butts scattered like peasants around it, this ceramic monstrosity was perhaps the favorite among my mom's assemblage of accouterments. It was a toss-up between that cup and her smokes, but I think the balance was tipped when the cup was full. And full it was, often - wounded, in fact, by the beverage it contained. A stained bloody crimson interior, ravaged by Ernest and Julio Gallo's Tavola Red, courtesy of the gallon jug ever present on the floor beneath her feet.

My mom was invariably perched in a regal green robe on her throne, the leftmost cushion of that filthy love seat. Across the muted colors of her homemade braided living room rug, Dad lay passed out on the larger couch along the wall behind the shuttered front windows. His beverage of choice - whiskey, brown bagged - stood steadfast in the corner within reaching distance, no mug required.


That rug - God I hated the thing. Like Edward Sissorhands, it wasn't finished. Ever. Started from thrift store coats by Mom in her 30s, the endings lay unraveled, half hidden in the corner of the room, itself a metaphor for the people who paced on the twisted fabric.

And through the hazy chain smoked fog of Alpine Camel nicotine, the cheap Van Gogh Sunflowers print looked down upon us from its vantage point high up on the green painted stucco wall across from Dad.

I usually squatted by the heater vent below Vincent's flowers, laser focused on the television.

Mom would chain smoke, drink and watch, sometimes she would cry. Always she would read. Dad would drink, smoke and drool. And throw up into his mixing bowl; thank God for Tupperware and other small favors. Dad would sit up occasionally, unsteadily. And drink. Often this required a bit of help, during the shakier times. Wrapping a bath towel around his neck and tied to the wrist of his drinking arm, he'd pull on the terrycloth with his steadier hand and guide the bottle to his mouth, like a seasoned crane operator.

Turn up the volume on the TV! Did I hear that? Probably not - it was just my sensibilities imploring me to drown out the madness. I would spring from my perch over to the console set in the corner and crank the volume up to satisfy my sanity. In time, though, no sound could silence the sickness, and no flickering image could mask the claustrophobia of the room. Television, the thing which allowed me to escape the reality of that place, for the longest time could only be found in its midst, that room. Eventually I was able to watch my diversion for short periods in the local hospital waiting area a couple of blocks up the street. But you couldn't loiter around there for any extended length of time.

More often, when my psyche and stomach couldn't take another hit, I'd go to my room and read (Manchild in the Promised Land, Invisible Man, Outsiders, Great Gatsby, On The Road) or listen (Beatles, Presley, Cohen, Stones, Joel, Springsteen later Clash, Costello, Parker, Ramones). I became obsessed with all things music - albums, eight tracks and Creem magazine fed my addiction. And I'd put my thoughts to paper on my little typewriter. Thoughts and paper lost to time and trash.

Or I'd leave - run, outside - somewhere, anywhere, finally nowhere.

That room.  It followed me everywhere, however much I tried to outrun it.  I hid in places and circumstances I'm still trying to shake, but whenever I paused to turn around, there it was.  It's with me still, that room (that house) - out of sight, but never out of my raging mind's eye. That room. That robe, those books, that cup. The smoke, those bottles, that bowl, the vomit. Those people, melted into the furniture - my family, smoldering.

The Beatles Help! brings to mind my family more than any other music - I bought the album on August 11th, 1977 and found out my Dad had died of Cirrhosis later that day, so each of the songs invoke memories of the event. I remember being so psyched about getting my hands on that record, never mind that it was 12 years old at that point. For me the Beatles were a relatively new discovery in the mid-70s - only three or four years into my obsession - and I was gobbling up the shit. Hearing the news about Dad had an effect on me I wasn't expecting: overwhelming sadness, pain. I had been braced for it and was anticipating relief; it was a surprise. I lost myself in my room that day and played Help! over and over and over.

However, it's Rubber Soul that has remained my favorite fab four album. In My Life.  Indeed.