I was 10 years old. I know I wasn’t tall enough to reach the gas or brake pedals of my mom’s MG convertible. But that will come later. I was living in Westwood, CA and my mom lived in the San Fernando Valley. Anyone who knows LA, knows that distance is irrelevant. It is how long it takes to get there, that is the more accurate way of describing how far something is. It was about 35 minutes away. But to me, at 10, it was another land. Too far, even for a kid that took the bus all over the city by himself. This was over the Sepulveda Pass. But again, I am jumping ahead of myself.
It was LA on a sweltering hot Friday afternoon in the summer of 1976. My parents were divorced and my alcoholic mom wanted to take me for the weekend. Despite the crazy shit that went down between my parents, my dad who had full custody, would let me visit my mom any time I wanted. He wasn’t like many divorced parents who leveraged their kids like pawns in their divorce battles. Something surely my mother would have done had she gotten custody. “Gotten.” I doubt she ever even tried for it, thankfully.
That day, she called and asked if I wanted to come spend the weekend with her. She lived alone in a typical, one bedroom North Hollywood stucco apartment. Hot as hell, no pool and boring as fuck. I told her no, or maybe I made up some story a 10 year old would make, like I had plans to play baseball with my friends. She pleaded and pleaded and eventually won me over by promising to take me go-karting. She came and picked me up around noon.
Background: At this point, I was leery of doing anything with her because it always started and ended with her being drunk. On top of that, I did not trust her. She was manipulative and would lie to get what she wanted.
We drove over to the valley. I did mention it was hot as hell, right. Okay, just making sure. Her little MG sports car, had no AC. As we get off the freeway, we don’t go directly to her apartment. We instead pull into a mall parking lot. Malls in LA in the 70’s were all outdoors. They were basically just a big parking lot with a J.C. Penny’s at one end and Sears at the other end and a bunch of small stores in-between. Well it wasn’t the mall she was going to. Of course it was a bar.. Of course it was a bar.
“I just have to talk to a friend. I will just be a minute. Wait in the car,” she said over her shoulder.
I was not waiting inside that car when it was 95 degrees outside. So I hung around the car and did what most kids knew how to do back then, I killed time. I killed some ants on the asphalt. I looked into other cars through their windows. I stole the caps off car tire air nozzles. Even these exciting things got old after an hour. I decided it was time to go in and get my mom. Yes, this was a bar, but it was a lesbian bar in 1976 and nobody really was going to care about a 10 year old in the middle of the day. I found her playing a game of pool in the back near the juke box. Even though the sunlight from the open door behind the table was blinding my eyes, I knew it was her because she said “Here comes my Dover Sole.” That was my nick name only she used. It started as a special name, something a mother and son could share at bedtime. Anyone who knows a drunk, knows that the rules of intimacy, the bonds of a private family nick name, are carelessly spilled like a beer on a pool table.
“Mom, let’s go!”
I don’t remember if she put up any resistance or not, nor do I remember the drive to her apartment. Let’s just say as with many drunks, they somehow manage, if they are awake, to drive. The moment we got to her apartment, she passed out in her room on her mattress on the floor. Again I killed time. In 1976 there was no Satellite TV. Shit there was not remote control. It was 4 channels of Saturday afternoon crap. Certainly no video games, personal computers were about 10 years away. I was bored. Surprisingly, since she was very drunk, it is not important at this point. Let’s just say as with many drunks, they somehow manage, if they are awake, to drive. The moment we got to her apartment, she passed out in her room on her mattress on the floor. Again I killed time. In 1976 there was no Satellite TV. Shit there was not remote control. It was 4 channels of Saturday afternoon crap. Certainly no video games, personal computers were about 10 years away. I was bored.
“Mom. Wake up.”
Groan.
“Mom. Get up. You promised to take me go-carting.”
After many attempts, I managed to wake her and agree to take me go-karting. This part of my memory is blurry. I am not sure how we got there; she was still very drunk. We stood inside the arcade as I waited for my turn to go out onto the track. My mom was not going. It was either her wise decision or the teenager running the track had enough sense to not let her. There I was standing alone, without friends about to do an activity that should have been shared with many friends for a birthday party. I was 10 and I felt alone at that moment, but I was determined to do this because it was the sole reason for agreeing to go to my mom’s that weekend. If I didn’t go, then I had to accept that once again, I had been emotionally manipulated by my mom.
At this point, my memory is an out of body experience and I see everything as if watching from 10 feet away. I see myself driving the go-kart on the track. I finished and walked back into the arcade. My head turned left then right looking for my mom. There just past a pinball machine was my mom passed out on the floor in the corner. Everyone watched as I tried to wake her. My perspective slips back to first person. I didn’t notice all the eyes on us. And with not a lot of trouble, an indication of someone with too much practice at these sort of things, I was able to get her into a walking state. We made it to her car.
I knew she could not drive in this state. I had to figure out a way to get us back to her apartment. What I came up with was me sitting on her lap. Since I could not reach the pedals, she would do the gas and brake. I would steer. I do not remember if it was automatic or manual. It is hard to imagine we also managed to handle a clutch and stick shift. I did not know the way home so I had to continue to ask her which way in-between “Gas. Brake. Slow down. Go.”
Occasionally I would have to jab her in the gut to waker her up. Somehow, we managed to get back to her place without getting into an accident or being pulled over. I think we even stopped by a 7-11 to buy her cigarettes. Yes, I went in and bought them at 10 years old. I also took the car keys with me because I knew it was not beyond my mom to just leave while I was in the store.
When we were back at her place, and she of course passed out, I walked to the nearest pay-phone. My mom’s phone was disconnected because she had not paid her bill. I didn’t have any change and had to call my dad collect. I thankfully got through and told him he had to pick me up.
Just another episode in the life of an alcoholic’s child.
