1969 was a good year. I was an eleven-year-old boy, and one chilly night I was laying on the floor watching TV. My older brother burst into the room, said, “I’m drunk,” falls onto the floor beside me, throws up, rolls his face in the barf and moans.
I had been watching, Night of the Living Dead, so at first I thought my brother was a zombie. He had left with the juvenile delinquent neighbor Chip earlier, and I knew they would get in trouble. They took a fifth of my father’s Old Grand Dad, and drank it all.
My brother was thirteen and he had ruined my movie. My parents or my oldest brother would be home soon. If it was my parents the shit was going to hit the fan. I thought I saw lights coming up the driveway– in comes Bob.
“Bob, look, he is drunk, and he threw up, and pushed his face in it!”
Bob said, “I’m going to get him upstairs. You clean up this mess before Mom and Dad get home.”
When they did get home the rug was clean, but there was a big wet spot.
They had been living it up themselves and never knew a thing.