bio-dad is dead.

his best friend found him in his apartment. he was in bed, eyes closed, asleep, and dead. he had a fan blowing on him and the AC cranked. there were many many bottles of beer in the kitchen. he had decomposed somewhat.

i thought he might have killed himself with the beer and maybe a bunch of pills. he had a prescription that was beyond reason. he received, in the mail, 90 pills of Ristoril a month. then i re-thought that. he loved wine more than anything. beer was his way of saying, "I'm not REALLY drinking." If he was hoping to die, he would have bought some delicious cab.

bio-dad truly loved to drink. i imagine his last night must have felt good. he'd been drinking and gotten drunk. he loved being drunk. lots of people love being drunk. can you imagine being sober for two years, every single day wanting to be drunk, but not doing it? he did that. then he got drunk. then he died.

bio-dad had a hernia sticking out of his belly so far, he appeared to be nine months pregnant. ok, maybe seven. he'd had it for years, but he used to tell me, "Ah, fuck it. it's not doing any damage." finally, right at the point that New Orleans drowned, he'd had surgery scheduled to have it fixed, but instead made way for 100,000 flood survivors in the Baton Rouge hospital, and cancelled his surgery. instead of surgery, he moved to Vidalia, Louisiana, where he had grown up, where my beloved grandparents had spent their last 45 years, where he met my mom.

when the time came and he was ready to have his hernia fixed, they told him he was in no condition to withstand surgery. he had an advanced case of emphysema. they said his lungs would not be able to handle the anesthesia. he thought that was a load of crap, and went to different doctors for other opinions, but found none.

he was a very lonely man. he had no friends, except for one crazy rich lady who happened to be the mayor's wife. they had grown up together. she bought him his car and his television sets. she bought him sheets and blankets, and when i went to visit, she made sure there were brand new towels for me to use.

day in and day out, he watched tv in his kitchen. he sat and chain smoked and played with his two kittens, sparky and runt. he talked to them. he cooked. he read. sometimes he painted. a lot of times he talked about how he should write a book about his life. he talked about that for at least ten years, but never wrote a word.

as a child, his drunk father left him and his mother. she beat him out of anger that he existed. he grew up feeling unloved and unwanted. still, he was a popular guy. he played drums in a band and was a football star. he married my mother, a beauty queen. at some point he joined the army, but never had to go to war. instead he played music in the army band. this took him to alaska at some point and he played tympani in the symphony there.

he loved to tell me that i was a very pretty girl and that i should be a model. i'd tell him, i can't be a model, i have terrible acne-scarred skin and i weigh too much. he was very concerned about weight. he would say, How much do you weigh now? i'd tell him, and no matter what the number, he'd say, Well, you're not that big. he also liked to talk about how smart i am. he was obsessed with IQs and intelligence. he liked to tell me what he thought my IQ is. he'd say, I tested 150, but i've lost at least 30 points from alcohol. I'd say you are about 130. I know, lou, i can tell by our conversations. you're a smart girl.

i never believed him when he talked like this. he was a talker. i know this because i am a talker.

i also love numbers and like him, am very good at remembering tiny details like what the temperature was on october 12, 1984 when we first met. and what i was wearing. sometimes over the phone we would play a game to see who could add big numbers faster in our heads. i usually won. he was both jealous and proud.

he was both competitive and grateful.
he was sick and healthy.
he was kind and angry.
he was self-obsessed and interested.
he was poor and poorer...

he loved drinking, but he wasn't allowed to. he got in too much trouble and hurt himself. he just wanted to have fun, make money and become a person who others admired. those were his life goals. they didn't really work out.

RIP 6.30.44 - 5.12.07