The pulsing strobe and repetitive beats stayed in his head even after he had left the club.. The bass resonated in his chest- thumping with an echo. He didn’t know what time it was, and frankly he didn’t care. The music drove him. The alcohol fueled him. The feeling consumed him. All night long. Each new song turned over the people around him – they sang along to words he couldn’t make out or understand – their shrieks of happiness where just another cacophonous howl at the moon. The acrid taste of lime cut against the whiskey. It was the whiskey that made him whole.
By the time he left, he was in a trance-like state – walking through the densely packed hall with no mission in mind.
When he became aware of his surroundings, he was nestled under the awning of his apartment building, which faced out into the harbour, watching the rain come down. He had been out with friends, and then, once they left, he stayed out alone. The music made it seem like he was with others- because he couldn’t talk to anyone. He drank until his state became transfixed on the light above the floor.
He was an addict. He wasn’t sure what he was addicted to, but it seemed that there was nothing that he could do in moderation. He would spend hundreds in a single sitting at the Casino. He would smoke cigarettes one after another. He would drink until he passed out. It was truly odd, he never smoked or gambled unless he was drinking, and when he was sober he was a perfect gentleman. His drinking, though totally under control day-by-day, exposed his other vices, if not create them, as he drank. For every drink he took he became more of a showman, more of a card player, more of a hustler. Alcohol was a muse, of sorts.
He limped out onto the docks in search of a matchbook he saw earlier in the day, because though he had instructed his cab driver to stop at the local 24 hour store for cigarettes, he did not have the presence of mind to get a lighter or a matchbook. The first cigarette was attached to his lip by dried saliva, but was soaked through, making it useless to anyone who would ever want to light it even if he found a spark. He cast it aside, and bundled the rest of the twenty-pack into a warm and dry spot in his coat to protect them from the driving wind and the torrential shower. He was oblivious to everything but his addictions.
He lost his balance twice while he was searching for the matchbook, and but for the staggered steps off the main deck, he would have been cast into the ocean. The last time he woke up with a mouthful of weeds and a small crab scuttling about his head. It was not his best evening, but he was oblivious to the fact that he had been lucky to survive it. If he had hit his head against any solid rock or part of the pier, he would have drowned for sure.
He had not had a cigarette for months leading up to tonight. He had gone out with friends for a drink and he got to that threshold. The threshold that most alcoholics have, but are never allowed to attain because of their credo. They swear that each day they won’t have a drink that day. While one drink will never push a man back off the wagon, the credo even prevents that from ever happening because if they don’t have one drink, they can’t have ten. He didn’t go to meetings. He didn’t think he had a problem because his life was working out fine.
He just drank bad. There is no other way of describing it. He drank until he was on the verge of losing consciousness, and then he would continue until he was an unintelligible derelict. As he drank, he would become more forceful, more agitated, more confrontation, more amorous- his various senses and desires would be simultaneously exaggerated or muted, depending on which one. He has lost more friends then he could count because he doesn’t know how to control himself. He can share a laugh, but when the laughter ends, he doesn’t always know why. Often, it was something he said or did that put an abrupt end to the party. The few friends he kept teeter-totter back and forth about the causes and rationales behind his behaviour. Several have attempted interventions- only to have their pleas fall on deaf ears. It got to the point where he just kept his friends apart so that he could drink every night- each time with a different group that wouldn’t judge him for specific instances- unbeknownst to them that the sum of their parts were blotting out all light.
He walked to the end of the pier and retraced his afternoon steps carefully. Nothing. Either the wind had knocked the book of matches off the dock and into the sea, or they were never there in the first place.
A feigned desperation set in as he returned to the covered entrance to his apartment. He sat there, endlessly waiting for the right passer-by to ask for a light. Finally, after what seemed like seconds, but was in reality over an hour, a young man on his way to the morning shift obliged him with a light. He sucked on the filter, and drew the smoke into his mouth, and down to his lungs before he exhaled the lot up into the settling fog. The rain had finally stopped He nodded his thanks to the boy who gave him the flame, and paced mechanically up and down the walk in front of his apartment building, thinking about what he would have to do the next day.
It was at that point that a nagging element of sobriety pulled him back into reality and his mind started to tick back into control. David put out the cigarette, shook his head rapidly to wake himself out of the groggy state he was in, and pulled himself into the elevator. His mind was now working faster than his body and he was ordering it to get out of the elevator well before it arrived at his floor. It was like an old buggy driver who knew exactly how his machine would perform, as David’s body leaned out the elevator doors just as the doors slid open, a full breath or two after he had asked it to move. In its current state, his body was like a sluggish computer running a program it did not have enough power to run properly. He fumbled for his keys well up the hallway from his apartment, and as he reached the door, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He then realized that he had just locked the door, rather than open it. He cranked the lock back, and pushed his way through the door, and flat out onto the couch. Here he could crash for the few hours of the regenerative sleep his body needed and get up and resume his life like nothing had happened the night before.
