I haven't minded

picking up my dad from work, until yesterday. I pulled up, two minutes too late and watched him crawl out of the backseat of his teenage co-worker's car. After my mom lost her job, he sold his Volkswagen to avoid insurance premiums. This means that my mom drives him to work every morning, and he must find his own way home from the Benicia Industrial Park - a warehoused area far from public transportation.

The other day, he walked the five miles through the warehouses, parks and suburbs to avoid attending the company Christmas party. He went home to drink alone, which he knows not to do since there's this suggestion that he is an alcoholic. His father was an alcoholic, therefore he is an alcoholic, which also means that I might be an alcoholic. Therefore, my children could be alcoholics. Or Depressives. It's also believed that my dark side came from my Dad. Although, I don't think he really has a dark side. He just knows what he likes: Home, records, books, whiskey in his coffee with hot cups that he can rub on his belly and forehead. Old cars.

He doesn't like company parties because, "To be really superficial about it, I can't talk to those guys in their suits. I see them once a year. What am I supposed to say? I just want to work."

I suggest that maybe there isn't a problem, just people doing their jobs wearing different outfits. My dad can't get behind this. His father - the alcoholic manic depressive - sent me a cashier's check for my fundraising efforts. Why a cashier's check, not a personal check? "He probably had some crazy reason for it," my Dad said.

I picture him receiving my donation request letter. Sitting it down and thinking it over. Deciding what to do. Taking out money at the ATM. Buying a stamp. Buying a cashier's check. Stuffing the envelope. Sending it in the mail. At some point, it's raining and some piece of paper is wet and unmanageable. It's always raining in Seattle.

"Probably doesn't want his address on file, so that the charity bastards can come after him for more money," I say.

"That's it," my Dad says, in a slow, bass-heavy voice he only uses when talking about his father. "That's totally it."

Anyway, I was irritated at watching my Dad crawl out of the backseat of his teenage co-worker's car. I know, I've already said it. Irritated a watching my Dad crawl out of the backseat of his teenage co-worker's car, just like that. Irritated in a flash that washed over me and turned my face hot. Some people call this spitfire.

I just don't want to see him crawl.