I Forgot to Feel Guilty.
Before I picked up the glass – which was not necessarily clean – I considered only briefly what I was doing. I knew that if I thought too long about it, I would stop myself from drinking.
And I was desperate to escape myself.
So I picked up the beer and took a sip with too much foam. It was warmer than I expected and tasted like I imagined horse urine might taste.
I almost gagged, but I didn’t want to waste it.
I instantly regretted drinking it, and immediately wanted another.
The first beer was gone in one minute.
I drank two, then three drafts, spending all of $1.50, before I looked up from the bar. The jukebox, which had been playing quietly in the corner, had somehow gotten louder, more noticeable. People had wandered in from the street and now there were seven of us inside. There were two women now, including me, and I felt slightly safer.
After three beers, I forgot to feel guilty.
After beer number three in fact, I forgot to feel anything at all. I wondered: Why did I stop drinking for so long? This is the best I’ve felt in months!
To capture the feeling and hold onto it forever, I drank another, and another. Suddenly I needed something more than just beer. I ordered a shot of root beer schnapps – the one drink I’d actually missed in my months of non-drinking.
Five beers and one shot was not enough.
I needed music. So I walked over to the jukebox without noticing that someone else was already there. He said, “Just pick whatever you want.” He dumped in four more quarters and I had a blast choosing songs.
When I returned to the bar, I felt a swagger as I climbed onto my bar stool. I forgot the dirty glass, the ripping barstool, my awkwardness with people.
I had no craving for marijuana; I felt peaceful. I felt good, comfortable, calm.
In fact, I didn’t remember the last time I’d felt so good.
Many, many years ago, I thought. Maybe in college, maybe at a party, maybe with friends. I felt like I’d found friends again, even though I was utterly alone.
My best friend was whatever liquid was in the glass in front of me.
I drank for hours, chatting freely with the bartender and whoever else wandered past.
I mentally sang along to the music from the jukebox, so I wouldn’t sing aloud like the embarrasing lady at The Hood. For the first time, I didn’t seek out a man to buy me drinks.
I had my own money. I had my own life. I could do what I wanted.
And I felt good.
I bought a six-pack at closing time, so I could keep drinking. A twelve-pack would have been too heavy for me to carry for the three-block walk. I don’t know what brand I bought.
I dropped one beer on the way home, and it bounced down the hill. It rolled considerably before I caught it. I planned to drink it last.
I stumbled home to my clean, organized house. Kitty greeted me loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t fed her since breakfast. I stumbled into the kitchen and threw food into her bowl, barely able to hold myself upright.
Then I blasted music and drank until the wee hours of the morning. I passed out on the floor instead of opening the sofa into a bed.
When the sun came up, I woke up … and drank the last beer, then passed out again.
I felt no remorse whatsoever.