A LIFE WORTH LIVING: Chapter One
I was already lost when this book first came to be. I was already tired when this book first came to be. I was already an alcoholic when this book first came to be. I was already hiding from a future not yet written when this book first came to be. I was already beaten down and defeated when this book first came to be. I was 24 when this book first came to be, and everything I have shared with you so far had led to a life that didn’t feel like it was worth living any more.
CHAPTER ONE… WHISKEY
“It does not become you to yield to this weakness…”
With the view of the flowers on the table, and the groceries still spewed across the doorway opening, I can feel and see my entire life crumbling around this futile apartment. The weight of the world crashing is enough to take notice that my hands can no longer bear the weight of this life, nor can my spirit withstand the pressure of today for another second.
Looking down at the shallow skin that once covered my bones so deep, I feel only the tremble of regret amongst the wetness of the fallen tears scattered across my hands.
When did my hands get so old?
Today started with such promise, but now I’m left with only the knowledge that life is a game I’ll never know the rules to. I can see clearly now what life demands of me, and it sure as hell isn’t happiness… I see you too God, for what you really are, a cruel stepparent of the worst kind, bonded to me only through a desire to see me suffer, brought on by some sick need of yours to hear me beg. I’m on to your little game and I’m done playing it, I can see no end in sight, save one that is.
The hardest part of tonight proves to be the simplest of acts, like removing my hands from my head. Finally, the first one dips to my lap, followed closely by the movement down of my strong hand, and it appears even gravity is joining in on my torment.
I manage to put one foot in front of the other, and in rapid succession once getting started. I’m drawn to the pattern of a circle by the path my feet take around the coffee table in my living room. The longer I stay walking, the longer I avoid the pain which moving in a straight line might cause.
Slowly but surely, I gain momentum towards an end I know is not for the faint of heart, a momentum towards an end found past the confines of my apartment, and an end my beginning won’t matter anymore to anyone.
The desire for a drink wastes no time in presenting itself as the alternative for having to feel the depths of what today’s reality has become.
At this point, every step taken in my apartment only serves to delay the time I could be using to drown out these feelings and kill the pain inside with some booze.
Some physical force outside of myself tries to stop me from moving onward towards the door of my apartment and past the inclination to keep moving in circles while more precautious voices yell out in my head, pleading and screaming for me not to leave. My resolve not to listen is too strong and the body pushes through the warnings and grasps, agreeing to escape without ever looking back.
The old steps leading from my apartment to the front door of the building creak ever so slightly as I move from one to the next, and with every noisy and obnoxious reminder that I’m leaving for the night, my will to remain sober fades and I start moving faster and faster towards the street.
I can’t get down these damn stairs fast enough!
God, why me? Why now?
Finally, I reach the front door of the building and burst through it as if freedom is on the other side calling me home in celebration. Once outside, I’m greeted by yet another fun surprise from the universe, rain.
My parking space, which is blocks away if I can remember correctly, now serves as a major inconvenience in my attempts to quickly get away from here. Oh well, I better start walking or I’ll just turn around and stay here.
Of course, it’s raining, God why wouldn’t it be?
There’s no one out tonight and the neighborhood is completely dead. The streets are quiet, almost silent, haunting for an area this size to be in such a state of stillness. The normal groups of couples walking to dinner are nowhere to be found. The familiar faces must be in their homes safe from the storm, in a warmer place than here.
I think I’ll take this party to the city God, what do you think? Maybe you make sure the bridge isn’t a mess? Maybe you can at least help me out with that one?
To recount the last twenty-four hours would require more energy than I have left, which feels barely enough to keep my cardiovascular system from shutting down, so for now, I’ll just keep moving towards my car without the burden of processing what the hell just happened to my life.
With each inhale comes an ever-increasing tightness in my chest, making me wonder if my time here on earth might be coming to an end.
Continuing to move towards an undetermined location but feeling like there’s someplace I’m supposed to be is both a sobering and intoxicating feeling, but with every heartbeat I’m reminded the very air I breathe is what’s cursing my existence.
While driving, the texture of silent wind coming from the lowered window is an unsettling sensation as I continue onward towards the big city. The dull drum from the rubber of my tires on the pavement does little to comfort me.
