Hark

Yesterday I faced a mirror, one that was quite unexpected. And what I saw took my breath away...
All my adult life I’ve been a drinker. Firstly, I grew up in South Louisiana and secondly, when I began my musical career I chanced to hook up with an Englishman and together we became successful on the global stage. Given all those sets of confluences and ancient fates is it any wonder I became a most functional, sensationally gleeful alcoholic?
My love of alcohol never affected my family, my work, my friendships. Drink always had its place and I am, by nature, a happy drunk, and most of the time people couldn’t even tell the degree of my intoxication on any given night. There were exceptions, naturally. Lots. But despite a few close calls my record remains clean, allowed as I was to continue on my merry, drunken way, and I did, double bourbon by double bourbon, by magnum, by fifth, by shot, by another double bourbon and more. Barkeep? One more round.
The world and all the bars contained therein were my own personal oyster.
As Sir Winston Churchill once said, “I’ve taken much more from alcohol than alcohol has taken of me.” I can only surmise that there are some people for whom alcohol is an ally of sorts. It was mine. Not for everyone though... hardly. Churchill was a notorious drinker and yet a great statesman, an even better human being. Could Charles Bukowski have written what he did had he been sober? Hemingway? Lee Marvin, Warren Oates, Harry Dean Stanton, W. C. Fields, all warhorses on a barstool, drew strength from alcohol, too. I say better to have dangled out over the edge and felt the terrors and seen the horror than to never have dared and never known. And I count myself in that oft misunderstood group, able to use alcohol to my advantage, dangling right out there on the edge of the abyss and living another day to tell about it, a better, stronger man for it.
But, several years ago -and subtly- something in me changed. Unlike the daring do of the past, drinking became a boring routine, not the stuffed dog winning, careening tilt-a-whirl ride it once was. And knowing I was about to head over another cliff’s edge for deeper purposes, a tighter belt was necessary, health issues needed improving, and clarity and long-term focus began to figure large. And even though never suffering hangovers, even fuzzy-headedness became unacceptable, so I adjusted, preferring to stay on top of the wave, to be able to see the shoreline, see where I was headed.
Over time -not an overnight fix- I managed to put drinking into a box and one day I simply put that box up on a shelf, to take down only when I felt like it. I must admit there is still a time and a place for drinking in my life; red wine suits me fine, it does. One must twist the light fantastic every now and then, maintain that balance. So I do. And at this stage, I feel in tune, and it feels damn good as I ride this wave for all it’s worth.
Having just pulled the curtains to greet the sunshine and given the gals their morning snack, I was sorting through my mail, listening to some tunes, getting the day cranked up, when I heard a soft knock at my door, one I wasn’t expecting.
When I opened the door, there stood my mirror, my already quite infamous neighbor of the last two weeks who was constantly knocking back beer after beer, usually shitfaced before noon and hittin’ on all the teenage girls... well, any age of the female species was in this man’s cross hairs -it didn’t matter- doing his utmost to be eighteen again, and generally stirring up shit wherever he went. That typical old and lost and sad, drunk in public animal that doesn’t get much sympathy anywhere from anyone anytime. And there he stood in my doorway wearing a most forlorn expression. He tried to smile but he couldn’t, his face pale and gaunt, his skin a powdery bark that clung to hollow bones, his eyes full of blood, and with a varicosed and calloused hand -which shook badly- he reached out, his voice trembling, too, and he said, , “Neighbor, them bitches done kicked me out of here. ... I’m so down, I never been so low... can I come in and talk to you for a few minutes... I just need someone to talk to man...”
How can you turn from a situation that presents itself like that?! Knowing this man’s probably alone in the world -and a bottle more than likely taking everything from him- and now here he is at my door, wanting to talk to me, of all people?!
God is an interestin’ supreme being.
I told the man to get himself inside and quick and we took our seats and I made him a glass of iced tea, southern gent I am. As we sat and appraised the other there was that tiny sliver of time where the world stands still, the whole world taking a deep breath, an eerie, uncomfortable vacuum.
He looked at me with those hangdog moon faced cow eyes, ones that announce guilt before a word is said, and then he hit me with it in a rambling stream of semi consciousness; drinking, car wrecks, lung cancer, amputation, afro puffs, more drinking, hot jewelry, death, mineral rights, horse races, dog races, cheap drinks, free drinks, steaks, pussy, hell, heaven, all of it.
And then, as he sat there completely empty, my gun already cocked, I looked him in the eye and leveled with him. I mean, I could actually level with this man some twenty years or so my senior! I could fucking relate! I could commiserate! I could actually shine a light! I knew him. I’ve smelt it. I’ve tasted it I’ve has my ass kicked by it. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve learned from it. So, I flicked a switch and the light went to blinking.
After my cup was empty, with tears streaming down his face, the man stood and shook my hand, thanking me as he departed -I’m sure to go run down the street and get a triple shot of something, but maybe... just maybe one day he’ll think about what I told him and maybe, just maybe, he’ll make a choice- a better choice. One that will bring a greater appreciation of this life. Pull himself from this slavery of his own volition, at the least, one drink at a time.
And to think, I, of all people, might’ve helped.
God is an interestin’ supreme being.
The sun was vicious that morning, the water in the pool was even warm. Kids were splashing and laughing as if this was the greatest day of their lives.