A Day In My Life As A Social Drinker, Part I.A(1)(a)

Chances. Ten years I'm working on trying to remember the name of the bar that I used to frequent, the one that filled the slot of "right after work" on my dance card, like from, say 6:00pm to my first blackout. It was over by the GM building and FAO Schwartz and The Plaza Hotel and it was a fabulous Irish dive where everybody knew my name. Or let's say they were willing to call me by whatever I told them. Kind of a social play I used to like to make, sometimes complete with accent change - ah, oui, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Yes, let's back up to waking up that same morning, or as I now know it to be called, "coming to." I cannot move my head or even twitch any of my muscles at first for fear that I will cease to exist - headache, nausea, sometimes a new bruise or two - once a newfound set of stitches! Where did they come from? I must remain still and not panic. But panic I do, and the tears of victimhood start. "How could this be happening to me again?! I have to get to work!" I finally get up, throw up, get in the shower and cry for half hour, but now from rage at god. "Why me, what do you want from me?" Why me what? I don't know, I just don't want to feel like this and I don't want to have to work and I don't want to have to pay rent or show up or breathe. You know, typical morning for a social drinker.

I get dressed in my little navy suit, the one that I wear to my paralegal job in Midtown, and grab my regulation gear for the trip to Grand Central Station: BIG sunglasses, a big duffel bag filled with laundry, a carton of milk and a couple of plastic bags. Ugh - out the door. The buzzing of the bright overhead lights in my hall make me want to run for cover, but walking is enough to have to keep going as it is.

I once had a friend that said, "If anyone else had awoken in this state they would have called an ambulance. You go to work." He's just an actor though, and very dramatic.

I climb the hill on my street and head for the subway - but first I need to throw up again and I do so in the public waste bin at the corner of Lexington and 89th. Who cares, people will just think I'm pregnant, right? I mean, I'm wearing a suit!

I go down the subway stairs being carried by the crush of people in a hurry. Ugh, again - the smells are so overpowering that I have to pull out a plastic bag and heave into it. But I'm pregnant - wait, no I'm not. I forget, did I just make that up? Anyway, I wait and here comes the train, screeching in a manner that can only signify the end of the world. No such luck. The doors open and people scramble off and scramble on at the same time and there are a few elbows that Grace had afforded me escape from somehow. The seats are full, but I needn't worry, I have my duffel bag so I can sit on it on the floor in my little navy suit. Thank god for duffel bags. Isn't that what they sell them for?

I get to Grand Central and push my way through crowd, through three revolving doors (sick) and out into the fresh air. Ahhhhh. My building is across the street. I go up and sit at my desk and open my milk. If I have milk and sunglasses, everyone knows that they shouldn't really talk to me, but they do anyway and I just find this so annoying and disrespectful. I mean, I have cramps! Oh. No. I'm pregnant? No, it's food poisoning. Yeah, that's it.

I will never drink again. Never. Ever. I will never do coke again, at least not unless I can remember to save some for the morning after. No, actually I will never do coke again either. Or snort speed. Never, ever snort speed again. Won't need to because I'll never drink again, and certainly not so much that I need to get a jolt so I can stand up and continue drinking. Never, ever, ever. God help me, I'll never drink again. Okay, at least for a month, until I can get my shit together. No way. Ach, here comes that pesky little bastard lawyer who's going to want me to do something for him. God, why me?

The sunglasses stay on, the milk by my side, and by noon I'm smoking cigarettes again - which means I've survived. Whew. I can't wait to go home and relax. But around comes 2:00, the witching hour, and off come the glasses, I order a CocaCola, light one cigarette off of another and finally brush my hair. Whoa, I'm feeling good. See - it wasn't that bad! I get the little bastard's work done, take it to his office and actually tell him a joke. He's really not so bad. I smile and wink at my boss and hum a little showtune. He comes out, hands me a little glassine envelope and walks away smiling. How nice! He must really like me!

I take the envelope to the ladies room, unwrap it and snort the lines of cocaine he's so thoughtfully handed to me and, baby, I'm ready to go. I go back to my desk and make a few phone calls to friends asking if they can join me for a martini after work at The Plaza Hotel, no, no, just one, really, I've got to get home tonight...no? Okay. Later.

That's okay. Doesn't matter. I know where to go - yep - Chances! I'll go to Chances and have one or two and then go home and do the laundry that's in my duffel bag. Right on, it's a plan!

I push through the revolving doors, ready to walk the four or five blocks to Chances and, damn, it's just too long, I'm ready NOW, the sound of the traffic and the people are revving me up and I want to be there NOW - so I hail a cab - "yeah, make that 55th and 5th." The driver looks back at me like I'm crazy, of course, because it's rush hour and it'll take twice as long by car but, "hey, move it!" and we're off. I'm happy (frantic?) and tip big and get out and up the stairs and Cliff's got my drink already on the bar because he sees me coming through the window! And here comes my really good friend what's-his-name that I see every night here too! And he's with what's-her-name that he works with! God, life is good!

So - blackout - now return to paragraph 2 and lather, rinse, repeat - daily, from this day on. Until it gets even hairier.

Today I'm so grateful to be alive, much less clean and sober.