I Could Be Smart Again.
Living in my own apartment felt like being released from prison. I had all my own personal stuff, much of it donated by family who was thrilled that I was no longer a raging alcoholic.
From Larry’s I took my boombox and my clothes, which was all I really needed.
Larry also gave me the Camaro. “You earned it, Baby,” he’d said, handing me the keys. The “title transfer” concept never crossed anyone’s mind.
From my parents’ house, I grabbed my stereo and my albums, which made my life complete for the first time since high school. I no longer had to survive on Larry’s collection of ancient country crooners; I could listen to Prefab Sprout and Led Zeppelin and REM and The Cure and … and … and ….
I could listen to anything I wanted. I could do anything I wanted. I could go anywhere I wanted. I could be whoever I wanted to be, and I didn’t have to kowtow to Larry’s vision of a “chick.” Biker life was behind me; I could be smart again.
I was poor, but I had a job and my own money. I was independent. I had my own pots and pans, and I learned that I could boil water, cook my own pasta, and pour sauce from a jar on top. I called that “dinner.” Sometimes dinner was cereal with milk. Lunch was almost always peanut butter and jelly.
Gregg introduced me to peanut butter and banana sandwiches, so that expanded my horizons.
Unlike Larry, Gregg didn’t require me to become like him. Gregg didn’t take over my world. He was simply there while I created a new life for myself.
Gregg was 26; I was 23. He’d lived in Swissvale his whole life; he knew the whole town. And even though I went to high school a mile away, Swissvale felt like an alien planet. I was happy to have his connections, too, since I trusted Gregg to supply the marijuana for my new life.
What I discovered, whilst living without alcohol, is that I was a fiend for organization. Even though I smoked cigarettes which ruined everything in my tiny abode, I dusted religiously. I picked up all the errant dirt from the middle of the floor in my one room.
And I organized my albums as though I would be giving tours to my fans. I organized alphabetically, then chronologically based on acquisition, then by color, then bands versus solo artists, eventually landing on an “I’ll just reorganize these every week” plan. I loved organizing my albums.
I also loved having my own personal pet. I cleaned out Kitty’s litter box every day; I never wanted my house to smell like cat poop. I made sure Kitty always had clean water and enough canned Friskies for a feline army, and I washed out her bowls after every meal. It was a small apartment, so sometimes Kitty and I sat on our porch. She wandered away sometimes but always came running back when I went inside.
In the evening, while I smoked cigarettes and stared at the ceiling, sometimes Kitty would climb onto my lap, kneading my belly to make a bed. She purred.
As a drunk, I’d never heard her purr.
Life in my new place was better than I could have ever dreamed. I was so grateful to be not drinking.
But I smoked pot every work day with my colleagues, and every night with Gregg, and never thought a single thing about it.
I thought I was sober, and I was happy.