LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL

Lest I forget.

Somewhere... in between the "black-outs, the white-outs," we "inebriates" make our way out the exit-doors, usually head first, or by the seat of our pants... on a "good night."

The 'last call for alcohol' at Kodiak Ron's sent shock-waves throughout my body... sirens wailed in my mind every time I heard it, that magical pump and dump, “I gotta get another half-rack of "sixteen-pounders" before the clock hits 2-am.,” I slam down what's left in the bottle, gear-up for another "after-hours party."   

Slip'n my way through all the beautiful bouquet' of booze... wilting so pretty with the night, wilted, faded light, jaded... as I find my way out the door.

It had gotten foggy and cold since I started drinking that early after-noon day. All bet's off after 12... that's the rule. The parking-lot was huge, I couldn't see beyond fifty feet of my face. I negotiated my way to my Jet-black '49 Chevy Pickup and jumped in, lit a smoke, pulled the choke, pumped the gas a few times, hit the ignition, and she fired right up... the smell of raw fuel dumping out my exhaust, right behind the cab, wak'n me up some. God how I love that smell.

The motor starts lopping hard warming up, in time with my heart, I feather the throttle, push the choke back in a bit, oil pressure rises to 60 psi, temp finally hits 180, and she starts to lean-out. I set the "E brake," get out, check that the turning signal's, running lights... light on my license plate, and headlights. A good once over.

The Mobile drunk mantra of the  “habitual traffic offender” driving under the influence, without a license, for driving under the influence... without a license, before he launches, unleashes himself onto the highways and bye-ways. 

The '49 was punchy, I rebuilt the little 265 Corvette "Rat Mill"... that came with it when I started the project, it wound-out piss-tight and shook the truck well. It would only top-out about 110 mph., but it did it like yesterday. Very quick, slippery in the ass, loose in the nose, and I loved to play in it.

I made my way up Evergreen Way, pulled into the gas pumps at "7-11" and made a bee-line to the booze isle... with a herd of other "colorfully intoxicated" sheep doing the same, trying to beat the clock. There was this older women sitting on the curb crying aloud not far from the entrance of the store, she sat with two big garbage bags of empty aluminum cans she'd gathered up in the day. She caught my eye, my "codependent compassion meter" redlined, as I watched her ask several people for a ride, while waiting in line, but nobody cared enough to help. 

I had that feeling like, "fuck, this is a test, right God?" All the cars were clearing out of the parking lot, and there she sat, crying, confused. She was most certainly mentally ill. She dressed like a bag lady and a hell of a mess.

I walked past her with half-rack in hand... think'n "shit, she is desolate, its freaking cold out, after two am now." I sat my half-rack behind the driver-side cab, pulled up the gas lever and pumped some petrol in my machine, all the while thinking about her disposition. I got into my truck and was gonna fire it up, but I felt compassion for her again, and my heart wouldn't leave me alone about it. 

Fuckaroo fubar! I got back out of my truck and walked over to her, sat down on the curb with her and began to make conversation.

I asked her what happened, why are you stuck here, she explained "she missed her bus, it was the last one to Stanwood."  I said, "why didn't you call a cab?" She said, "she didn't have any money, and went on and on and on ." I offered her a ride home... She was timid, but she agreed, she was desperate I'm sure, she just needed to get home. She said she lived with her mother and that it was just as you get into Stanwood, I said that's not too far, I think I can do that for you. She stepped on the running-board, pulled herself up and in, sat down neurotic like, got herself buckled up... and Off we went.

Mind you, its early morning, foggy as my memory, and I'm a wee bit intoxicated. She seemed nervous as hell so I drove mellow... it became apparent to me after driving in circles for an hour she was confused and not sure where she was... I'm thinking "fuck, just pick a spot and I'll drop you off there, I got you this far and I'm ready to pass-out."  We went down another road and she found her driveway. I thought "thank God!" She thanked me over and over, and I felt good about it, I got her home safe, now how the fuck do I find my way back home?

At this point, I have no idea where I'm at, its so foggy I can hardly see, but I pick a road randomly with intuition and hoped it would take me in the direction of I-5... but it didn't. It did take me to a Fire Station 'tho, and I said "screw this, I'm crashing here."

I came-too freezing my ass off a few hours later, hungover sick, windows fogged over, I could hear cars driving by... I pulled myself up by the steering wheel, looked into the mirror, saw a blurry face with bloodshot eyes, and thought, "fuck... where the hell am I at now?  I needed a drink... got out of the truck, pissed, lit up a smoke, pulled out a few beers from the box, what was left, and threw it into the cab.  I pounded down a couple... that "pounded back up," covered my mouth, pounded it back down, while the truck was warming up, trying to get my bearings strait, waiting in angst to feel the booze kick in. I lit another smoke, wondered if the firemen wondered why I was parked in front of their firehouse.  

Back on the road...  followed traffic till I could figure out where I was.  By the time I made it to I-5 I was needing another drink... but I knew I had to eat, I hadn't eaten anything 'nutritious for a couple of day's... but, I couldn't eat until I had a few more beers in me. I pulled into McDonald's and ordered up a sausage Mc muffin with egg meal... I must of looked like death and stunk like stale booze and cig-smoke by the look on the gals face; like, "damn brother... you stink and look a mess, get your shit together!" Cometh now the "Four Horsemen."

By the time I made it back home... I was starting to feel better, the booze was doing its job. I thought about why didn't I just go to an after hour party instead of going through all that bullshit... I don't know... perhaps just compassion, even when drunk, that strong, and I was moved to do something about it. That's how it's always been with me, I don't do anything easy... my heart seems to dictate where I should go at times, some call that "conviction,"  I call it a "pain in my ass." I think alcoholics inherently have a weakness for the weak, we tend to mix with them esp., when in our "cups."

We love to commiserate our pain, Sweet Jesus we do. I have found myself in many, a sorted place, many a time, after a night out with John Barley Corn. I must have loved it... cause I did it so much.

I jumped into the shower... turned the facet back and forth, hot-cold, hot-cold, with one hand to snap out of the anxiety and dysphoria, slam a sixteen-pounder down with the other hand, pour some of it over my head... for some goddamn reason, grab some goofballs off the sink, chew 'em up, regurgitate it some, hit that sweet-spot, throw the shower curtain open, after all the hot water is spent. I'm primed, I'm good to go.

I clean the mirror off and take another look at my sorry ass self, I'm not looking so bad now, the glaze and haze is going away, there is some sign of life in me still... I recognize that guy.

A buddy calls me and says, "hey... what ya' doing today man? you want to go down to the Fireside and shoot pool... darts, raise hell?"   Yeah, why not, "I'm still look'n for my bottom, maybe I'll find it there brother.'

pek65