“‘Let us eat and drink,’ you say, ‘for tomorrow we die!’”
(Isaiah 22:13b,
NIV)
There was a
time when I could handle my liquor. Yes, there have been several incidents when
I, apparently, could not. All in all, drinking seemed easy to me. While I never
really liked the taste of alcohol, I downed it just the same. There was a point
where consuming booze was an everyday experience. Things didn’t start out that
way. I had only drank one beer by my nineteenth birthday and that introduction
was anticlimactic. Soon came college and university and a deluge of spirits. Throughout
my twenties, drinking was not only a social manifestation but also an evasion,
an escape from the life I tried so hard to hide. I drank my otherland, usually
with some salt and lime and a beer chaser. I took pride in my ability to
consume and consume some more. Eventually, I could out-drink almost anyone who
was up for the challenge. Of course, the drunker I got, the meaner I got,
although this was not always the case. You could never have called me a “happy
drunk” but I most certainly was a fun drunk. There were even a few times when
my intoxication turned me into a babbling fool. I have been known to urinate
anywhere I please given enough tequila and a state of extreme stupor. In my
mind, the years I spent inebriated were more a waste of my time and money than
I care to remember. These days, I am more of a cheap drunk than anything else.
The days of wine and poses are, thankfully, long gone.
“So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is
nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad.
Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has
given them under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 8:15,
NIV)
I woke up
to his face in my face. He smelt like tuna. From the skank that came with him, I
could easily tell why. I sat up and she began her assault. Perhaps my passing
out on a park bench, in her mind at any rate, merited such interference. Even
in hindsight, I have no idea why they did what they did. I often wonder if they
planned on robbing me. To their surprise, the shoes and the shorts and my shirt
were the only things of value that came with me. I really had no idea what they
wanted and neither of them ever said. The night before had brought many things,
those being shot after shot after shot. I don’t remember wandering through
downtown London , Ontario
“Here is what I have seen to be good and fitting: to eat, to
drink and enjoy oneself in all one’s labour in which he toils under the sun
during the few years of his life which God has given him; for this is his
reward.” (Ecclesiastes
5:18, NIV)
We frequented
the establishment for two reasons. First, the bar was close to where we lived
and second, the booze was cheaper than at any other downtown watering hole. The
atmosphere was a bonus when things got busy. My first partner and I took our
place in our regular place and proceeded with our “let’s get shitfaced” routine.
Tequila with a lager chaser for me and for him, if you please. Back then, every
day of existence was nothing more than another reason to get tanked. When I see
the two of us in my mind, I don’t see laughter and brevity cozying up to that
bar. I see pain, hidden pain, deadened at the hands of the only way we knew
how. I never stopped to notice that we would spend far more each month on
alcohol than on groceries. Apparently, from what was to come, you cannot drown
your sorrows without the risk of being pulled under. Something so enjoyable as
drinking became a crutch right up until the day that he died. I will admit our trip to the saloon that day
is layered by many things. Even laughter has a way of rising up from the
waters. So we sat there, drinking like fish (whatever that means). Doug gave up
trying at shot number three but I kept going like I always did. By shot number six,
the bartender started to gush over my ability to consume such a potent mix. At
one point, Doug chimed in about just how much I could take before the
inevitable. As I lowered the shot glass from my lips and tried to swallow Jose Cuervo (the drink, not the man), it
all came back to haunt me. I should not have had that rice for dinner. I should
have drank on an empty stomach. As words of acclaim over my skills flowed from
Doug’s mouth, all I had consumed erupted out of mine. I spewed the booze and
the rice and the rest of me across the bar and all over the alcohol, nicely displayed
in pretty bottles for all to see. I covered most of it in one fell swoop then
sat there rather empty, looking like a fool. It was at this point that they cut
me off.
“Wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray
by them is not wise.”
