7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

    I screamed in horror and disbelief, my twig and giggleberries were suddenly zipped securely in my footed one-piece pajamas. What had I done! At approximately two or three in the morning, my crazy and wild evening had ended in pain and agony. The year was 1976, and I was eight years old. My father and his friend; Cecil, decided to get together and have a few drinks. Cecil, a retired police officer, always had great stories to tell and acted much like my uncle. It wasn’t often I enjoyed the company of both while my mother was out of the house, so I made sure to be present with both ears tuned into their conversations, which may have been a grave mistake, considering the evening to come.

    As my father and Cecil sat on the plaid, yellow, black, and orange recliner and couch that Pixie soiled several years earlier, I sat quietly listening and watching them drink ice cold glasses of “7 UP.” I gazed at the bubbles and dew running down the sides of their glasses, and every time they took a drink, my ears perked to the sound of ice clattering back and forth against the glass. I sat there salivating, but I knew how my dad felt about soda and the sugar that inspired a hyper and uncontrollable me, so I attempted to appear sad, deprived, and weak. I loved 7 UP, and seldom as it may seem, it happened to be a hot summer day in Olympia, Washington, which made it that more enticing to the eyes, ears, and taste buds.

    “Roberto, are you thirsty?” Whenever my father called me Roberto, I knew he was feeling good and most likely, pleased with me. Although at this time, I wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling good; extremely good, other than his best friend was visiting and it was the weekend. The “Roberto” thing, that was a French name that I acquired over the years because he and his family spoke fluent French, and spent many years in France while my grandfather served in the United States Army during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. “Yes, I would love to have a glass!” Finally, I was going to get a cold glass of 7 UP. By this time, the drool from my mouth could have filled a small glass. I was thirsty and especially thirsty for my favorite soda. This was an extraordinary occasion, and I was going to savor every minute of it. I watched my dad get a glass from the bar, add some ice, and fill my glass with 7 UP, and something else from the bar; hmmm. Cecil, was quick to say, “do you think that is too much Dan?” “No, I’ll tell him to sip it.” Again, they had my attention. What were they saying? Why do I need to sip my soda? Is it because I won’t get any more and I need to make it last? I was perplexed, but I didn’t care! I just wanted my 7 UP.

    “Ah…,” that was the best glass of 7 UP ever! “Can I have some more Dad?” “What,” he replied! “I thought I told you to sip it!” Frozen and eyes as big as silver dollars, I didn’t know what to say. I’m not sure what I feared most, getting in trouble or missing out on another glass of 7 UP. “I’m sorry, but it was really good!” Both Cecil and my dad chuckled and proceeded to pour me another. “Now Bob, sip this one because this is your last one!” When my father said Bob, I knew I better listen because he was serious, and it took me about ten minutes to find out how serious he was! Remember that “something else,” my father added to the 7 UP, that was “Seagram’s Seven Crown,” and mixed with 7 UP; equals, 7 and 7. In other words, I had a little 80 proof whiskey added to my 7 UP. So, you can guess what happened next.

    Spinning, spinning, spinning, the room continued to spin, and Cecil and my dad became four. I can remember my father staring at me with concern and asking, “are you ok, you’re awfully quiet over there?” Before I could answer, I suddenly remember opening my eyes and looking at my father’s feet. I had fallen, flat on my face, and narrowly missing the coffee table. For some strange reason, my body went limp, and I had no control over my faculties. My dad and Cecil attempted to pick me up and put me back in my chair just as I turned my head and vomited down the front of my clothes. The vomit matched nicely with my paisley and mustard colored pants. As I was trying to regain my senses, all I could hear is Cecil and my dad laughing hysterically, as tears ran down their cheeks. I also heard Cecil say, “Dan, we are in big trouble when Dorothy gets home?” My mother was five feet two inches tall, and a buck twenty-five, if that! But, do not be deceived, her Irish and German temperament put the fear of God in most people that knew her! My dad quickly turned to Cecil and said, “let’s get him cleaned up and in bed before she gets here. He should sleep like a baby.” Yeah, right! 

    There I stood, screaming and crying, trying to figure out how to undo what I had done. I couldn’t touch it, and I couldn’t look at it. All I could do was close my eyes and scream! Suddenly, the door to the bathroom flew open and I damn near jumped right out of those PJs, nearly leaving my valuables behind! “Booper, what’s wrong?” “What did you do?” “OH NO!!” In the blink of an eye, my mother was just as horrified or more to see what I had done. “Dan!” “Dan!” “I need help!” Right then and there, I knew The Eagle Had Landed because my mother did not yell help unless it was someone’s Last Will and Testament. So, if you think it took very long for my dad to enter the room, you’re wrong. For the first time in my early childhood, I realized that my dad was the flash! To this day, I believe he could have been the first man to break four seconds in the 40-yard dash. We lived in a single wide mobile home, approximately 60 to 70 feet long, and I felt every step as he dashed the length of the trailer. Bam! The door flew open again, and this time I know I left some DNA behind. “Dan!” “He has his wee wee stuck in the zipper of his PJs.” At that moment, man to man, I honestly felt my father’s empathy and compassion because he looked at me with complete and utter sorrow. Before my dad could get a word out, my mother had already looked into her crystal ball and revealed the previous evening in great detail. “Dan!” “Why does he smell like alcohol and vomit?” If you think my father had a chance to answer, you’re wrong again. “You and Cecil got him drunk, didn’t you?” “Didn’t you?” There I am, poor little me, frozen like Michelangelo’s David, for the whole world to see, and wondering if my life will ever be the same. Again, before my father could get past the word I, my mother said, “You did this, and you’re going to fix it!” I’m sure you’re familiar with the expression, “Yes dear.” Well, my father was quick to answer, “Yes Dorothy.” My dad knew he was in deep kimchi, so he listened and kept silent. Needless to say, it was a long night. My father managed to help me out of my predicament, and I lived to tell the story. Although I did learn one thing vastly important about those PJs, never go commando!