A Man Named Dave

today. I don’t initiate anything. She’s the one who gets drunk and goes on and on and on. The hell she puts her own mother through. If she catches a whiff of you being here, there’ll be hell to pay, and I’m the one who’ll have to pay the price!”
    All I could do was shake my head. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but in my short visit here, every move, every intention, was being questioned and scrutinized. Once again, I was caught between pleasing Grandmother or visiting my own brother, whom I had not spoken to in ten years. A familiar wave of guilt came over me.
    “Grandma,” I consoled, “don’t put yourself through it. If Mother calls and goes off like she does, hang up. It’s that simple. Don’t let her get your goat. Just hang up the phone and walk away. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but let Mother stay in her own little world. Go out and play golf. You’ll be fine. It’s only a game to Mother, if you play along.”
    “You don’t know, no one knows, the hell she puts her own mother through… .”
    It was then that I felt as if I was being manipulated. As a grown, independent adult, I was growing tired of walking on eggs with every subject that was brought up, constantly smoothing the waves while practically begging for permission to do something any normal person could do freely. “I gave Russell my word,” I said. “I have to see him.”
    In a heartbeat Grandmother’s tone changed from utter despair to cold vindictiveness. “Russell, Russell, Russell! He’s not worth the time of day. I don’t see any good in it. There’s no need to run off all over the place just to see him. Nothing good can become of it. If you ask me, he’s not worth rubbing two pennies together. That’s what I think. I’m not telling you what to do, but if you want my two cents worth …”
    I stood in front of Grandmother, waiting for her to order me to stay. And I would have. Without hesitation – just as I always had when faced with a confrontation that dealt with others’ feelings – I appeased her by shutting up, swallowing my pride, and forgetting about it. After a lapse of silence, I grabbed my motorcycle helmet, saying, “It’s gonna be all right, Grandma. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only a visit with my brother.”
    Minutes later I was guiding my motorcycle through a maze of road construction, freeing my mind of deserting Grandmother. I parked the Honda CBX on Mulberry Way, where, because of Mother, Russell had been recently taken in by friends from his church. I walked up the pathway not knowing what to expect. My heart raced with apprehension until a tall young man with freckles flung open the door and greeted me with a quick hug. After a fast round of introductions, Russell hopped on the back of the motorcycle, and we sped off to find a place to get to know each other.
    Less than a mile away I parked my Honda next to a pool hall. Stepping inside such a place with one of my brothers was a fantasy of mine – male bonding. I marched up to the long bar, looked the bartender in the eye, slapped the palm of my hand against the bar showing off a twenty, and bellowed, “A beer for my brother, future marine extraordinaire. In fact, a round’s on me! Set us up!”
    Dead silence filled the hall. Not accustomed to social drinking, I thought the response was normal, maybe even a sign of respect. I could feel Russell tugging on the sleeve of my shirt. “Hey, man, relax,” I stated in my “I’m king of the world” attitude. “It’s on me.” In reality I was broke. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I smiled, patting Russell on the shoulder, thinking of him as another escapee from the asylum. A prisoner of war repatriated. A young man taking the plunge into adulthood. Yes, indeed, a proud moment.
    “David?” my brother whispered, breaking my concentration.
    “Hey, man,” I cut him off. “Don’t sweat it; you’re eighteen, right? Don’t worry, they’ll serve ya. I know my way around these places. Tip ’em a fin and they’ll keep ’em coming. Come on, man, relax, you only live twice,” I advised, jabbing Russell’s shoulder. For once in my life, I threw caution to the wind and lived for the moment. I was a regular guy with no problems, living outside my shell. “Come on, man, don’t be a killjoy.”
    “David, listen to me,” Russell barked, “they don’t serve beer.”
    “Get the –” I responded.
    “This is Salt Lake City, Utah, get it? No bars.”
    As my younger brother educated me on the local customs, the look from the