I laugh. “Well, thanks anyway,” I tell him, my words broken up by the goddamn hiccups.
It’s all too goddamn embarrassing.
I mean, drinking isn’t a problem for me, but I definitely need to get my shit together a little more. As it is, I’m not even gonna be able to get my last paycheck. There’s no way I can face coming in here.
So, with that as the only justification I really need, I quickly take two twenties out of the cash register—just enough to buy another eighth from Carmine.
I stuff the bills in my pocket and go to grab my bag from the office.
The hiccups haven’t stopped.
I unscrew the bottle of whiskey and drain the last of it, immediately moving on to one of the little airplane bottles of raspberry vodka.
Everything’s gonna be better now. I just need to quit this job, and then I’ll be able to drink like a normal person again.
’Cause that’s all I want.
To be normal.
And to drink.
Ch.24
Sue Ellen was pissed at me for quitting my coffee shop job—especially since it’s taken me over a month to finally find some other work. But I did. I mean, I got a new job, and so far it seems like a much better fit, for sure. Plus I’m making a ton more money in cash, every day, which is good but, uh, hasn’t really helped me cut back on drinking at all. Not to mention that the place I’m working, a barbecue joint called Dorothy’s that caters to Charleston’s gay community, is equipped with a full bar that I have ready access to throughout my shift. That is, I usually have a vodka and Coke hidden away for whenever I get thirsty—which, these days, is just about always.
Of course, I’m drinking at home, too—still trying to work on my book during my free time—but always drunk, or, well, not even drunk. I mean, I’m at the point where I barely even feel the alcohol anymore.
But my body still craves it.
I wake up sick every morning, head pounding, hands shaking so badly I can barely get the bottle to my lips, forcing the liquor down till the tremors finally ease up some.
As far as she’s letting on, it seems that Sue Ellen hasn’t figured out what’s going on. I keep bottles hidden all over the house, so I never actually have to drink in front of her. Plus, that way, if she does find a bottle and makes me dump it out, I’ll still have more stashed around. ’Cause the thing is, I fucking need it. My body’s developed a physical dependency. I mean, after all, I know what to look for. I’ve sat through thousands of twelve-step meetings and listened to thousands of drunks describing the exact same behavior I find myself doing now. They talked about hiding bottles, getting the shakes, shitting blood, watching their bellies swell. I’d never experienced any of that. They were alcoholics. I was a drug addict. But now, I guess, I’m not too sure.
We were visiting Sue Ellen’s brother three hours away in Greenville, South Carolina, and I got so drunk before driving back that I had to keep one eye closed the whole way ’cause I was seeing everything double. And, of course, I couldn’t ask Sue Ellen to drive, ’cause then she would’ve known something was up. I mean, I’d stolen a bottle of tequila from her brother’s liquor cabinet and drunk the whole thing just before getting in the car. I remember the eye thing, but that’s pretty much it. The rest is all lost to me.
My world has closed in around me. I can’t hang out with Russell ’cause I’m too embarrassed for him to see me like this. I’m constantly terrified that the people at work are going to find out how much I drink. I’m lying to my editor in New York and my mom and dad on the phone. My body is weak and bloated. I’m slowly poisoning myself to death. And it’s not like I haven’t seen what this shit does to people. The most fucked-up detoxes I’ve ever seen are the people coming off alcohol. It’s worse than heroin, worse than benzos, worse than anything. Alcohol can pickle your brain—leaving you helpless, like a child—infantilized—shitting in your pants—ranting madness—disoriented—angry—terrified.
But that’s not gonna be me, I mean, it can’t be. I may hate myself. I may fantasize about suicide. But I’m way too vain to let myself die an alcoholic death. There’s nothing glamorous about alcoholism. You don’t go out like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, with a gorgeous woman riding you till your heart stops. Alcoholism takes you down slow, robbing you of every last bit of dignity on your way down—leaving you bloated, paranoid, delusional.
There’s no way I’m going out like that.
Not me. Not like that.
The only problem is, well, I can’t stop.
Every night before I fall asleep, or pass out, or whatever, I promise myself I’m not gonna drink when I wake up. I set little goals, like not drinking till after I get off work, or drinking only beer and wine. But at this point, man, there’s no way I can even go to work without at least a couple of shots of vodka in my belly. Without the alcohol, I can’t even hold a conversation anymore—not to mention being all up and enthusiastic like you’re supposed to be when you’re waiting tables.
Every night is a performance. I put on my costume, smile like an idiot, chat everyone up, all clever and funny and understanding. Honestly, it doesn’t feel all that different from hustling. I