Where are the sounds people make? Where are the sounds machines make? Why am I alone even on this god-forsaken road?
Where the hell is everybody, God?
The whispers of the passing street signs mixed with the audible rhythm of my tires would serve as perfect harmony for a person who enjoys the idea of happiness, however, I’m over the illusion of a life worth living, and the sound of the wind and the slippery road only breeds further contempt in my bones while fostering a further desire for imminent self-destruction.
What do I have left God? What did you do to my life? Where are you in all this mess? What’s the point of creating such a pathetically worthless existence as mine? Seriously though, I want to know, is this all a joke? Am I a joke to you?
Words can’t describe the pain that comes from an abrupt and forceful collision with reality along the lines of which I experienced today, and it strikes me funny, I don’t know how I’m even driving right now. Where am I even going right now? Beads of rain hang softly to the windshield and make it harder to see the possibilities that a high bridge gives to a man who’s looking for an easy way out.
You know what God, to hell with life, to hell with her, I’m over it all.
As driving turns into a repetitive behavior, the rain takes me to an earlier time in my life, and the sound of it hitting my car reminds me of being a young boy and spending weekends with my father in North Carolina. It’s not exactly the sound of the rain I’m connecting with but the feeling from the sound which brings me back in time.
Once, in the late spring of my third-grade year, my father came to pick me up for his monthly weekend duties. He didn’t have a lot of money, so naturally he drove vehicles that were on their last leg. As a kid, I never noticed things like that because I was just happy to see my dad, but in hindsight, I can see his situation more clearly, he was broken. The car he drove was of no consequence to me then, he was my dad, and he could have taken the bus to see me and it would have been all the same. On this day though, his car broke down just outside the town he lived in. Not only did it break down and we’d have to walk, but it started raining during the process. While on foot, he grabbed my bag with his free hand, and we started off towards his place despite the dark clouds catching up with our strides. With the bottle never far from reach, he started walking onward and gestured with his bag-hand for me to follow. The rain was pouring by the time we got too far from the vehicle to turn back. It was pouring so hard that puddles were forming on the pull-off lanes next to the road. Despite the rain gaining momentum on us, we marched on for quite a while before he stopped and turned around to address me. With the usual sensitive smirk on his face, accompanied by the familiar smell of vodka on his breath, he bent down, looked at me and said, “Son, I think our only option here is to keep walking.” Then, bending over more ever so slightly, he kissed me on my cheek and looked deeper into my eyes before speaking again, “Don’t ever let a little rain stop your legs from taking you where they need to go.”
I’ve always remembered that moment and those words, while at the same time having no idea what they truly meant to him or what the history behind them were. Today however, I understand what he was trying to say all those years ago, but unlike then, I’m not full of joy while standing face-to-face with my late father. Today, I’m alone in my car, driving through the rain to stop from going in circles. Today, the rain does nothing but make the metallic taste of four hundred feet per second seem appetizing. You know what, I deserve the rain too, why not keep piling it on?
The four lanes show no headlights, and the rain plus the cold temperatures would help speed things up once I hit the water. Tonight, could be that night, tonight should be the night… You know God, I once joked about calling it quits and jumping from this bridge, but today that joke doesn’t seem so far from reality. I could really do it, it could be a thing I did, and I bet no one would ever notice. God, Lord, Creator, Sustainer, or whatever else you’re going by these days, the point of this talk is a bit darker than the possibilities that come or don’t come from the rain falling. I’m here one last time asking you, what’s the point? And, even more than the point, why shouldn’t I call it quits on this whole game you’re playing with me? What’s the saying about falling and getting back up, you know the one, the one with the thing that says in order to learn how to get back up you must fall first. Yeah, that’s how it goes, but what about the guy who doesn’t want to get back up?
I arrive at a destination that’ll do but there’s no open spot to park in, so I pull a U-turn and head back to one that was open a way down.
God, you could have helped me find something closer than this, you didn’t have to be so kind as to leave the only open spot 2 blocks away – it’s raining you know! Just because a spot was open doesn’t mean I believe you care, and just because I’m breathing doesn’t mean you give a damn. I’m fed up with always running in circles. When can I catch a break? When is it my turn? When do I get the keys to the city? Why shouldn’t I end it? Do you even care? Does it even matter? Are you listening? Are you real?