How many more times could he put his body through this, he wondered to himself, before it caught up with him and ruined what was left of his life? He then made the same oath he made countless times before to control his excesses, and not to drink more then three drinks. Why stop altogether? When I’m so obviously still in control?
By the time he left, he was in a trance-like state – walking through the densely packed hall with no mission in mind.
When he became aware of his surroundings, he was nestled under the awning of his apartment building, which faced out into the harbour, watching the rain come down. He had been out with friends, and then, once they left, he stayed out alone. The music made it seem like he was with others- because he couldn’t talk to anyone. He drank until his state became transfixed on the light above the floor.
He was an addict. He wasn’t sure what he was addicted to, but it seemed that there was nothing that he could do in moderation. He would spend hundreds in a single sitting at the Casino. He would smoke cigarettes one after another. He would drink until he passed out. It was truly odd, he never smoked or gambled unless he was drinking, and when he was sober he was a perfect gentleman. His drinking, though totally under control day-by-day, exposed his other vices, if not create them, as he drank. For every drink he took he became more of a showman, more of a card player, more of a hustler. Alcohol was a muse, of sorts.
He limped out onto the docks in search of a matchbook he saw earlier in the day, because though he had instructed his cab driver to stop at the local 24 hour store for cigarettes, he did not have the presence of mind to get a lighter or a matchbook. The first cigarette was attached to his lip by dried saliva, but was soaked through, making it useless to anyone who would ever want to light it even if he found a spark. He cast it aside, and bundled the rest of the twenty-pack into a warm and dry spot in his coat to protect them from the driving wind and the torrential shower. He was oblivious to everything but his addictions.
He lost his balance twice while he was searching for the matchbook, and but for the staggered steps off the main deck, he would have been cast into the ocean. The last time he woke up with a mouthful of weeds and a small crab scuttling about his head. It was not his best evening, but he was oblivious to the fact that he had been lucky to survive it. If he had hit his head against any solid rock or part of the pier, he would have drowned for sure.
He had not had a cigarette for months leading up to tonight. He had gone out with friends for a drink and he got to that threshold. The threshold that most alcoholics have, but are never allowed to attain because of their credo. They swear that each day they won’t have a drink that day. While one drink will never push a man back off the wagon, the credo even prevents that from ever happening because if they don’t have one drink, they can’t have ten. He didn’t go to meetings. He didn’t think he had a problem because his life was working out fine.
He just drank bad. There is no other way of describing it. He drank until he was on the verge of losing consciousness, and then he would continue until he was an unintelligible derelict. As he drank, he would become more forceful, more agitated, more confrontation, more amorous- his various senses and desires would be simultaneously exaggerated or muted, depending on which one. He has lost more friends then he could count because he doesn’t know how to control himself. He can share a laugh, but when the laughter ends, he doesn’t always know why. Often, it was something he said or did that put an abrupt end to the party. The few friends he kept teeter-totter back and forth about the causes and rationales behind his behaviour. Several have attempted interventions- only to have their pleas fall on deaf ears. It got to the point where he just kept his friends apart so that he could drink every night- each time with a different group that wouldn’t judge him for specific instances- unbeknownst to them that the sum of their parts were blotting out all light.
He walked to the end of the pier and retraced his afternoon steps carefully. Nothing. Either the wind had knocked the book of matches off the dock and into the sea, or they were never there in the first place.
A feigned desperation set in as he returned to the covered entrance to his apartment. He sat there, endlessly waiting for the right passer-by to ask for a light. Finally, after what seemed like seconds, but was in reality over an hour, a young man on his way to the morning shift obliged him with a light. He sucked on the filter, and drew the smoke into his mouth, and down to his lungs before he exhaled the lot up into the settling fog. The rain had finally stopped He nodded his thanks to the boy who gave him the flame, and paced mechanically up and down the walk in front of his apartment building, thinking about what he would have to do the next day.
It was at that point that a nagging element of sobriety pulled him back into reality and his mind started to tick back into control. David put out the cigarette, shook his head rapidly to wake himself out of the groggy state he was in, and pulled himself into the elevator. His mind was now working faster than his body and he was ordering it to get out of the elevator well before it arrived at his floor. It was like an old buggy driver who knew exactly how his machine would perform, as David’s body leaned out the elevator doors just as the doors slid open, a full breath or two after he had asked it to move. In its current state, his body was like a sluggish computer running a program it did not have enough power to run properly. He fumbled for his keys well up the hallway from his apartment, and as he reached the door, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He then realized that he had just locked the door, rather than open it. He cranked the lock back, and pushed his way through the door, and flat out onto the couch. Here he could crash for the few hours of the regenerative sleep his body needed and get up and resume his life like nothing had happened the night before.
How many more times could he put his body through this, he wondered to himself, before it caught up with him and ruined what was left of his life? He then made the same oath he made countless times before to control his excesses, and not to drink more then three drinks. Why stop altogether? When I’m so obviously still in control?
1 comment:
whoa and yum, simultaneously.
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