Last Call

I’m awake again much too early. The sky is a black void. The sun, still sleeping with the rest of the world. The stars, stifled by pollution, have drowned years ago. I hear the engine of the neighbors obnoxiously oversized pick-up truck revving up. I make a cup of coffee and stand by the window watching him clean the snow off of his truck’s windshield. My glasses start to fog from the steam rising from my coffee mug. Me and this ironically short man, both up before the rest of the world, both preparing for the day. Both undoubtedly wishing we had slept a few minutes longer. No matter how much sleep I get these days it never feels like enough. 

I’ve been waking up early because my body is readjusting. My usual night time routine involves making a drink around 8 and not stopping until I eventually fall asleep. Most nights, it doesn’t feel like I even sleep at all. Restless, anxiety riddled dreams keep my mind working even if my body has given up on the day. I drink for a million reasons depending on the occasion. If it’s early, I’ll make a bloody mary or throw some whiskey in my coffee to “get the day started right”. If it’s after work, I grab a glass of wine to “decompress” from the work day. If it’s late, I have a gin and tonic to “relax” because I’ve earned it. If I’m writing anything, I need to drink to feel “creative”. When you have an unhealthy attachment to something, you find a way to excuse your dependence to it. This goes for anything: drugs, food, love. 

My family has a complicated history with addiction. Every family function ends the same way. After a day of drinking someone will go the liquor store to buy another case of domestic beer because no matter how much alcohol was brought to the party, it’s all gone by nightfall. This is ok because we are “celebrating” and we haven’t “seen each other in a while.”  They return with the golden ticket to keep the party going and we tell all of our hilariously drinking stories compiled over the years. It’s like a greatest hits album replayed annually. Each track brings back a memory of a night we thought we forgot.  We laugh until we cry. And we keep drinking because we know that beneath each story is a whole layer of sadness that we spent our whole lives drinking to forget and we’re getting dangerously close to remembering that sadness. There’s a fear that once the drinking ends and we all get back to our own homes, away from the laughter of our kindred family souls, that sadness will kill us quicker than the liquor will. So we don’t stop until we pass out. Laughter and forgetting.

The first story that always gets told is about my Uncle. It’s kind of the kick off track to get us all in the nostalgic mood. He was, by everyone’s account, an alcoholic. He was also, by everyone’s account, the coolest motherfucker on the planet. The recurring story about him is how he used to order a scotch and a glass of milk at the bar. He had to drink the milk because at this point in his addiction, his alcohol induced ulcer was incredibly painful and the milk “coated his stomach.” I love old home remedies. There’s nothing ginger ale, Vicks vapor rub or a good night's sleep can’t fix.  Nobody comments on the fact that  perhaps this should have been a very strong medical alert to stop drinking. Everyone laughs at the ingenious way he was able to trick his body into drinking more. Our own patron saint of good times. One monkey ass ulcer don’t stop no show.

We share stories about DUI’s, losing: keys, wallets, phones, jet skis, friends. Breaking: noses, teeth, strangers faces, hearts. The stories all involve us as the hero. The drunken misadventures of ______. See our protagonist get into a fight in a convenience store parking lot at 3 am and then evade police by hiding in the trunk of our girlfriends car. See our protagonist falling asleep on a first date because they were so nervous they drank six glasses of wine while getting dressed to go out. See how we made it! See how we’re still here to tell the story and laugh! See how we defeated the odds! We share our heroic stories of how we manage to be functioning alcoholics and everyone laughs. Because one thing my family also shares is our exceptional skill at telling a story. If this were 1901 we could be part of a vaudeville troupe, travelling the world, telling stories and weaving tales. Selling elixirs. We are showmen. Salesmen. Entertainers by nature. 

Which brings me to this very sobering moment, literally and figuratively. This past year has been a real wake up call for a lot of people. Mine has been to reevaluate my unhealthy habits. Try and get deeper into the psychology of why I do the things I do. Why I choose the people I do. Why am I here? All of that fun stuff I’ve been avoiding for 39 years. 

I still contend I write better when I’m drunk. “Write drunk edit sober” isn’t that how the saying goes? But hopefully the less I start depending on drinking as a magic shield to protect my true feelings, the more my writing will reflect the real me. Not just the showman in me.