The God Damn Pepsi

What follows is a sort of confession. The humor is undeniable. The story is one often revisited with friends and family alike. While I acknowledge the hilarity, I see it as a form of penance. My actions in the story are disgusting and shameful. While it is worth mentioning that I was merely fifteen years old, I say that knowing there is no excuse. I have told the story many times as much for the Mea Culpa as the laughs I hope to get.

The house I spent my teenage years in had a rudimentary man-cave. Our basement was furnished and in a fitting style to our family, it wasn't decked out but somewhat ramshackle. The basement was carpeted in green shag and cheap wood paneling covered the walls. It afforded space, an extra cable-ready television, and little else.

The World Series between Oakland and The Dodgers was set to start and my father and I had our feast. Tombstone pizza and 2 liters of Pepsi secured, we settled in for The Fall Classic.

It was an historical night for many reasons. This was the game where Kirk Gibson hit his famous home run often seen in video clips and sports montages. When I watch that homerun, I am taken back to a different sort of history. It's a night cemented into our family's collective conscience.

My dad grew tired and shut off the lights. I sat in front of the glow of the television and watched Gibson's blast alone. After the game, I turned off the TV, too tired to go to my room, I lie on the floor. My father snored softly on the couch next to me. At some point, the effect of consuming an entire two liter of Pepsi awoke me. Too tired and ultimately too lazy, I fumbled in the complete darkness for the empty bottle. I first grabbed the half-full bottle and set it aside. I groped in the darkness and found what I was looking for and without an ounce of hesitation or more importantly, pride, relieved myself into the empty container. I write this 23 years later and still feel a sense of shame. Had that crept in so many years ago, things might have gone much differently.

I, with no weight on my mind for my sloth, fell back asleep. Sometime in the night my father stirred beside me. I sat up and told him about the historic game.

"Damn. I just couldn't stay awake. Hey, is there any Pepsi left?"
Without a second thought, I sealed our fates.

I heard two distinctive gulps and sat up in alarm at the unmistakable sound of my dad spraying the contents of the bottle in what was the ultimate spit-take. I knew my error befre my dad even spoke

"YOU GAVE ME A BOTTLE OF PISS!"

Now there are two points to consider. I still haven’t had the nerve to address these with my father. First, how did he know that he had just consumed urine? A human being should have no idea what urine tastes like. The fact that he knew without hesitation what he was drinking disturbs me now more than ever. Second, is the fact that he was so quickly able to figure out, from a dead sleep, what was going on. This can only mean that he too has urinated into an empty bottle of something. Sorry pal, live by the sword and die by the sword.

At that instant, I knew that this was a very funny thing that was playing out. I knew right then that someday we would look back on this and laugh. I knew that exact instant was not the time. I was faced with a dilemma. My natural reaction was to laugh. Laughter would have resulted in an ass whipping of monumental proportions. I stuttered and stammered as I decided what to do

"uh....uh....ummm"

With equal parts revulsion and indignation, my father choked out a response that instantly cemented it's self in the annals of our family's history. The final words were said haltingly. I'd like to think this was for dramatic effect but I'm certain it was his utter disgust overtaking him.
"WELL AT LEAST HAND ME THE GOD...DAMN...PEP-SI!."

It's a valid point he makes. I am certain that other than beating my ass blue, he wanted that Pepsi more than anything else in the world.
His stuttered demand snapped me from my stupor and I quickly complied.

"God Damn-it! Motherfuck!" Not unlike the old man from "A Christmas Story," My old man wove a tapestry of profanity, the cause much more sinister than a faulty furnace or The Bumpus Hounds. I wisely chose to say nothing and slipped silently through the darkness and upstairs to my room.

The next morning was tense and awkward. No college one night stand could ever top the levels felt in my own home that morning. I said nothing and would not look anywhere near my dad. The time was nearing for me to go to school and I didn't want this to wear on me. I started to speak and was immediately cut off.

"Dad I..."

"Just go to school," my dad's Eastwood-esque growl told me he meant what he said and a further discussion would not be wise.

Like any dutiful son whose urine was just consumed by his father, I silently picked up my bag and walked out the door.