Status/physiology: Fourteen days. Two weeks. This is the longest I can calculatingly
recall going without alcoholic ambrosia since June 2002. Almost eleven years
ago (note: 11 years ago I just got back from a ten day cruise in the Caribbean
which I spent nearly as much on booze as I did for the entire trip. I was in
the middle of a move. I was broke. I would have continued to pound rum out of
coconuts while dressed up like Gilligan all summer had I the funds ).
I’m still not sleeping (or shaving; my non-shave
sobriety-scruff beard makes me look like I just returned from a Kenny Loggins reunion concert) and my body
keeps breaking out into itchy rashes which the oracle of Google informs me is
because my flesh is not use to interfacing with the allergens in the air
without having a said amount of booze swimming around in my system. I look hung-over
even though it has been two weeks since I slammed a beer. When I walked to the
liquor store to load up on tobacco this morning cool Hindi Raj assayed my
countenance then asked me ‘how much you drink last night,” and then started
laughing.
I’m also in the midst of a 72 hour juice fast. My
brother-in-law is a really cool and successful doctor in town and he keeps on
saying that I shouldn’t jettison everything out of my system with such rapidity
because the neurological synapses governing my cognitive choice selection won’t
know what is happening and I will explode, neurologically speaking.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day. It was early in the
morning and the sun was the color of cheap Tang served in Sunday school and
every tree looked like a frilly homecoming boutonniere dripping with evanescent
shades of punk-rock lilac and light-frosting bridal veiled cream. Every
mothers’ day for the past three years or so I always stop at the Florist shop
on Heading avenue near where I used to live and pick up ten or so carnations
and pass them out to mothers I know in the neighborhood. Most of them were
single-mothers’ in their late thirties and BOY,
handing a botanical stem with a crown of flowery spring petals to an
eight year old and telling the moppet to give the carnation to his mom from the
elusive writer down the street just gets Mamma Bear’s domestically pent-up hormonal
honey flowing so to speak. Lately I’ve
had a lot of older female friends’, women in their sixties or so who still
frequent the bars, still put ‘em back, still smoke Pall-Malls so I’ve been
planting flowers’ on front porches of houses with windmills and chrome orbs,
houses whose bric-a-brac cluttered front lawns look like they are adorned with
hydrant-sized pieces culled from a limited edition Hee-Haw chess set.
This year there was a paucity of carnations at the
florists and they all looked like they’d been peed on so I ended up buying
white roses which were aptly stocked. Purportedly there was a daddy-daughter
purity dance somewhere in the vicinity and purportedly both the daughters’ and
their daddies aren’t as pure as they were a decade past.
I had one rose left and the ONLY person I really
wanted to give a mothers’ day rose to was my friend Barb who works at
Walgreens on Western (note: Less one condemn me for being an ungrateful truant
son I already celebrated mothers’ day with my beautiful birth mom last wed).
Barb has been with Walgreens over thirty years and used to work at the one down
the hill before it closed. I always stop in Walgreens on Sunday morning to get
a six-dollar New York Times and a 12 pack of whatever but the highlight is
being greeted by the affability of her
smile behind the counter.
Barb is one of my favorite human beings in Peoria.
She’s well past retirement age, works her ass off, always has a smile glittered
into her face as with grade school glue. Every time I hang out with Barb we
always break down into party streamers of laughter. Sometimes I blather on
about needing to purchase an antibiotic for a fictitious STD ( this April 1st I announced that I had just been daintily
diagnosed with 'aprillisbaltroentreitis’
'a priliis' latin for april, 'baltro' latin for fool).
