I Never, Ever Wanted It To Be Two O’Clock.
As the weather started to get cooler, and the longest summer of my life ended, I became acutely aware – again – that I was living a double life.
Three days a week, I was the young adult who was smart and friendly and hard-working, who loved new wave music and laughing with my young-adult colleagues. Our little crew ordered subs and Diet Coke and ate while we “worked.” Those happy times started on Tuesday afternoons, when I hopped on the bus and rode into Pittsburgh with my Walkman in my pocket and my REM tape on repeat.
Between shifts, I drank and slept.
Around three o’clock in the morning, Larry would pick me up on the motorcycle. Even in the snow – when my teeth would chatter and my fingers turned blue and I’d nearly cry – I’d ride the motorcycle ready to party, having just completed a rousing shift of paste-up with my new best friends.
But sometimes we worked until the sun came up and the busses started running again. Then the bar downstairs opened so the Pennysaver staff would have a few drinks.
One morning, no one else wanted to drink with me so I was left to drink with only Steve, the press operator. Steve and I drank and drank. He had two rows of front teeth, which caricatured his mouth into such a state that it was hard to notice the rest of his face. By the end of that drinking escapade, Steve and I were making out on the bar stools; the man was inexplicably a great kisser.
That day and several others, I slept through my bus stop at the end of the line. The bus had already headed back into Pittsburgh. I’d wake to a rush-hour-crowded bus, panicked, and jump off the bus wherever I was. Then I’d cross the street and wait for the next bus home.
Back in Pitcairn, especially in the middle of the night, I’d blast my music at full volume, smoking cigarettes and drinking whatever beer we had in the fridge. I’d wake Larry for sex when the sun rose, then I’d pass out in the bed as Larry was pulling on his jeans for work.
These were good days.
On Fridays, I morphed into full-time biker chick. For me, that meant country music and drinking beer from Friday afternoon until whenever I passed out Tuesday morning. If we also went out for pizza, or Larry’s band played in one of the bars, it was a big weekend.
Larry and I did absolutely nothing else.
Larry spent his days – when I was sleeping – working on his bike in his new garage. He did all the shopping, too: bread and bologna for him, and sliced mushrooms for me. I sautéed the mushrooms in butter virtually every day and called it sustenance.
Larry made sure we had at least a twelve-pack of Miller Lite in the fridge so I’d have something to drink when I came home from work. There was nowhere to get beer in the middle of the night. “Closing time” – two o’clock in the morning – doesn’t mean much to most people, but to an alcoholic, it’s the end of forever.
I never, ever wanted it to be two o’clock.
For three nights of work, a twelve-pack wasn’t nearly enough. Larry started buying cases, which he’d split to carry home in the saddlebags. Then I’d complain because I couldn’t drink them for many hours; the Harley turned them to foam.
But I always drank them eventually, and it was impossible to keep the fridge stocked with me living there.