EARLY ON, HE OUGHT TO HAVE LEARNED...
THAT THERE WERE LIMITS TO THE MYTH of being a social drinker. On one afternoon in December of 1998, he found himself drinking at a bar on East 42nd Street and 3rd Avenue in New York. It was no surprise that the bartender and waitresses knew him by name, said that he had a hilarious gift of narrative, was a man full of wit and charm, and he was the life of the party. He had become a part of the daily saloon fraternity of regulars. Other people came in. He ordered another drink. And another shortly thereafter. More laughs and drinks followed, and when he departed the bar early in the evening, he felt sober, seeing things clearly and thinking lucidly. But he was half-drunk, bumping into a garbage can as he wended his way back home.
On Summer weekends, there were parties out in the Hampton's. Lovely women and elegant men gathered at charity events, drank excellent wine and other high-class beverages, wonderful gatherings on the beach at night, with fires glowing against the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean, tables filled with gigantic offerings of lobster and steak and caviar; and, of course, bottle upon bottle of the finest booze money could buy. He had learned to be an erudite guest and an absolute asshole at the same time. Some of what he said was embarrassing, full of platitude and cliche.
Behind all of this were some unacceptable facts. At the college where he taught writing, he could talk about the problems, doubts, mistakes, and felonies of other writers, he didn't have to deal with himself. He certainly didn't have to look at what he was becoming. It was obvious that he could no longer hold his liquor. One afternoon he found himself drinking in a Bowery dive with one of his students, a young African-American man, who was the best writer in his class. They talked about Eugene O'Neill and The Iceman Cometh and about J.P. Doneavy's The Ginger Man, a book about an irresponsible drunk...They talked and drank, and drank and talked, until the young man staggered into the night. He sat alone at the bar and wept.
Something shifted in him during that conversation. He thought he'd drink forever. That night he thought of something he had never thought about before, in the world of a drunk there was no such thing as forever. As that fall turned into winter, he began to feel that there was a world out there somewhere beyond the bar scene. The old dream of the writing life blossomed again. He had embraced alcohol, struggled with it, was hurt by it, and finally wanted to leave it behind. He was aware that it offered many rewards: confidence for the shy, clarity for the uncertain, solace to the wounded and lonely, and above all, the elusive promises of friendship. In the snug darkness of saloons, he had found what he had thought was comfort.
When winter came, so did a decision. He didn't join Alcoholics Anonymous. He didn't check out other help. He just stopped. His goal was modest: one month without drinking. For the first few weeks, that wasn't easy. He had to break the habits of a lifetime. He urged himself to live in a state of complete consciousness, even when that meant pain and boredom. He now had a craving for sugar and began to eat more ice cream and candy than he had since he was a boy. In the mornings, he also began to feel clear and fresh.
When the month was up, he set a deadline for a second month. Another month went by, and now his mind was teeming with ideas. He began listening to music again, filled his Wednesday and Saturday afternoons with Broadway matinees, and became greedy for what he had missed. He went back to the bar on 42nd Street again. Everyone knew he was off the sauce and smiled in a knowing way when he ordered a ginger ale. He had one major ally among the bar regulars: an older gentleman who, a few months earlier, had his doctor order him to stop drinking. He still arrived every day in the afternoon. But he did it all on Sprite and Coca-Cola. You won't have as many laughs, he said. But the laughs you do have will really be funny because they will be genuine.
The temptation to begin drinking again grew weaker, and then, before the next summer came, evaporated almost completely. He had replaced the habit of drinking with non drinking, still visited bars, listened to the stories, but even the bartenders immediately knew to give him a soda the moment he walked in.
And by the following winter, he went for a walk in the snow. He wandered into a park, and stood under a dense pine tree and then imagined figures coming down the hills and across the snowy meadows. Down there, by the lake was his first girlfriend. He and his childhood buddies were belly whopping in the snow of an east Denver park. His mother in a blue smock, was calling him home for dinner. He heard his father singing his favorite Vaughn Monroe tune, Ghost Riders in the Sky..."An' old cowpoke went riding out one dark and windy day..." All memories of those days before he ever took his first drink. And he realized that he could now love his life, with all with all its hurts and injuries and failures, and the things he now saw clearly, was a life without the golden blur of booze. He reached down and took a fresh mound of fresh snow in his hands and began to eat. He was now home free.
