Six months. 31.5 times six. 93 days? I’m not particularly mathematically adept at this time.
Nevertheless and irregardless– off the wagon.
First, it was the party for a friend of my lover. Strong through an hour, maybe two. Then anxious. Then was asked to get a drink for her. Hers were weak. I nod and smile. To the bar. Drop a twenty. “Double vodka.”
It was downhill from there. Down into “Proud Mary in the style of Ike and Tina Turner” at some dive called “Longneckers”. Down to a $100 cab ride two turns north and west because, apparently, I slurred “Spring St” into “Springville”. At least I didn’t drive.
But the next morning, with the special lady’s car an hour’s traffic south in Depew? The shower handle breaks off. I’m driving down Transit (the reverse route the cab driver should have taken) in oppressive Sunday morning heat, wondering if the {jury,jerry}-rigged hose was still attached to the drain, or if my apartment was (once again) flooded.
We made it back. It was a good day in the end. I topped off the proverbial, but it was good. In my philosophy of sobriety, a stumble doesn’t necessarily cripple.
A rough week later, after kilobytes of text too tawdry to re-late, the lover and I were back on terms of endearment. We just wanted to *be* together. We did.
I picked up a four-pack of Ommegang Rare Vos before “we did”.
I could barely finish the first. Half of the second, the rest down the drain. It’s a pathetic ABV, anyway.
Next week, things are much worse. I “dialed” a number with three digits. Wasn’t pretty. Swore I’d never do that to someone, but I did.
Gotta swear off swearing.
375mL of … New Amsterdam? I walked for it. To “Liquor Store” on Main in Williamsville. Very somber in the shop. I always play a role. This was the role of the reluctant reprise of an alcoholic. (No, not *that* disease-implicative term, but let’s use the word for expedience before I lose interest in this post.) Took it home. Maybe three shots in three separate talls of Sodastream tonics. Just enough for a buzz, and the remainder went down the drain.
Last night.
Another 375. Sobieski. My old friend.
Downed half that one.
It was enough to conjure the breath of the dragon. It was enough to steer me off and leave me waking to a head full of webs and wisps. It was enough to make me regret.
And? Tonight.
Six-pack of Commodore Perry. I’m experimenting, see? I’m working out what quantity might bring the quality that keeps me from coming home every goddamned night and going straight to bed. I’m figuring what might be enough to erase the mistakes I’ve forced out of recall’s range and be content with myself for an evening.
To the credit of the experiment, I have spilt some admirable word combinations this night.
But.
But … is it worth it?
I can’t be a drunk again. Not a “modern drunkard”. Not an “alcoholic”. Not … not what I said I wouldn’t be.
Am I weak? Am I paralyzed with a fear of being alone with my self?
Maybe every chance ticked itself off the availables on Memorial Day in 2011. Can I only choose one role? If I fail at it, am I doomed to spiral, grasping, down into nothing?
What was I before this?
Will I ever be him again?
Do I want to be?
Fuck it.
TUSK.
