Long ago when was just starting my life as an apprentice alcoholic, I became friends with my boss, a cook at the Elks Lodge in West Richland. I remember his first name, Ernie, but not his last; not that it matters. Suffice to say he was the journeyman alcoholic that I strived to become.
Mother gave me a job hint after returning home from school. I was a full time college student at Columbia Basin College and needed gas money to get me back and forth in my ’73 Gremlin. A cook they recently hired at the Elks Lodge needed a dishwasher and prep cook. I grudgingly went to the Elks lodge that overlooked their private golf course at the time. The lodge later sold the course and swimming pool to the city. At any rate, I met Ernie as he was mixing up the house dressing. My first impression as I saw his wry smile behind a well trimmed salt and pepper beard, styled haircut and big gut was how similar he appeared to Kenny Rodgers. Our interview consisted of him asking me three questions: You ever washed dishes before? Can you prep? And do you like to drink?
I replied yes to all three and he said, “You’re hired, now go and get me some more mayonnaise for the dressing.”
It was purely business at first, and only later did I realized how far gone his alcoholism had progressed. I went to work after classes and did my stint until I finished the last load of dishes and mopped the floor. He cleaned up long before and sat at the corner of a bar nursing a Jack Daniels and coke.
“You want something before you go,” he would ask me.
Then, I was more responsible; if I drove I would ask for a soda, and if I walked I would sit at the bar and order a draft Bud.
Later on, he bought himself a ’70 Coupe Deville and I became his designated driver, going to any number of bars in the greater Tri Cities area. He would get himself plowed as I sat and drank my soda pop. He would also reward my efforts by buying my weed for me. It was a great relationship until he lost his job at the restaurant on night.
It all started innocently enough, it was Mexican night, and we were on our way to the Elks Lodge, when he suddenly wanted to “grease his wheels” before getting there and we stopped at the bowling alley in Richland, called Atomic Lanes.
No sooner had we sat down, than a group of ladies from Portland showed up to have couple. He began flirting with them and soon he had one wrapped around his finger and I, being the sober driver noticed it was getting extremely close to getting started. “Ernie, we need to go.”
“Go ahead and start without me. Come back later and pick me up,” he told me in his usual whiskey and cigarette rasping voice.
“But Ernie, it’s Mexican night and they’ll be expecting you.”
“Shit, everything you need to get started is in the freezer. Just pull it out and get everything started. Come back later and pick me up. Now Scram!”
I felt pissed, but that wasn’t the first time he pissed me off as I left the lounge, hearing a smattering of bowling pins explode as someone’s ball made contact. No the first time was a few weeks before when he screwed up a meal at a wedding reception and the father of the bride or groom got into his face and threatened to beat the crap out of him and sue the Lodge. In that little foray, he was gone and finally showed up just after the dinners were sent out, and the cook had no idea what exactly was being served and had to fly off the seat of his pants. Somehow he got it wrong.
After the confrontation had settled, the cook quit throwing his apron at Ernie.
I went back to the dish pit doing dishes in silence, stewing in rage and embarrassment.
Ernie came up to me and said, “Go ahead and clean up, I’ll be back later to help you finish up.”
“Whatever, Ernie,” I replied as I glared back at him.
“Don’t tell me you’re mad too.”
“Yeah I am,” I said and went back to pre-rinsing a rack of plates. I saw him leave the kitchen, presumably going to the bar and having another one.
Back to this night, it appeared we were headed in the same unfortunate circumstance as then and I felt the same rage beginning to approach. He didn’t get it. To him this was just another job to work at and get paid for with the added fringe benefit of a bar to drink in. For me, the Elks Lodge was more because people I knew, my parents’ friends went there on a regular basis and I carried aspirations of someday joining too. He was a liability and an embarrassment for me. The sooner I cut the cord the better, I thought.
As soon as I arrived, the place was packed with lodge members wanting to know where Ernie was and his wife; yes he was married and had wonderful woman who had the patience of a saint, but not tonight.
“Where’s Ernie,” was the first question that came out of her mouth as I ran like a chicken with its head cut off getting stainless steel containers full of refried beans, ground taco, meat and cheese out from the freezer and onto the flat range top. That too was cold and I had to max the burners to get everything going.
“I left him at the bowling alley,” I replied, tired of lying for him.
“Really,” she replied as fire spit out from her eyes.
Just then Mark, a cook who replaced the one who quit came in looking for Ernie. “I need some money. That check he gave me bounced.”
A thought came to me at that moment. “Look Mark, it’s taco night, I’m totally out of sorts here. Ernie is at the bowling alley. Do me a favor and get this stuff started. I’m going to get him, even if I have to drag him out kicking and screaming.”
I think he felt more sorry for me than mad at Ernie and agreed, as he threw on an apron and got started.
“Go and get him,” his wife told me under no-uncertain-terms.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at the bowling alley and saw Ernie carrying on a lively conversation with a red head and a brunette. He was seated between the two.
“Ernie we got to go now,” I stated to him.
“Oh, your back. I got this one for you. We’re going over to the Hanford House to party there,” Ernie stated his eyes swimming in booze and lust.
“Your wife sent me to get you back. The place is full and thankfully, Mark showed to get the dinner going while I come back to get you.”
That is when the two ladies excused themselves saying “Goodbye Ernie,” as they left us. Ernie appeared to have sobered up a bit then and got up, throwing on his cowboy hat and coat, and heading toward the door. Not a word was exchanged as we drove back to the Elks Lodge.
The remaining guests congratulated Mark on a fine dinner as they purposefully ignored Ernie who spoke pleasantries to them as they left the bar.
“I thought you told me this place was packed,” Ernie said in disappointment to me.
“It was,” his wife stated upon seeing us. “They couldn’t wait all night for their dinners and went elsewhere. Ernie, how could you?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer as I snuck into the kitchen, taking off my coat and going into the dish pit as I donned my apron. I started washing dishes when I suddenly heard dishes shattering.
“What the hell are you doing?” I heard Ernie yell at someone who I could only assume was his wife.
“You lying son of a bitch,” I heard her scream. “Go and fine some place else to sleep. You’re out of my place.”
Later that night, I drove him to a lodge friend’s trailer. He stayed there and they divorced.
After the end of the year, of 1982, he and I separated too. I didn’t feel like being caught up in his downward spiral.
He admitted to me some time before all of this happened that he was committed to a Schick rehabilitation facility by his first wife; this last one was his second. He said he spent two days there and demanded to be released.
As I later discovered myself, one cannot be forced to quit drinking. For me, rock bottom was a stroke that left my left side of my body partially paralyzed and a decision to become sober for the rest of my life. I don’t know if Ernie found the bottom of the bottle. I pray that he did and changed his life to one of sobriety. I feared though that he ended up drinking himself to death.
Jerry Schellhammer 