Finally parked, my knuckles bare white from their pressure gripped against the wheel. I could rip this thing right off from the dash and it wouldn’t matter – nothing matters anymore. I’ve wondered what depths a man would go to when all is lost, what parts of their soul they’d choose to neglect when times were their darkest? Shit, at this point, I’d sell my soul for fifteen minutes of relief, fifteen minutes of numbness, and to be honest, I’d be willing to settle for just ten minutes where I don’t feel anything at all… Is this the kind of world you created for us, for your most magnificent of creations? A world I desire to escape from. What’s the point of that? What’s the point of any of this?
After a block of walking, the rain stops abruptly. The absence of water falling from the sky leaves the air heavy and suffocating. I look across the street and notice the old neon sign hanging above a door reading “Open.” This place just happens to be the kind of destination I’m looking for, which is the kind of place worth entering on a night like this.
Standing just outside the entrance, I start fantasizing about what it would be like drinking here until the sun rises tomorrow. Until tonight, I haven’t been in the business of soul bartering, but to be honest, I often fantasize about losing my soul in a place like this, drinking in an old shithole and having it all come to an end amongst the learned folks of the salty earth.
Reaching out, the pull of the door comes easier than expected. The bar inside is “L” shaped but reversed from my point of view, raw looking but not because of the material it’s made of, raw from the weathering it received over the years from people who’ve lived a life worth drinking over. At first glance, it reminds me of my favorite haunts from the glory days; old, dimmed lights, musky, and with a beaten down clientele and a forlorn bartender hoping to score a complimentary shot from a willing and I drinker. This bar feels familiar, and it brings a little comfort at a time when I need it most. Not every bar is the same, nor does it provide libations to the same clientele, however, all bars are born out of the same necessity and purpose, to serve up liquid escape in a hopeless and confusing world.
Just as my eyes begin acclimating to the darkness of the room and I start to take in the scenery, a seat at the closest corner of the bar becomes available, making my seating selection one of ease and not predicament.
Sitting down, the half-destroyed cushion of the barstool brings on anticipation and excitement for the possibilities of the night yet to come, which works quickly to take my mind off the absolute hell that was today.
The foundation of the stool is a bit wobbly but it’s not anything out of the ordinary, and it sure as hell isn’t going to keep me from accomplishing my mission of forcefully forgetting about who I am tonight. My thoughts of ending it all have been replaced with a desire to start this night off with a different kind of bang, one that tastes like wanting more.
The bartender walks over and asks what I want, like there’s even an option at a time like this, but before I blurt out, “Jack, the bottle and a glass,” I think maybe I better start with some beer and ease my way back into this thing. However, the request for whiskey came racing out through my lips before my brain could reason with my mouth.
“One of those days?” he asks as he walks away back down the bar.
“One of those lives” I mutter under my breath.
He returns quickly enough with a row of shots but no bottle.
Anger fills me up to the point that losing my mind might happen and without bodily control being part of the equation.
Was I mistaken in the words I chose? Did I not say I wanted the bottle? Is he not paying attention to me? Should I say something? Does he not know I deserve to be listened to, that I’m a paying customer unlike the rest of these mooches in here? Does he not give a shit about who I am and what I’m going through?
Sanity quickly returns as I look down and see the booze staring back at me. Why lose my mind when there’s perfectly good alcohol to drink first?
Regardless of the months spent dry, this is my night to say fuck it and drown out the noise. I deserve this drink. I’ve earned this drink. Besides, without the bottle in front of me, I can’t do too much damage, right?
The weight of the shot-glass regains its familiarity in my fingers almost instantly. The color of the whiskey, light brown in nature, brings back a feeling of contentment I haven’t felt in quite some time. I’ve been waiting thirteen months and 26 days for this moment right here.
One day at a time my ass, a reprieve based on the maintenance of my spiritual conditioning is laughable right now. With that thought, I reach down into my wallet, pull out the one-year token and toss it over my right shoulder back towards the door, all while simultaneously lifting the first shot closer to my lips.