He, of course, is me...
On Summer weekends, there were parties out in the Hampton's. Lovely women and elegant men gathered at charity events, drank excellent wine and other high-class beverages, wonderful gatherings on the beach at night, with fires glowing against the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean, tables filled with gigantic offerings of lobster and steak and caviar; and, of course, bottle upon bottle of the finest booze money could buy. He had learned to be an erudite guest and an absolute asshole at the same time. Some of what he said was embarrassing, full of platitude and cliche.
Behind all of this were some unacceptable facts. At the college where he taught writing, he could talk about the problems, doubts, mistakes, and felonies of other writers, he didn't have to deal with himself. He certainly didn't have to look at what he was becoming. It was obvious that he could no longer hold his liquor. One afternoon he found himself drinking in a Bowery dive with one of his students, a young African-American man, who was the best writer in his class. They talked about Eugene O'Neill and The Iceman Cometh and about J.P. Doneavy's The Ginger Man, a book about an irresponsible drunk...They talked and drank, and drank and talked, until the young man staggered into the night. He sat alone at the bar and wept.
Something shifted in him during that conversation. He thought he'd drink forever. That night he thought of something he had never thought about before, in the world of a drunk there was no such thing as forever. As that fall turned into winter, he began to feel that there was a world out there somewhere beyond the bar scene. The old dream of the writing life blossomed again. He had embraced alcohol, struggled with it, was hurt by it, and finally wanted to leave it behind. He was aware that it offered many rewards: confidence for the shy, clarity for the uncertain, solace to the wounded and lonely, and above all, the elusive promises of friendship. In the snug darkness of saloons, he had found what he had thought was comfort.
When winter came, so did a decision. He didn't join Alcoholics Anonymous. He didn't check out other help. He just stopped. His goal was modest: one month without drinking. For the first few weeks, that wasn't easy. He had to break the habits of a lifetime. He urged himself to live in a state of complete consciousness, even when that meant pain and boredom. He now had a craving for sugar and began to eat more ice cream and candy than he had since he was a boy. In the mornings, he also began to feel clear and fresh.
When the month was up, he set a deadline for a second month. Another month went by, and now his mind was teeming with ideas. He began listening to music again, filled his Wednesday and Saturday afternoons with Broadway matinees, and became greedy for what he had missed. He went back to the bar on 42nd Street again. Everyone knew he was off the sauce and smiled in a knowing way when he ordered a ginger ale. He had one major ally among the bar regulars: an older gentleman who, a few months earlier, had his doctor order him to stop drinking. He still arrived every day in the afternoon. But he did it all on Sprite and Coca-Cola. You won't have as many laughs, he said. But the laughs you do have will really be funny because they will be genuine.
The temptation to begin drinking again grew weaker, and then, before the next summer came, evaporated almost completely. He had replaced the habit of drinking with non drinking, still visited bars, listened to the stories, but even the bartenders immediately knew to give him a soda the moment he walked in.
And by the following winter, he went for a walk in the snow. He wandered into a park, and stood under a dense pine tree and then imagined figures coming down the hills and across the snowy meadows. Down there, by the lake was his first girlfriend. He and his childhood buddies were belly whopping in the snow of an east Denver park. His mother in a blue smock, was calling him home for dinner. He heard his father singing his favorite Vaughn Monroe tune, Ghost Riders in the Sky..."An' old cowpoke went riding out one dark and windy day..." All memories of those days before he ever took his first drink. And he realized that he could now love his life, with all with all its hurts and injuries and failures, and the things he now saw clearly, was a life without the golden blur of booze. He reached down and took a fresh mound of fresh snow in his hands and began to eat. He was now home free.
He, of course, is me...
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