I was seven years old when I went to the tavern for the first time. Nothing inside of me thought this was odd. My life was only about survival. And tonight my survival depended on getting my dad home.  Jack Daniels was dad's whore. That, and any woman drunk and pathetic enough to look beyond his toothless grin and believe the  endless stories of his heroic tales of the Korean War. I knew my dad had never been outside this Tennessee Town. Hell, the whole town knew it. If I gave a damn, it would have embarrassed me. But this man who claimed to have rescued three of his fellow soldiers by strangling two Koreans has stood by with his hands in his pocket, head hung low, while my mother nearly beat me to death. His 200 pound, 6 foot body was nothing more than an empty shell, a deep dark black hole that swallowed up everyone around him. 

I didn't give a damn about him, his whores or anyone else. The only thing I cared about was getting him home to avoid another beating. The first time I had been afraid to enter the bar so I had waited for him outside. He was so drunk, he kept falling. Big Jim had been walking home from the factory when he saw me crying and screaming at my dad, who was laying face down in the middle of the alley.  Big Jim carried dad home and that was why I was beaten.  "I liked Big Jim. He's always nice to me. Dad would still be in that alley if it wasn't for him! I don't care if he's black," I cried. Mother said I had disgraced the family. She was a thin wisp of a woman who had the strength of an ox. The last thing I saw before blacking out was her cigarette dangling from one hand and a tattered Bible in the other. My dad slumped in a chair behind her, head hung and Big Jim walking away with tears rolling down his face.

That was beginning of the end of my life. 

"He's waking up," my mom whispers. "I wonder what he'll remember."

Secretly I hope he stays this way. Grandpa has been more alive while sedated than I ever remember him being. I've never heard him talk about his past. "Do you think it's true," I ask her. 

"I've heard bits and pieces from mom's brothers and sisters about dad's life as a kid. It sounds like the stories I've heard," her voice fades away and she gets a far away look in her eyes. I wonder what she's thinking. 

Grandpa was talking, telling stories about his past. I don't think he was talking to us, but someone else in the room. Someone we can't see. "Are you going to tell anyone what he said," I asked. 

Before she can answer, the hospital door opens. My aunt walks in behind grandpa's day nurse. "He's doing much better. His vitals look good. If this continues, he'll be home in a couple days."

We should be happy, but we both know what's ahead. We've been here before. Nothing changes. A grumpy, hateful man wakes up and begins growling. My aunt comes to his side and smiles down at him. What does she see in him? I'm here out of obligation. My mother's here looking for something she'll never have. My aunt either knows something we don't or is as senile as this old cuss is.

Mom and I leave. We'll never speak again about this day. We won't have the chance. In a few weeks, I'll think back this moment and wonder if this looking glass was his attempted explanation of a complicated life.

I threw up all night. No-one heard. More likely no-one cared. My big sister used to sneak into my room to make sure I was alright after a beating. But she's been keeping her distance since the night Big Jim carried dad home. My older brothers beat me whenever they've been razed by mother, which has been daily lately. 

Tonight's beating came from dad. It's the worst beating I've had and yet he never raised a hand.

I went to get dad from the tavern, my nightly ritual, but he was waiting outside for me with my grandfather. I should have suspected something. I've only seen my mother's father a few times, usually some relatives funeral. He's a drunk like every other white man in this spit of a town. They signal for me to follow them.

We turn down the alley where Big Jim found dad and me and head towards the railroad station. I start to get excited thinking about what could be waiting for us, wondering if we're running away.  I hear the crowd of people before I see them. They are cheering, but I can't tell what they are saying.

By the time I figure it out, my knees have already buckled. Big Jim is swinging from the mail rack above the station. The crowd below him jeering. Big Jim's eyes are bulging, his hands trembling as the last of his breath leaves his body. A single tear runs down his cheek. My father and grandfather join in the celebration, which I now notice is made up of only white men and women. I look around and in the shadows I see Big Jim's daughter. She's my age. I met her once.

I don't remember walking home. I only remember the next day, waking up numb and deciding that my life was over even before it began. I was going to continue in this life like those around me. Doing what I wanted, when I wanted. Everyone else be damned. 

I live in a house with six siblings, but I'm an orphan. I'm in this alone.