I throw the first shot back and sit in the feeling of the abrupt warmth running down my throat, quickly acknowledging the delayed smoothness was worth the quick burn. This is what I’ve been waiting for the last 13 months, a real drink. Thank God for a real drink.
“Holy shit that’s good!” pours effortlessly from my lips as I toss the second shot back. I sit in the moment and feel what I’ve been missing for so long. I can feel the sensation of an escape starting to happen, and the lasting taste of the whiskey is like honey between thoughts of what’s coming next.
Without hesitation, I throw back another shot – damn that’s Good! The rush of the booze hits my bloodstream immediately and causes all senses to explode outwards through my skin in every direction. Suddenly, I’m greeted with a sense that everything is going to be alright, everything in life is going to be just fine, I just need some more booze and everything will be okay.
The door opening behind me snaps my trance and I turn to see what new faces decided to come walking in. None worth my energy make their way into the bar so it’s back to a focus on the drinks. Maybe I should sip the next one, you know, savor it a little while? Nope, maybe the one after that.
I throw back another shot and slam to glass on the table.
The early evening nightlight from outside starts progressing into the full darkness of night, and more faces emerge from the mouth of the open sign, almost like the city is spitting people from the streets into the bar. A foreign energy causes me to turn around again when I hear the door open this time. I’m immediately blinded by a beautiful young brunette who moves directly in my direction to claim the seat to my left.
Staring any harder would give away my interest, so I snap my head back around and pretend I didn’t notice her walk in. As I turn back in my seat and continue to move my glance back forward, we make eye contact for a brief second only to be broken by my awkward stool positioning.
She sits down next to me and I stare blankly ahead pretending I’m not breathing heavier just from seeing her and now having her next to me. Her hair smells like rain – rain mixed with vanilla shampoo. Her skin shows at the shoulder, and her cleavage yields ever so slightly from where her top droops low by design, nestled flauntingly between the zippers of her opened coat.
Her presence is without doubt arousing and causes my mind to run wild with possibilities. I begin to picture us somewhere else together doing anything but sitting awkwardly at this bar, and I notice again her beautiful hair just barely covering her soft shoulder skin.
I begin to feel as if I need her body pressed up against mine, and even though I’m many years her senior, and the thought of us together is causing me to get squirmy on the seat.
Her attractive qualities are obvious but it’s her intoxicating smell that’s making me lose control internally. Suddenly and out of nowhere, screaming into awareness comes a voice saying, “WHAT ABOUT SARA, WHAT WOULD SHE THINK!?”
To hell with her, is my reply to the voice’s line of questioning. What good are sober thoughts when laid at the feet of a man atop a wobbly barstool? I begin to reason with myself, what difference does she make now anyways?
After a brief battle with my conscience, I come up with no valid reasoning not to go after the girl next to me, plus, the whiskey brought me this far so why not see it all the way through? Speaking of whiskey, I need more, a lot more.
“Another row of shots” I yell down to the bartender.
There’s a buzz to the place now, something unlike what I’ve felt in a while. To a certain extent, I’m sure the energy is fueled by the alcohol, but it doesn’t make up the entirety of it.
Even amidst a sea of people that I don’t know or care about, I feel home here – everywhere I look there’s people just like me, doing exactly what I’m doing, trying our best to live in another time, a time not of today or of its misery, a time where the sorrows of the day don’t exist.
Is it me or has the house music grown considerably louder since I arrived, and have the lights dimmed to an almost state of darkness? Maybe I just need another drink, what am I saying, of course I need another one.
“Bartender, gimme my damn drinks!” I yell down the line above the sound of the pulsating bass from the speakers.
Finally, the drinks come, and I start throwing them back as quickly as I did the others. The taste no longer holds the same quality, but the effects are starting to be worth the effort, and weirdly my confidence is starting to reach an all-time high for today.
It’s time to say something to this girl, it’s now or never. With that thought, I throw back another shot and turn towards her.
I blurt out “Miss, can I buy you a drink?” but I don’t think she hears me.
Let me try again, “MISS, can I get you a drink!?” I yell in her direction without making direct eye contact.
Accompanied with a look of disgust, “NO” comes spewing from her mouth in a tone best described as scolding and definitive.
