I Just Walked Right In.
With my childhood box in my new apartment, it was whole. I felt like an adult, a whole person. I wasn’t drinking. I was a college graduate. I had a job. In fact, I got a promotion to Shift Supervisor! I was making strides.
I still smoked pot every day, thanks to the guys at work and Gregg, so it was easy to be “sober.” I stayed away from Barry and Kim next door, since they drank alcohol. Gregg and I stayed inside and got high instead.
But one Saturday morning, there was no pot left. Steve, Gregg’s friend and our drug dealer, said there was no new pot coming in, and we were stuck.
I was stuck.
I picked a fight with Gregg, who had let me down by not providing for my basic needs. I told him to get out; I needed time to think.
“I was in a relationship for a long time,” I said. “And I don’t want to just jump into another one. I want to have my own place for a while.”
Gregg and I had been together for several weeks, and I’d never alluded to anything but pure bliss. But Gregg left at my request.
I sat with my cat, smoking cigarettes and watching the clock.
I turned on the TV. I turned off the TV.
I turned on the stereo; I played my favorite Flash and The Pan album – a dark, sorrowful group of songs that reminded me of my deep loneliness. (I stole this album from the Mount Union College radio station, where it was never played, and as far as I knew, no one knew any of these songs.)
I spent the entire afternoon recognizing the loneliness I hadn’t allowed myself to feel since the night I saw the shooting star in England. I’d been without alcohol for more than three months.
And then, sometime after the sun went down and quite suddenly, I found myself putting on my coat and walking out the door.
I walked to the 7-11 and bought a pack of cigarettes, then I sat on the curb and smoked. I made it through half of one cigarette before I got up again, antsy, and just started walking.
I walked into the bar without really thinking about it.
The nondescript building had no apparent name and a Rolling Rock light in a small, glass-block window. I just walked right in.
I needed something, because nothing wouldn’t do.
The horseshoe bar had three old guys chatting on one end, and no one else was in there. It was dark. So, so dark.
The bartender appeared from nowhere.
“Can I get a six-pack of IC Light?” I asked without thinking.
“We only have IC Light on draft,” said the bartender. “We don’t sell it in cans.”
I considered this. Should I try a different brand? Ask for whatever they had in cans?
My brain justified my subconscious decision: You’ve been in your apartment all day, it said. You could have one drink here while you figure out what kind of cans to get.
“Okay,” I said. “Just give me a draft for now.”
I sat down at the barstool furthest away from the other customers while the bartender poured my beer.
There was too much foam, which infuriated me. If I’m drinking a beer, I thought, I want it to be a whole beer, not half a glass of foam.
I waited ten seconds for the foam to clear. It did not.
I drank it anyway.