Royal Lush
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There is something so exciting about the sensation of alcohol hitting an empty stomach. Especially wine. That pain-tinged pleasure as it spreads corrosively down your esophagus and your whole body warms in recognition. I love it when the initial signs of intoxication start to set in – the tension you didn’t know you were holding in your body suddenly loosens, your cheeks redden, and your head lightens. Maybe I love it too much.
It’s a painfully average Tuesday night, and I’m sitting across from Jordan in the dim light of our favourite local bar. Classic rock weaves through the chatter, and, as always, I’m oddly soothed by that bar smell of greasy pub food and detergent-y pint glasses hot out of the dishwasher. Jordan is one of the few other people I know who will get rip-roaring drunk on a whim, no matter what day of the week it is or how much money he has to spend. He raises his glass with a freckly hand and drains the last of his sixth beer, clunking it down and looking at me expectantly. This is what we do. Beer for beer. Shot for shot. Until we’re both giggling and stumbling and looking at three hours of sleep before work tomorrow. He’s one of my best friends, and in a lot of ways, our relationship has been both supported and defined by getting fucked up in one way or another. We started as stoner buddies smoking joints every day in his Jetta, and now we’ve matured into steadfast drinking partners, if such a progression can be considered maturation. Sometimes when we drink too much our friendship veers into quasi-sexual territory and I always regret this. Sometimes he looks at me like he loves me. I just avert my gaze and take another sip. From time to time I reflect on how different my life would be if I were a Mormon or a nun or something and had never touched the stuff. I would’ve had different friends, that’s for sure. I would have avoided a lot of the trouble I’ve gotten myself into over the years, and I definitely could have saved a few relationships instead of ending them in drunken transgressions and explosions of fury. But I also think I would have had a hell of a lot less fun. It’s a compromise I actively make every time I reach for the bottle, and so far, I’ve managed to justify it beautifully. I guess my voracious appetite for booze is fixed in my genetics. My father regularly reminds me that I “come from a looong line of alcoholics,” as if hammering this into my head enough will miraculously change what he believes to be my destiny. He’s been convinced for years – since the day he found a bottle of coconut-flavoured rum in my purse – that I’ll inevitably take up the family tradition and end up in the Betty Ford clinic like his sister. Last I heard, she was swigging vanilla extract when her husband’s back was turned. As for him, he can’t even keep beer in the house anymore, and assumes that my self-control must be as impoverished as his and his sister’s. But I maintain that there’s a difference between a penchant for drinking and a complete lack of mental fortitude. And that’s all I have to say about that. * * *
It’s Friday night. Every Friday, my parents go out to dinner with Donna, an old family friend whose side they took after her divorce. It’s more of a routine for routine’s sake than something they actually enjoy, but sometimes I join them if I’m in the mood for a free meal. It’s a nice reward for enduring an affair coloured by the hostile undercurrents typical of my family, and luckily, there’s always alcohol involved. When my dad’s in a particularly heated mood, the first drink arriving at the table is like fucking Christmas morning, and after a few Coors Lights, he neither notices nor cares how much I drink. Now that I’m of age, his determination to prevent me from doing so has slackened almost completely, so much that he passively finances it when I attend these meals.
After dinner, Donna perches on our couch in her polyester animal print shirt that belies her white-cotton personality, saying nothing between sips of Pinot Grigio. The television plays. She pretends to enjoy being around my family, but nobody operating at a normal psychological capacity would be able to stand us for more than ten minutes. That’s about the maximum length of time we can go with no conflicts, which, small as they may be, characterize everything we do together. I think she comes here so she doesn’t have to drink alone. I feel sorry for her. She finishes her bottle of wine and drives home. I’m off to such a good start at this point that I can’t not go to the Pump for pitchers to finish myself off, and I know Jordan will be in. I call him. Drinking, for me at least, is a lot like sex. Starting without finishing is both dissatisfying and altogether pointless. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the concept of one cocktail. One? That’s like taking one drag of a cigarette or eating one chip without the intention to continue. First of all, it takes more restraint than I choose to exercise, and, secondly, why bother wasting the health damage and subsequent temptation for one damn chip? * * *
It’s a Saturday in July and the sun is finally relenting. I’m sitting on the patio of Casey’s by Union Station. The summer dusk is particularly delicious tonight and the air hangs fragrant and thick, tickled by a breeze. I’m alone. The waiter brings me the fifth 9-ounce round of my personal Casey’s wine tour. Low-to-mid-priced family restaurant fare – just my speed. I’m on to the Shiraz Rosé now; it looks so pretty backlit by the salmon sunset. I’m swirling the wine in the glass, pretending for my own amusement that I’m a sommelier with a refined palate instead of a broke-ass student who will chug anything with an alcohol content. I like to go places by myself so I can revel in the freedom of anonymity. Maybe I am a sommelier.
I won’t remember my sixth glass, even when I look at my bill the next day and discover I’d gotten as far as the Pinot Noir. Why didn’t they cut me off? I wake up on the GO train with four hours unaccounted for, and I’m still heavily intoxicated. The train attendant is waiting, and he escorts me off as if I’m a child taking my first solo flight. I feel like an idiot. Jordan picks me up, and we go home and snuggle. M. Egan is in her fourth year in Media, Information and Technoculture. She recently took Writing Creative Nonfiction and The Naked Writer. In addition to writing, her hobbies include music and visual art. |