Sometimes I embellish crazy stories orbiting around my stagnant love life. When
I told her I was invited to Hollywood to read my poems at a cool bar she gave
me a hug and a kiss and told me that she was telling all her friends that ‘Her
boy’ was going to Holly-wood. In addition to Barb and Beer I’m heavily addicted
to the Sunday New York Times. Those who know me even tacitly know that Sunday
is my favorite day of the week since I have the Times spread out like a puddle
of fresh ink across my writing desk while drinking (a lot) of beer while
blasting NPR at just insane levels (H’lo sexy Mara Liasson monotone make-out
session) while employing my maladroit culinary skills engendering my signature
ma’melets (ie, manly omelette’s grazed with cheese and hot sauce
that correlates perfectly with beer) in between
sporadic pecks at the screen.
Sadly Barb wasn’t working and to compound my misery the
daily shipment of New York Times failed to arrive earlier in the day. I still had
the white rose in my hand and as I walked out of Walgreens (okay, this is the
part of the narrative that will make some of my readers’ uncomfortable) I walk
plum into one of the men who sexually abused me in high school. I hadn’t seen him in about a decade because
after he fondled me he fondled a young-boy who sang in a church choir he
directed and the creep was sentenced to about a decade in prison. The man’s completely forgiven. I came to the
consensus a long time ago that I simply would not be a writer had I not been so
formatively fucked-up in high school (and everyone is formatively fucked up in
high school). Still it was weird and I was in major withdrawal not being able
to give Barb her mother’s day rose and not being able to dive into the toppling paragraph’s of my Sunday New York
Times.
I still had the rose. And the only person I could
think of to give it to was good-ol’ Chop-Chop.
Someday maybe I’ll write about a mystical experience
I had with the creature known as Chop-Chop when she was like a baby and I was like
six or seven (or maybe not, it’s pretty weird). I had actually sauntered into
Chop-Chop après only two hours of sleep on Saturday morning en route to the florist’s
while she was walking her dog. Chop-Chop kinda has her own style and she was wearing
these adorable moss flavored shoes. When I saw her she was ferrying a plastic
bag of dog-shit and I asked her if she was going trick-or-treating. She smiled
and told me that she wasn’t going to kiss me this time. When I kneeled down to
pet the droopy head of her basset hound the damn dog took a dump in the middle
of the road across the street from the Owl’s Nest.
I took it as some sort of sign.
I debated heavily
about giving Chop-Chop the leftover rose (how to tell someone you have this
weird bond with that you still care about them immeasurably, even though you’ve
fully accepted the rudiments that you will never be with her physically) then I
decided to scribble out a proviso missive and attach it to the rose. The
proviso read something like this:
DEAR CHOP-BUTT:
I HAD A ROSE LEFTOVER FROM PASSING THEM OUT TO HORNY
SINGLE MOMS ON MOTHER’S DAY. NOTE: THIS IS NOT A COME-ON ROSE. I AM NOT TRYING
TO GET WITH YOU. I SIMPLY HAD ONE LEFTOVER AND THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT.
--DVB
Nice note. Yeah, I know. I made it sound like she
would contract some form of leprosy simply by touching the damn stem. I planted the white rose under her welcome
matt much in the similar manner that I used to deliver papers in the same
neighborhood twenty years ago.
After I planted the not-a-come-on rose I decided to
meander around West Peoria and look for a copy of the Sunday New York Times and
the only other store in West Peoria that used to carry the Times was the Convenient
store on the corner of Clarke and Western. Somebody upstairs must have metaphysically
assented that I gave Chop-Chop that rose because for the second time in a week God gave me manna from Heaven and I stumbled across an unopened can of COORS' LIGHT on the sidewalk a few houses down from the Tartan, about a block from where Chop-Chop's dog took a dump.
I haven't had an unopened beer in my hand for two weeks and I picked it up
and placed it in the variegated pocket of my jerga. I then continued to amble
to the liquor store. Since the liquor store on the corner of Western and Clarke
opens at 7 am and since I work thirds I used to stop in nearly every morning.
Back in two thousand five when I started 'daily-drinking' after work I would
pick up a 40oz. of Ice house then an oil can of what was then Foster's Bitter
and a few of the random cans they had iced in the fifty cent ice bin (usually Old
Style). Last summer I started drinking a twelve pack of Leinenkugel's summer
sampler a day (the shandy!! The sunset Wheat!!! The pride of Chippewa
falls!!!)....I even gave the middle-eastern gentleman who owns the joint a Christmas
card one year.
