Can I See Some ID?
I felt higher leaving detox than I was when I went in, thanks to the horse tranquilizer they kept shooting into my rear end. It was a very unpleasant shot, and an even more unpleasant feeling. I was lethargic and dazed and could hardly hold myself upright, even after sleeping for several hours in the detox.
But now I was free. They’d told me that if I wanted to stay in their detox, I had to be knocked out the entire time. And I was livid.
Having no say over what I do with my own body is my least favorite thing.
Alcoholism had robbed me of that say for ten years, but the blame went elsewhere. As I raged out onto the streets of Braddock, I fell into an emotional spiral that started with raging at the nurses and ended with diving into a bottle to kill myself. Before my eyes had adjusted to sunlight, I was seeking the nearest neon Budweiser sign.
I walked inside and asked for a draft before realizing that I had nothing: no money, no cigarettes, no lighter and – worst of all – no driver’s license.
“Can I see some ID?” the bartender asked, having never seen me before.
I reached into my back pocket and then said, “I’m 27. But I left my license at the hospital across the street.”
“No ID, no service,” he said apathetically.
Maybe I won’t be able to drink, I thought. But I was furious, and fury drove me right out that door and back into the hospital, up the four flights of stairs, back to that nurse’s station where I had to sign numerous forms before they would give me what was rightfully mine.
Even in my dazed condition, it took everything I had to hold myself back from diving over the wall and throttling all the nurses.
But I restrained myself. I signed the AMA papers. Finally, they gave me my stuff and I went straight back to the bar where the bartender begrudgingly sold me a beer. I used my Chase credit card, which I’d acquired as a sober Chatham College student, to pay for the very, very cheap beer. Being poverty-stricken, I’d been using credit like money for about a month.
After two drafts, I fell off my bar stool. I was still so high on librium, the beer made me absurdly unsteady.
Pulling myself from the floor back onto the stool I yelled, “Another beer, please!”
“You’ve had enough,” said the bartender. “You’re too drunk. Ya gotta go.”
“I’ve only had two beers!” I cried. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care where you go,” said the bartender. “But you can’t stay here. Do you need me to call the cops and have you removed?”
I stared at him, my jaw agape. In all of my years of drinking, I’d never been thrown out of a bar – and now I was getting thrown out because I was too high on detox drugs.
“No,” I mumbled.
I plodded back out into the sunlight and found a payphone. I called Ronnie.
“I know you’re drinking,” Ronnie said. “I’m not going to hang out with you if you’re drinking.”
“But I just – “
“No,” Ronnie said. And he hung up.
I couldn’t call anyone; I couldn’t go home. I was too high to be served alcohol, and nowhere near drunk enough. I had no money, four cigarettes, and nowhere to go. So I just started walking down the gray, empty streets.
When I saw the train tracks, I suddenly knew exactly what I needed to do.