Jan

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both if you have nothing better to do

Her name was Jan, which is kind of weird because my mom’s name is Ann. She was Scandinavian, and while I didn’t think to ask I assume that she was blond. My dad was and remains half-Japanese, with equally ethnic jet-black hair. They were counselors together at a Christian summer camp in Des Moines, Washington. The year was 1973, and my dad had just completed his junior year of high school. He says she was gorgeous.

As hard as it is to imagine my dad with someone other than my mom, it’s almost harder to imagine him at a Christian camp. As long as I’ve known him, my dad has been an unwavering atheist. It’s not something he talks about much, and it didn’t keep him from sending my siblings and me to Catholic school, in deference to my mother’s wishes and the overwhelming mediocrity of the local public schools. As he explained it to me, one day not so long after the events of this essay he realized that religion was bullshit. Maybe this revelation had something to do with the fact that his mother had died a year earlier. Maybe he finally allowed himself to acknowledge something he’d known for a long time. Maybe – and I think this must have played a significant role, because I’ve sat next to him at baptisms and weddings and he’s worse than a seven year-old after a jumbo bag of Pop Rocks – maybe he just got sick of going to church.

Regardless, he was still a believer when he met Jan. She lived up in Seattle, about 45 minutes north of Tacoma, where my dad lived. They both belonged to the Covenant Church, which as I understand it was more or less your run-of-the-mill Baptist outfit. They sent a bus around to poor neighborhoods during the summer looking for kids with nothing to do. My dad and my uncle hopped on, and soon enough the church became an important part of their lives.

I’m sure my dad was a great counselor. He’s always been good with people, quick to laugh, self-confident. I bet he was one of the cool counselors, the guy who everybody considered a friend, the guy who had something going with the cute blond girl. I’m not surprised that Jan was attracted to him, although I’ve also seen pictures and know that his complexion wasn’t great and his haircut didn’t do much for his round, half-Japanese face. Actually, he bears a strong resemblance to me, or perhaps vice versa, so I should probably take comfort in his luck with the ladies.

I only went to camp a few times and never really got into it, but I imagine that it would be a thrilling place to start a relationship. Everything is foreign and exciting – the setting, the rules, the people. It doesn’t get much more romantic than campfires, and you’ve got one every night. My dad likes to tease people, so I’m sure Jan got a lot of that. My mom has also told me that he wasn’t above snapping the occasional bra, although that sort of thing wouldn’t have flown at a Christian camp. He probably told her a lot of really cheesy, hopelessly romantic things, like all teenagers, even those who grow up to be someone’s father. All I really know is that my dad and Jan started something, and it got more serious over the summer. When camp let out, they decided to keep it going. After all, they didn’t live so far away from each other.

On Labor Day, right before school started, my dad drove up to Seattle to see Jan. I’m not sure what sort of car he was driving then; maybe it was the green Buick Wildcat I’ve seen in photographs. I can see him slowing to a stop in front of a tidy ranch house with a freshly-cut lawn. It is a beautiful summer evening, the sort of evening that makes you forget all of the rainy days to come. He’s wearing bell-bottom jeans and a snug t-shirt. Maybe he looks in the rearview mirror to check himself out, although I doubt it. He walks up to the door and takes a deep breath. He’s already grinning as he presses the doorbell, ready to charm the folks, wow them with as many “sirs” and “ma’ams” as they can handle. Jan opens the door, an awkward smile on her pretty face. Her parents lurk a few feet behind. The father shakes my dad’s hand, but doesn’t smile. There is no small talk. They do not ask him in. Jan’s parents pull her away from the door, and they huddle in the hallway as my dad stands on the doorstep, still smiling. The front door is open but the screen door is closed. He can’t really hear what they’re saying. He looks down at his feet. After a minute or two, Jan comes to the door and they leave, her parents watching from the darkness. They drive away. My dad asks what all that was about. Jan tells him that her parents don’t like her going out with a Japanese guy. They want her with someone white, preferably Scandinavian. She has to be back home in an hour.

