Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
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THE BEER THIEF<br />
I grew up in Dallas, Texas, wondering why. In <strong>the</strong> novels and buttery teen magazines I read, people<br />
of consequence lived in California and <strong>the</strong> East Coast, <strong>the</strong> glittering cities where a Jay Gatsby or a<br />
John Stamos might thrive. When I became obsessed with Stephen King books, I nursed fantasies of<br />
moving <strong>to</strong> Maine. <strong>Things</strong> happened in Maine, I <strong>to</strong>ld myself, never understanding things happened in<br />
Maine because Stephen King made <strong>the</strong>m happen.<br />
My fa<strong>the</strong>r was an engineer for DuPont Chemical in 1970, but a crisis of conscience changed our<br />
family’s entire trajec<strong>to</strong>ry. The environmental movement was getting started, and my dad wanted <strong>to</strong> be<br />
on <strong>the</strong> right side of his<strong>to</strong>ry—cleaning up <strong>the</strong> planet, not pumping more <strong>to</strong>xins in<strong>to</strong> it. He <strong>to</strong>ok a job<br />
with <strong>the</strong> burgeoning Environmental Protection Agency, which was opening up branches across <strong>the</strong><br />
country, and in 1977, when I was three years old, we moved from a quaint Philadelphia suburb <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
wilds of Dallas, a city so far removed from what we knew it might as well have been Egypt.<br />
I’ve often wondered how much of my life would be different if we’d stayed where we sprouted.<br />
What part of my later troubles, my sense of estrangement could be traced back <strong>to</strong> this one simple set<br />
change—swapping <strong>the</strong> leafy and sun-dappled streets surrounding our apartment in Pennsylvania for<br />
<strong>the</strong> hot cement and swiveling highways of Big D?<br />
My parents rented a small house on a busy street in <strong>the</strong> neighborhood with <strong>the</strong> best public school<br />
system in Dallas. The district was no<strong>to</strong>rious for o<strong>the</strong>r things, <strong>to</strong>o, though it <strong>to</strong>ok us a while <strong>to</strong> catch<br />
on: $300 Louis Vuit<strong>to</strong>n purses on <strong>the</strong> shoulders of sixth graders, ski trips <strong>to</strong> second homes in Aspen or<br />
Vail, a line of BMWs and Mercedes snaking around <strong>the</strong> school entrance. Meanwhile, we drove a<br />
dented station wagon with a ceiling liner held up by staples and duct tape. We didn’t have a chance.<br />
Parents often try <strong>to</strong> correct <strong>the</strong> mistakes of <strong>the</strong>ir own past, but <strong>the</strong>y end up introducing new errors.<br />
My fa<strong>the</strong>r grew up in a public housing project in Detroit. My mo<strong>the</strong>r wondered what she might have<br />
achieved if she hadn’t downshifted her intelligence through school. They wanted better opportunities<br />
for <strong>the</strong>ir two children. And so <strong>the</strong>y moved in<strong>to</strong> an area where all <strong>the</strong> kids went <strong>to</strong> college, an area so<br />
cloistered from <strong>the</strong> dangers of <strong>the</strong> big city it was known as <strong>the</strong> Bubble.<br />
The neighborhood was a real slice of old-fashioned Americana: two-s<strong>to</strong>ry redbrick homes and<br />
children selling lemonade on <strong>the</strong> corner. My bro<strong>the</strong>r and I rode our bikes <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> shopping center a<br />
mile away <strong>to</strong> buy gummy worms and magic tricks, and we made As on our report cards, and we were<br />
safe. In fact, <strong>the</strong> only thief I ever knew was me.<br />
I was a small-time crook. In middle school, I slipped lipstick and powder compacts in<strong>to</strong> my<br />
pocket at <strong>the</strong> Woolworth’s and smiled at <strong>the</strong> clerk as I passed. Every kid pushes boundaries, but<br />
something else was going on: Surrounded by a land of plenty, I couldn’t shake <strong>the</strong> notion that what I<br />
had been given was not enough. So I “borrowed” clo<strong>the</strong>s from o<strong>the</strong>r people’s closets. I had an<br />
ongoing scam with <strong>the</strong> Columbia Record & Tape Club that involved changing <strong>the</strong> spelling of my name<br />
each time I joined. But <strong>the</strong> first thing I remember stealing was beer.<br />
I was seven when I started sneaking sips of Pearl Light from half-empty cans left in <strong>the</strong><br />
refrigera<strong>to</strong>r. I would tip<strong>to</strong>e in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> kitchen in my cot<strong>to</strong>n nightgown, and I would take two long pulls