I Didn’t Need a Caretaker.
Larry spent an inordinate amount of time telling me how easy it was to go without drinking.
“I drank a fuckin’ six-pack every day for 20 fuckin’ years!” he would say, grinning that joyous grin. “I think my jeans are gettin’ loose!” He’d pull out his waistband to show me.
The man was almost 40 years old. He actually cared about how his jeans fit.
For me, every day was a struggle.
I hadn’t realized it was possible to smoke more tobacco, but I was doing it. When I wasn’t smoking pot, I was irritable beyond irritability. Every day involved me sleeping as long as was physically possible, then rolling over and looking for a roach in the many ashtrays scattered around the house.
(A “roach” is a tiny piece of a joint that sometimes contains a small amount of marijuana. While we had cockroaches in every other apartment, we thankfully did not have live roaches in this one.)
If I couldn’t find any pot, I would blame Larry for smoking it. And sometimes he had. Then I would start whining about when we were going to get pot again. We had to deal with so many factors: waiting for our weekly pay, finding time outside of work to get it, and making sure the drug dealer was available – i.e., not imprisoned.
None of this allowed me to live the all-day inebriation and instant-gratification lifestyle I preferred.
In other words, I had gone from being a raging alcoholic to being 100% focused on pot, even though I did not enjoy the sensations it provided.
Some might wonder what happened to all the cocaine I had done previously. Oddly, no one ever approached me with offers of cocaine when I wasn’t drunk. Smoking pot somehow made me less attractive to the coke-heads. So sometimes I had to go hours without drugs.
And Ronnie, bless his heart, decided that it was better for me if he didn’t share his cocaine anymore. In fact, Ronnie found me rather boring when I wasn’t drinking, and stayed away.
Meanwhile, I found Larry rather boring. He went from being a superstar country singer on the stages in my alcoholic hazes to being a complete buffoon. While Larry took himself very seriously and believed everything he said, suddenly I found myself living with an imbecile who, I finally realized, was supposed to be my caretaker.
I didn’t have one iota of respect for the man. And without alcohol, I didn’t need a caretaker.
“I can’t live with you anymore,” I said one day, rather out of the blue.
Larry laughed. I’d given him no indication that I couldn’t stand him.
But I didn’t laugh. “I can’t drink,” I said. “And I can’t be with you when I’m not drinking.”
He gave me a big hug. “It’s okay, Baby. We’re gonna be okay.”
I nodded into his chest, then squirmed away. “No,” I said. “I’ve got to get my own place.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. Suddenly it was the most brilliant idea on the planet, getting my own place. I could taste the freedom that would provide.
“If that’s what you want to do,” Larry said casually.
“It is,” I said.
It was March, and my parents were recently back from Europe.
When I told my mom I was leaving Larry she hesitantly asked: “Are you drinking?”
“No!” I replied honestly. Since she didn’t ask, I didn’t mention the marijuana.
“Well, this sounds like a step in the right direction,” she said.
A couple weeks later, they helped me move into my own place.