Are you kidding me? Did that just happen? Had she not seen us together somewhere? Had she not been desiring me too? Am I that repulsive? To hell with her, to hell with them all. I reach for my last shot and yell another order down the crowded bar, “Bartender, gimme another!”
I’m starting to lose count of the drinks at this point, but it doesn’t matter, seeing as my one goal tonight is to lose track of everything.
The pain of the day starts creeping back into awareness, and the pain I was looking to run away from is catching back up with me.
Thank God, the bartender is coming back with another distraction, because sitting alone with my thoughts any longer and having to wait on another drink could be too much for me right now.
The drink arrives and I throw it back while simultaneously ordering another.
Quickly, he pours me another with the bottle still in his hand, but this time I wait a moment before drinking, but only long enough to order one last double and demand the check.
If I leave now, I can stop by the liquor store on the way home and finish this party off the right way, besides, these people suck, and this girl next to me is anything but appealing now. I’ve had enough of this place tonight.
The bartender wastes little time on this occasion bringing me my check accompanied with my last request. I sit and hold the drink in my hand, and I can’t help but admire the poison that sits no further than 18 inches from my mouth while resting in the presentation of the moment.
What was I thinking coming here? What am I thinking drinking this? What’s wrong with me?... Why God do you plague my life to such a crippling degree? Why do you hollow out my core only to leave me unfulfilled by anything of worth? Why did you bring me here? Why did you curse me today? Why is my life such pile of crap?
To hell with it all, what am I waiting for? Down the hatch it goes, and with that I throw the empty glass on the floor beneath me in disgust and watch the pieces of glass spread out all over the ground. I drop exact cash on the bar top so I won’t have to wait around for my card or feel like I need to give the bartender a tip.
Starting to rise from my seat, the sensation of needing to hit the head before I leave makes itself known, and after this amount of drinking I do my best not to stumble away from the barstool on my way to the bathroom. My efforts to walk in a straight line are best served on a man not in my condition, but somehow, I’m able to pull away from the bar without any major mishaps.
Walking towards the restroom I turn for a moment to glimpse my former dream girl laughing it up, staring and pointing in my direction. She’s making fun of me, hell, I’d be making fun of me – I throw her the bird and keep moving.
The bathroom is no different from the bar, old and grungy, but at least there’s a stall open.
I stand and stare at the wall for a few seconds before I remember why I’m here in the first place.
After standing tall for a few more moments, still fidgeting with my zipper, two guys walk in behind me excited about something and hollering at one another. They continue to talk while I stand here pretending not to be lost. Although their conversation is all too familiar, I try my best not to let them know I’m listening. The funny thing is, I had the same irrelevant conversations back in college with my buddies at this hour of the night. The next place to drink never mattered, it was the thrill of living life without a plan that was so enticing in the moment.
Finally, I remember what I’m doing here and how to piss again. The flood gates are open.
As I get ready to leave, I overhear one of them say they got a text about the next spot – the only texts I get now are from wrong numbers.
Do these guys know how lucky they are to be young and in the moment, and to be liked enough by someone that they’re texting them?
I do my best to make it out of the bathroom without running into anything.
I make it all the way to the front door without drawing attention, but I forgot one crucial step in opening a door, forgetting to read the sign that bluntly says pull instead of push.
“POW!” I slam directly into the door, and in an instant, all my attempts to appear like I have my shit together are thwarted.
I hear the table behind me laugh as I fall through the opening, but I’m not looking back to see if that girl is part of the laughter.
Staggering out into the street, I look down at my watch to check the time, but the hands are all meshed together so I’m not entirely sure what it says.
Continuing to walk, still trying to decipher the time, I realize too late that there’s a brick out of place and “BANG” I bite it. This time, face first on the pavement next to my car door.
Slowly and awkwardly, I pull myself up, like a defeated boxer after being knocked out past his prime by a younger contender.
Pulling the door open, my bruised body pours effortlessly into the seat once it becomes available. The keys make their way from my pocket into the ignition.
“DO NOT DO THIS” says the voice inside my head.
“YEAH YEAH” I yell out at no one in particular.
I start the engine and shift the car into drive.
TO BE CONTINUED…