(Proverbs 20:1,
NIV)
I had drank
so much that I could not drive home. I
called a cab. As we approached the turn he would need to take to get me to
safety, I spotted the Taco Bell sign
and asked him to drop me off there instead. It was awesome to have this fast
food joint so close to where I lived. I frequented it on nights when I worked
late at a bar as a bouncer, but that’s another story. This was not the first
time I relied on someone else to get me home from work. This was not the first
time I stood in line at the drive-up window while purchasing a 7 layer burrito.
For some reason, when it passed normal hours, the franchise stayed open to
serve the needy. You could buy Fries Supreme until 4 am. As the line in front
of me got shorter, the lineup behind me got longer and longer. A few feet
behind me, two guys started making Nazi jokes in the most inappropriate manner.
The last thing I remember was laughing at them. Apparently, I blacked out while
they were kicking the shit out of me. This would be the only fight I ever lost.
I’m not sure if I got even one punch in. I do know that I woke up the next
morning handcuffed in the drunk tank. My wounds had been treated. When the
police officer attempted to question me, I had no recall whatsoever of the
event. I couldn’t describe the assailants. I had no idea how the fight even
started other than a chuckle. They didn’t even rob me. I have to admit, the
Sergeant was one of the nicest police officers I have ever encountered. He let
me go in light of the circumstances. They didn’t even fine me, that day. I walked away humiliated and very angry. I wanted to smash out and hit something but I
soon realized I could never cure this angst. I had to let it go. When I
finished my shift that Saturday, I quit without two weeks notice. The days of
social drinking ended with my goodbye.
“You have plenty of good things laid up for many years.
Take it easy. Eat, drink, and be merry!”
(Luke 12:19, NIV)
It had been
years since I had gotten to a point that I lost myself in the inebriation. For
the most part, I remained sober, although I still got drunk on occasion. My
partner Ben and his friend Derek sat with me and we started together. Straight
shots of tequila and Molson Canadian (to wash it down) soon evolved into an
entire bottle and most of the case. It wasn’t long before I was shitfaced then
passed out on the living room floor. I drank more than double what my comrades
had. I polished off the bottle like it was a soft drink or a bedtime glass of
milk. After this point, I can only go by what I was told happened and by a few “hilarious”
photos that were taken without my permission. At one point, drunk Derek apparently
jokingly tried to slide that empty tequila bottle in me, up where the sun don’t
shine. No port was going to be docked
that night. Throughout the rest of the evening, I was lucid only for moments at
a time. My shenanigans, I was informed later, were very entertaining for my
drinking buddies. Once we were alone, drunk Ben tried to wake me so he could
send me off to bed. I took my clothes off and urinated all over the kitchen
floor. I understand that at this point I started laughing uncontrollably. The
puke came soon enough, just from a different stream. He finally managed to get
me to rest and was left to clean up after my crapulence. The next day, when I
was informed of the events of the night before, I swore I would never go there
again.
“If the dead are not raised, ‘Let us eat and drink, for
tomorrow we die.’”
(1 Corinthians
15:32, NIV)
My days as
a barfly are long gone. It’s been well over a decade since I took a swan dive
into any liquor, let alone my favourite tequila. I have trouble getting through
even one glass of wine these days. There came a point where I just had no
interest in experiencing that state ever
again. I had humiliated myself once too often and I have never returned to that
fuzzy stupor. I may sip some wine with guests at dinner or nurse a beer with my
neighbours on a Saturday afternoon, but I usually leave most of it behind when
I head home. I still don’t like the taste and that sense has only strengthened
with the years. I have gone without. I don’t miss it, not even a little. I
would much rather smoke weed, but that too is another story for another time. I
used to drink my sorrows away. I used alcohol as a wall to conceal who I really
was. I no longer feel the need to conceal much more than some password or a
family secret. I don’t need booze to do anything but stay in its bottle. I
occasionally look back on the days of an excessive lifestyle, with laughter, but
soon I shudder. It’s hard to imagine myself back in the days of my propensity.
I remember most of it but there are a few missing pieces. I would like them
back again. Unfortunately, I can’t go back but I can learn from it. The days of
our lives shouldn’t pass us by, even if we drink them away.
“The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality,
impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy,
fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness,
orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like
this will not inherit the kingdom
of God
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