The Flicker
in the Bottle
If my family had any royal blood our crest would be a crossed cigarette and bottle; as far back as either of my parents can remember alcoholism and nicotine have run through our blood purer than any pedigree. My dad's side of the family particularly loved both: in the few short generations they've lived in rural central Texas, the Gerziks cemented their progeny's prestige as burned-out town drunks. The patriarch, my great-grandfather Joe, cobbled shoes for the small town they lived in. He didn’t get much business. Everyone knew much better than to visit him on a Friday because that was his drinking day, so you'd catch a shoe to the forehead and a Czech curse word or two for bothering him. Also Saturday for his mean hangover, and Sunday since it's the day of the Lord. Watch it Monday, too—communion gave him a worse headache than whiskey.
A cobbler effectively open three days a week didn’t do much to put food on the table for his family, especially when you had as many kids as Joe did. Five sons and four daughters made up about as many souls as Joe restitched soles in any given week, and my great-grandmother Vlasta made sure to remind him of that as often as she could. Given that she basically took care of the entire family on her own, you couldn’t blame her. Yelling at him to put out his cigarette was about the only thing that would get him to go to work, since all he wanted was to just drink in peace. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, all things considered. He’d get to drink alone and make a few dollars to buy nicer whiskey, and Vlasta could raise her family without him around for a few hours. Week in and week out they picked their poisons until the booze finally knocked Joe out, at which point they could all sleep peacefully until the sun sobered them up.
One Friday, Joe had a bit too much to drink—as per usual—and in a noble fit he decided he needed to make some extra money for the family. So, that night, wife and children still in bed, he put out his cigarette in the curtains and went for a walk. By God’s grace everyone got out of the smouldering house unscathed, and somehow, the insurance company paid him for everything. At core, Joe fancied himself a businessman, and before that he was a man of God. No amount of Vlasta’s nagging could convince him that he didn’t singlehandedly pull the family from ruin. Full of gusto and good whiskey, he saw yet another flicker of hope in his bottle: he burned down his barely framed up house again just a month later. However, this time, he couldn't stumble his way out fast enough. He burned to death with that house and Vlasta went about halfway with him.
She lived normally with the burns until old age. As her mind followed her body out, she only spoke when she saw someone in the family smoke. And boy did she speak. My dad said he had never seen anyone with as much fire in their throat as my great grandmother, that she'd curse out a barbecue pit if she wasn't looking hard enough. Every time she saw a Gerzik light a cigarette, all she could see was Joe in their face and the shadows behind them. She only wanted to outrun that old drunk and he kept laughing at her from behind every flickering lighter and withering matchstick. Eventually, she too passed in near peace, the last wisp of smoke creaking out of that old house. My dad says that they spread her out over the Brazos, but I swear to this day that I can still hear her cursing at him from the bottom of his ashtray. My dad never taught me Czech, but I don’t think I need it to understand what she’s saying.