Blackout-Drunk was My New Normal.
“I’m bored with going to the same places every week,” I told Larry. “Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been. Let’s just drive until we find a bar we’ve never seen before!”
Larry shook his head, laughing silently as he often did when considering my ideas. “Okay!” he said finally. “Anything for you, Baby!”
We headed out for a ride in our new car, which – Larry was quick to remind me – cost way more to drive than the motorcycle did. So we headed out on the highway into Westmoreland County, blasting music on our 8-track player and pretending we were far, far from home.
Somewhere along the highway we saw a lincoln-log-styled pub with a glowing neon sign: “Miller Lite.” Since that was Larry’s favorite, we knew that this was the place we should stop.
Since it was Saturday, the place was hopping: jukebox blasting classic rock, a handful of very active pool tables, and plenty of people hooting at the bartender for “another round over here!” Larry and I jumped right into the action. We played pool for hours, selected some of the best songs on the jukebox, and drank shots of brandy and schnapps along with our beers.
By this point in my drinking career, I blacked out regularly. While I remembered the general ideas of what happened during our days, specific details were often lost. For example, hours would pass, but I only remembered four songs on the jukebox. I’d “come to” while walking around the pool table, suddenly realizing I had no idea how long I had been playing or with whom I was playing.
On this day, with Miller Lite on tap, I remember picking up the pitcher of beer and downing the whole thing. It wasn’t a huge pitcher, but I remember guzzling it – because then I ran to the restroom and vomited, clearing my head enough to temporarily pull me out of my blackout.
I left the restroom and ordered another pitcher. I remember standing at the bar, waiting for the pitcher, and then … nothing.
Blackout-drunk was my new normal.
Next thing I knew, Larry and I were in the car.
I have no idea if I had blacked out or passed out – it’s all the same in the mind of a drunk – but when I came to, I was frustrated. We were speeding down an isolated highway in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t have a beer in my hand.
“Why did we leave?” I slurred at Larry. “I loved that place! Let’s go back!”
Larry never looked away from the road. “Nah, it was just time to go.” He didn’t explain why we left, and I remembered absolutely nothing about leaving.
“I want to go back!” I whined. “Stop the car!”
“We’re almost fuckin’ home,” he said. “We’re not fuckin’ going back.”
“I want to go back!” I screamed. Then I reached over to the gearshift – something I could never have done on the motorcycle – and slammed the gear into park.
With a noise like a boulder slamming into metal, the car skidded violently, going from fast to stop instantly and slamming us both into the dash.
“What the fuck!” Larry bellowed. “You coulda fuckin’ killed us!”
“I wasn’t gonna kill us,” I grumbled. “Can we please just go back to the fuckin’ bar?”
“Fuck NO!” Larry hollered. “We’re not fuckin’ going back! Fuck this shit!”
He furiously – carefully – slid the car into drive and drove us home where I promptly passed out.
The next day, I woke up with my first-ever black eye, and no idea how I’d gotten it.