I slammed two dirty, crumpled twenty dollar bills on the counter and asked for a bottle of Old Grandad. The clerk, an unassuming man is his 50's, turned to the shelf behind him, extended his under-exercised arm above his head and pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Like a surgeon, he shoved it into a brown paper sack and silently stood it on the counter. It was obvious this stuff wasn't flying off the shelves, but neither was his approach to customer service. It was late and I'm certain he was tired and not in the mood to face whatever his reality was that had him working in a tiny, corner bodega selling cigarettes and liquor to underage kids and skid row bums. To credit myself, I am neither of those things.
I am middle aged, employed and relatively healthy. I have a small circle of friends and a reputation of being a pretty standup guy. On this night, however, I was willing to throw it all in the street and go for broke.
Six months ago I left my marriage. I left two kids at home. I left it all. I left a house and a comfortable life in pursuit of my happiness. In the time that has passed I have had moments of it. Mostly though, I struggle with the loneliness I've found. I struggle with the idea that my kids miss me as much as I miss them. I struggle with making ends meet and I struggle with knowing I put a financial strain on my kid’s mom. I struggle a lot and while I spend a lot of time trying to find the positive in everything, there are plenty of moments that are just plain shitty...so on this night, I was throwing in the towel. On this night, I just plain ran out of fucks to give.
The old man put a ten, a five, two singles and a handful of coins on the counter beside the bottle. He never said thank you. In fact, he never said hello. He never actually said anything. I'm not certain he can actually speak. It's irrelevant. His interaction with me was not important to the experience I was seeking. What I was looking for was 750ml of mind numbing liquor. I chose Old Grandad because somewhere in my melancholy mind I harbored some grand vision of an all seeing camera that recorded my every move. Some sort of lifelong recording that would playback at my poorly attended funeral. To appease this seemingly never ending montage, I thought it fitting to black out with some kind of tip of the cap to those that went before me. My family tree was blooming with drunks, so why not?
What happened next was pretty typical. I scooped the change into my hand and shoved it into my pocket. I grabbed the bagged bottled and stuck it under my right arm. I pulled my hood up over my head and leaned my left shoulder into the frosty-edged glass door that separated me and the old man from the frigid wind that howled outside. As I set out to make the several block journey home, I heard the old guy spin the metallic wheel on a lighter. I was gone before I could smell his cigarette smoke.
The walk home didn't take as long as it could have. I was mentally in a hurry and only focused on two things. One was getting home quickly to tap into this bottle that contained my long lost friend and the other was wallowing so deep in my own self-pity that the first one seemed like a good idea at all in the first place.
Inside my place I didn't even take off my coat or my shoes. Something I almost always did. Instead, I walked directly over to the couch, sat down, in the dark, pulled the rest of my night from its paper cocoon, cracked the thin metal cap to the left to detach it from its safety seal and tipped the bottle up to my lips. The first push of brown liquid burned it's way across my lips and tongue. It slid down my throat, torching everything it touched. Warmth poured over me and for a moment I was free. Free from the bondage I had prescribed myself. Free from the burden of trying to find balance in this new life. Free from myself. For a moment. It didn't last. The second swig was smoother than the first. The potency and romance of the whole idea wore off quickly. At this point the mission was confined to four simple tasks. Smoke as many cigarettes as possible. Get drunk. Black out. Pass out.
I don't recall too much of what happened next. I know there were subsequent swigs and pulls. I know, from the butt filled ashtray and the burn marks in the wooden coffee table I smoked at least a pack of cigarettes. I know, simply from a physiological standpoint, that the alcohol in the bottle prevailed in my bloodstream at some point. I know, in hindsight, that I passed out, as I woke up on the floor in my coat and my shoes. I know the bottle that was once full was now empty and across the room in a pile of broken glass. I know that at some point I threw said bottle because just above where I found it resting was a dent in the Sheetrock and several broken picture frames. I know I blacked out because I have no recollection of any of these events. I know I accomplished my mission, but failed at the same time. I know I had expectations for all of my negative, depression based feelings to disappear through all of this. I know that didn't happen. I know this morning the remorse is unbearable, the headache is loud and obnoxious and I am still the same, middle aged man when I look in the mirror. I know that I am still me and I will always be me. I know that this chaotic trip into intoxication is worthless and futile. I know this. All of it. Every single goddamn word of it. A waste. A waste of time. A waste of energy. A waste of me. A waste of my life.
It's been fifteen and a half years since I drank. I don't think about it often, but when I do it usually looks like the story above. I usually have grand visions of some romantic, dark saga where I am the only actor on a stage in a theater without an audience. In my mind and on paper it always sounds so amazing. I'm not certain how it plays out in real life...I hope I never find out.