When I asked my dad to retell this story, which he’d briefly told me once or twice before, I thought it ended there. She said they couldn’t see each other again and my dad, without a word, took her back home and drove away without looking back. He was furious, angry to the point of tears, and swore that he would prove them wrong. Later that year he started dating my mother, who is much more beautiful than even the gorgeous Jan, and who loved him unconditionally. Years later I was born, a symbol of triumph over ignorance.

But that’s not what happened, not really. Jan and my dad saw each other a few more times against her parent’s wishes. They hung out in Seattle, got ice cream, went to football games at Memorial Stadium, coincidentally the site of my first date with a girl who eventually broke my heart. Ultimately their relationship ended not because of her parent’s prejudice, but because my dad was interested in other girls. Not exactly Romeo and Juliet. If it weren’t for her racist parents, I never would have known about Jan. My dad has no idea what happened to her. That’s usually the way it goes.

The Dog that Bit Me

“Drunkenness is temporary suicide: the happiness that it brings is merely negative, a momentary cessation of unhappiness.”

Bertrand Russell

“I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.”

Frank Sinatra

Things I’ve done while drunk:

• Gotten a friend fired. His company was holding an event at the Oyster Bar. All-you-can-eat oysters, all-you-can-drink wine. I tried to leave with my wine glass, and when the maître d' attempted to take it away I pushed him. My friend’s parents were there. I still maintain that the oysters were as much to blame as the booze.

• Made a girl cry. A few male friends and I were sitting at one of the picnic tables behind Sweet and Vicious. A random girl sat down with us, uninvited. We quickly learned that she was from San Francisco by way of the Ukraine, a Georgetown alum, an Upper East Sider, and absolutely horrible. My friends weren’t particularly bothered, but I made no effort to hide my distaste. About an hour into her monologue, she inquired as to why I didn’t like her. I proceeded to answer her query with all of the clarity and honesty I could muster, which, as I see it, is all any inquisitor could hope for. The girl then began sobbing uncontrollably. Ten minutes later she tried to kiss me at the bar. My opinion of her hadn’t changed, but I played along.

• Spent hundreds of dollars, thousands of dollars, perhaps even tens of thousands of dollars on a wide array of fermented beverages.

• Made all manner of unlikely propositions to unsuspecting female acquaintances, often via text message and after 3 am.
  

All of this begs an obvious question, one that invariably arises sometime between the moment I open eyes and acquisition of the Sunday Times: why don’t I just quit? What do I have against my pocketbook, my liver, and my dignity? The short answer is that getting drunk is fun. I cannot deny the pleasures of a bloody mary over brunch at Jones, an afternoon round of tasteless jokes and German brau at Lorely, or tequila shots at Tom and Jerry’s with a high school buddy in town for the weekend. I suppose each of these diversions undertaken alone and in moderation wouldn’t necessarily lead to the unsavory predicaments described above. But as much as I appreciate alcohol’s ability to bring people together or complement a meal, I also just plain enjoy getting drunk. I like throwing an arm around a buddy and talking about how beautiful life is, how lucky we are to be living in the greatest city in world, how much I value our friendship. I like possessing, however fleetingly, the confidence to approach the beautiful women whom, on the other six days of the week, I can only glance at as their express train slowly overtakes my local. Put simply, the world is a happier, more hopeful place when seen through beer goggles.

The trick, I would presume, is training your eyes to see things through a lager-tinged filter without resorting to drink itself. There are people who don’t need to drink when they go out on the weekends. I don’t count any of these people among my close friends, but I know they exist. What’s scary is that I’ve reneged on so many Sunday morning resolutions that I refuse to insult my intelligence by giving it another go. Put simply, I’ve given up. I might as well put two aspirin on my bedside table and draft a desperately witty, self-deprecating mea culpa e-mail before hitting the town. But one of these days I’ll get it together. Just not before Halloween. Maybe after New Year’s. Definitely by the time I turn thirty-five. Or when I get married. Whichever comes later.