The owner said he hadn't carried the Times in about six month since I was
the only lad he used to stop in a buy it. As I returned home I looked across the
street and saw my friend ol' man Fred.
Fred has a priapic gourd-shaped whiskey nose and no
teeth and is probably in his late sixties. He always wears the same flannel
shirt and gray stocking cap year round. He mostly lives in the downtown library.
He used to live in Bradley library but when I worked there I had to call
security because he urinated on the floor. You see him walking all around
Peoria with plastic bags that probably contain everything he owns. He normally
has a bottle of Seagrams gin on him and a forty of Cobra or Steel one-one. Judging by the hue of his skin it looks like his liver is probably thoroughly
rotisseried. There's something about Fred that is reminiscent of a whiskey-toting vagabond Kerouac might have hopped trains with in Dharma Bums. In a way Fred is a lot like Cliff only Fred passes out in libraries in lieu of front lawns.
Fred was seated on a cement parking block outside a
Payday Title Loans that used to be a Hardees in happier times. He looked either
like he was sleeping or he was lost in transcendental meditation. I walked up
to him and reached in the pouch of my jerga.
“Hey man. Happy Mother’s day.” I said, handing him
the beer.
Fred looks at me. I don’t know how many calendar
squares he has left on this planet but a toothless smile just splattered above
his wizened chin.
He then stood
up and accepted the beer like an Oscar.
“Sir I would like to thank you. This is very kind of
you. You have made my day.”
He spoke with gratitude, sincerity and with grace.
No one says things with gratitude, sincerity and grace anymore.
No one says things with gratitude, sincerity and grace anymore.
They’re too busy twittering.
***
Two weeks ago when I was walking back home with my
swan-song six pack of Sam Adam’s hopology I seemed to bump into every drinker I
know before commencing with my odyssey. I sauntered into Cliff but I also
bumped into R______ (won’t use his real name) who just sits like a garden gnome
inside Champs West every night pounding Busch light and every six months ends
up in the hospital with soaring blood pressure. I bumped into my friends from
the Owl’s Nest who ride motorcycles and are good people only they are into
smoking crack.
Right before I got to my house I bumped into my
buddy Bret.
Bret is one of my favorite drinkin’ chums in the
double-you pea. He has a beefy clean cut countenance and works as a butcher at
Haddads. He loves the community which he
refers to solely as ‘The West Side,’ and, like this author, harbors a
propensity to crash incontrovertibly inside the bars.
Mostly I love drinking with Bret because there is
never any drama. Only reams of laughter followed by rounds of alcoholic nectar.
Often we will close down the Nest at two am on one of my days off and either Holly or
Christina will insist on giving us a ride home even though we live nearby.
A couple months ago at the Owl’s Nest he started
inexplicably calling me Tarzan and when I asked him why he said, “Cause here I
am it’s the middle of the day and I’m walking past your apartment and you don’t
see me and you walk past your window with your long hair and you are totally
naked with the fucking exception of holding a beer.”
Oh well.
It was April 29th. I would have my final faretheewell beer
later on that night.
We were outside the Nest and we spoke and I told him
about my pending 40 day sojourn.
“There’s no way you are going to make it brother,”
he said, giving me shit. There’s just no way.
I told him I was committed. He shook his head back
and forth and stated that every time he saw me I was walking around with a
beer.
I told him I looked forward to having a beer with
him come 40 days time and he told me that he anticipated reading my blog. As I
approached the steps to my apartment I heard Bret in the background. I looked
back and he was calling out my name:
“Yo DVB. You are crazy as shit brother! You are
crazy as shit!!”
And he is exactly right. I am crazy as shit.
I’ve been crazy as shit for exactly fourteen days of unadulterated
light.
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