St. Patrick’s DayMarch 17, 2010 at 11:21 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment
Tags: St Patrick's Day
I live in fear every year when St Patrick’s Day comes in March. It started about 3 years ago when I was 5. My dad gets drunk. But he doesn’t just get drunk. I’ll try to explain. Hold on, he’s calling….
This sucks. Daddy claims that St Patrick’s Day is all about the Irish, leprechauns, clovers and daddy’s favorite alcohol: beer. So even through we’re not Irish, he claims that it’s their gift to all of us: a one day pass to drink as much beer as possible.
In the beginning it’s not so bad (before he gets really drunk). After he’s had his first 6 beers by 8am, he forcefully makes me stay home from school. He locks the doors, and only allows me to stay downstairs where the living room and kitchen are. I tried to fight it last year, but…that’s not a good idea.
We both sit downstairs in silence, watching whatever is on TV. After beer 10 or 12, he grabs me by the arm, drags me to his chair, and tells me the “Irish Tale” that if a person catches a leprechaun, that leprechaun will grant him 3 wishes. So he stumbles upstairs only to return with my green lantern t-shirt, a pair of green shorts of mine, and a green bandana to dress me up like a Leprechaun. “Since you’re so small” he mutters, “you’re the leprechaun”. He then say “run away leprechaun, and I’m gonna get ya.”
The first year I hid, thinking it was a game: a fun St. Patrick’s Day game of hide-and-go-seek. So even though I was downstairs, I hid good behind the dog food in the kitchen closet. By now he was up to beer 16, and he stumbled around the rooms. It’s not a big house, so he did not have too much trouble finding me. When he did, he grabbed me by the hair through the bandana and dragged me out. Still holding my hair & bandana, he took off his belt and “punished” me for being a bad leprechaun, hiding like that.
Last year, I thought I hid better, but he still got me. So this year, I did not hide. I just sat on the couch near him, my knees tucked up against my chest, and my arms tightly interlocking around my legs. When he woke up from his 18th beer or so, he found me sitting on the couch across the room, and STILL “punished” me for hiding! Darn it, he’s calling again…
So anyway, I keep leaving because of his first wish. I have to continuously bring beers to his chair. But the catch is that he binds my hands together in the front with the belt. So I can still grab (and type) and bring him beer. Drunk as he is, I have to be careful; he’s still very agile and accurate. He drifts in and out of his drunken stupor, stirred awake by the sound of applause and whooting on Maury. At this point he throws whatever is closest to him at me. This is my alert that he needs another beer. Sometimes the thing he throws is his last unfinished can of beer, which sprays around the room as he chucks it. As drunk as he is, it always seems to hit me and I get him another can.
The second wish has been different every year: a bigger house, a boat, a better job, and he expects me to get it for him. Luckily at this point, we’ve already passed his most dangerous point, and he’s more asleep than awake. He’s drunk enough that he forgets the wish, and I’ve only had to act like I’m working on his wish for a little while.
So that brings us to where he is now. He’s been out for about 30 minutes and I’m gonna try to leave. Last year I left too early. I tried to open the window, and he awoke shaking and yelled “Come back here leprechaun! Grant me my third wish!” to which he added “Bring your mom back!” He threw his mostly full beer at me, which struck my head hard and ricocheted to shatter the window. Then he started to cry. I hate St Patrick’s Day. – Da Ritzenator