It's been over 50 days since my last drink. I still feel tired. In fact, midday...I feel like I could just pass out standing. Then someone would take photos, post them online and I'd be right up there with bat boy. The headline "Man dies standing up. Probably Doesn't Know He's Dead." Yeah, slow news week.
I did some research recently on these "side effects" of quitting the bottle. A lot of people have reported that their bodies, when denied something they've been living off of for years, health issues that arose from the quitting aspect. In other words, the body got fooled into believing booze was now a part of your chemical makeup. To retract that element from your body sustaining itself, means you're depriving it something it needs. How messed up is that? Some doctors have even prescribed NOT to stop drinking because to do so would be so shocking to the system that they would die. The body is so fascinating, that even if your brain decides to poison itself, it re-wires itself to sustain your living thru that. Penicillin anyone?
That would explain why my doctor suggested I give the drinking thing a rest. He wasn't firm, but he brushed off my drinking like it was a hobby. Like if building model airplanes with glue was giving me a headache, I should just stop. I guess they try not to sound too judgmental. He did happen to murmur some penis thing in between the alcoholism. That reminds me...if alcoholism is a disease...then wouldn't your employer want you to keep it secret, so if your employment comes into question, they could fire you for everything but this disability. Maybe I can now park in the handicap parking space. Course, if I really had a drinking disease, I probably shouldn't be driving anyway. Which leads me to...
...being booked into the Los Angeles County jail.
This happened roughly 5 years ago. One of my favorite season is football season. I'm not going to say autumn, winter or any of that nonsense. It's college football, pro football, high school football. Hell, if nuns played football, I'd show up to mass every weekend (I don't know crap about Catholicism so I'm making this junk up). I grew up in the Midwest, so football starts at a respectable 1PM. On the West Coast, it's 10AM. Now I'm not sure how many who read this are true degenerates, but I never imagined in my life that I would be sipping a bloody Mary at 10AM. Many Americans seem to believe this is a ritual. Ask anyone who does the Sunday brunch mimosa thing.
I go to this bar that is a mix bag of football fans. Mixed in that there are some serious drinkers at this dive. People celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and holidays at this place. I just happen to stumble upon it when I first moved to the Valley. It looked cheap enough. Well, the bartenders there do not hide the fact that they are there to get you drunk. Not just drunk, but you crawl out. I'm a Cincinnati Bengals fan, so for those who know football, you also probably know why drinking really soothes the loser mentality.
This particular year was exciting. My team was actually winning. I befriended a few Steelers fans who frequent the bar the way bonding happens. By me shouting smack talk drunkenly into their general direction. Drinking booze makes you stupid and invincible. It was my God given right to tear into these guys since years and years of being in the same division and suffering constant ridicule.
Drinks were flowing. I grew out of hand. I may as well place a very large void here since I can't remember the rest of the game, only that the Bengals did win. Their victory was my victory. The bartender, growing concerned called me a cab. I was livid. I threw napkins at them. I threw olives. I threw whatever cash I had in hand at them. And they finally escorted me out. Gently though. I was not the worst they've seen, and I got the feeling they felt sorry for me. I got in the cab, and this moment I look back with regret...
...because the whole time I was screaming and kicking the seat of the taxi cab driver. Shouting horribly racist things. Spitting, cursing, pleading that I couldn't be without my car. He took me all the way to my apartment which is when I pulled out a wad of cash and threw it at him and demanded he take me back. Poor guy was just an immigrant trying to make a living. And here I was, the fare that stood between him and his dream vegetable garden. Not that I was fully coherent. And he did the worst thing possible. He took me back.
There was my car. The bar didn't take my keys. The cab driver asked me if I was okay to drive. And I honestly believed I was. He left, probably grateful. I'm pretty sure he forgot to take my sweaty booze soaked cash.
And I commit the worst crime I could think of. I get in my car; start her up. And drove home. Fear is gripping when you start to feel yourself lose control. The smart thing would be to pull over the side of the road and wait it out. But I'm determined. The drunk mind doesn't think logic. It thinks goal. And the goal is to conquer this. I've been drunker. And guess what, when I get home, this will all seem like a nightmare. And I'll secretly high five myself for overcoming this. It's all a state of mind. Yeah right...I would've driven better if someone would've dropped an anvil on my head.
I do make it home. And what do they always say? Most car accidents happen within a block from your home. At the time, I had a roommate that parked in the garage, so I couldn't use the space. I end up attempting to parallel park. Some of you may be groaning others laughing. Others may feel a mixed bag of wanting to kick my dumbass or choking me out. Either way...this parking job was going to happen.
I remember so very little. I do remember not having any level of control of anything. I drove stick shift at the time, which made what I was trying to do much more difficult. Well, I remember metal grinding on metal. And the sound freaked me out, so I drove out of the first spot and drove down the road to take the corner so that I could round back to search for another space. This was on a Sunday, so all spaces are occupied. I'm pissed. And getting more and more drowsy. I finally find a parking spot. And I beeline home. I think I've passed a few people along the way that seemed to be confused. When I'm drunk, I can almost see myself. It's not a pretty sight. I look pissed and ready to kill. Worst...this was when I had packed on 15 lbs. of muscle. So...not sure how many people want to get in the way of mini-Hulk.
I finally make it back to my apartment. I run as fast as I can to my bed and nosedive into it. I just want the day to end. And the very worst part...it wasn't even 2PM yet.
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