The Rough Dry Ground

I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink just fine, thank you. My problem is that I think that drinking is the cause and solution to most of my problems, only not at the same time. Whenever things go wrong, I find a nice neat glass of whiskey makes it more palatable. Unfortunately, when I look in the mirror, at my bank account or lack of progress in my life, I tend to think that maybe if I drank less those things would get better. Realistically, I’ve found that it just doesn’t work that way because psychologically there’s got to be more to the problem. I mean, if I looked at it logically.

Every day I try to get off on the rough dry ground. Get off the Merry-Go-Round, the Carousel, or the Bandwagon…but because those things are fun, all my life it’s been much easier to take a ride or wait until someone tells you to get off, you fall off, or the ride ends. And in some very dark place, you would much rather ride until it ends, once and for all.

I got to this place quite honestly through no fault of anyone but myself. Sure, I was introduced to alcohol early on in my life. But I can’t blame it on any one particular family member, they all drank just not to any debilitating degree. Can’t blame peer pressure. Hell, I outdrink most of them and still was the most dependable designated driver. And, I really don’t see it as a disease, so much as just one of the defining aspects of who I am. So, in order to change it would be to severely alter my very DNA…or that’s at least how it seems.

The reason I say I can’t blame anyone else is because I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’ve never had any of the illicit drugs. I’ve smoked weed a couple times, but it’s not my thing. But drinking just felt right. Tasted good. Fit like a glove, holding a glass with some type of proof in the liquid.

And I remember everything about how it started.

Some people have a moment in time that they can point to that was tragic and wound up being a catalyst for future behavior. Some point back to an event where they had their first drink and things escalated from there. And some will tell you that they have no idea when it all began. But my world growing up is as vivid as any movie I’ve seen repeatedly, because I have. It plays in my head when I sleep, when I’m trying to sleep and when I’m that other thing. Oh yeah, awake.

For me, my moments play like an 80’s flashback montage with all the supporting characters. Holidays weren’t quite complete until my sisters and I could have a little glass of Mogen David Concord grape wine to celebrate the occasion. Football Sundays with Pops were made that much more special when I could drink one-sixth of his ration of Schlitz beers for the Bears. Staying up late and crashing my Mom’s after-set with her Jazz buds wasn’t complete until someone dared me to take a sip of whatever brown liquor they thought would do the trick to put my lil’ ass to sleep. What usually ended up happening was them grabbing their drink back before I downed it and me doing my best Richard Pryor impersonation from beneath a ski mask as to hide my identity and allow for the words I was using in my mother’s presence.

The grannies helped a bit too. One time, Pop’s mom was cooking something on the stove for hours and my 2 cousins and I bugged her all day about the contents. Turns out she, a Cherokee descendant, was making tomato whiskey or moonshine. After she was done late in the evening, she got 3 shot glasses and poured each of us a taste. My cousins cringed at the taste and fell asleep within minutes, but Grandma and I stayed up listening to Al Green 8 tracks and finishing off a nice amount of her new brew. She also drank Old Grand-Dad 100, but she wouldn’t start to share that until I was much older, like 12. My other Granny and her live-in daughter, my Aunt, made wine in a large plastic garbage can bought for that specific reason, but again, they didn’t allow for much consuming unless it was tied to a holiday. They were old-fashioned in that way.

My mother moved us from the West side of Chicago to the neighborhood of 98th and Loomis when I was 3. As a pacifist and the very definition of “lover not a fighter”, I played house with two girls on the block. It was a lot more interesting than the roughhousing preferred by the boys in the hood. Plus, I was the “smart kid” but not quite a nerd. I was adept at being social, but I had that extra bit of book-smarts that set me apart from the crew. So, of course, I had my share of being bullied by the “older boys” and didn’t really find common ground until the one night of “The Bet”. Hanging out on the porch of my next-door neighbor and his band of 15-16-year-old buds, a few “40 oz” bottles were procured. I had a couple dollars and when I asked to partake, I was told that being 12 that I wasn’t Man enough to handle it. So, I bet that I could chug the whole damn bottle which was met with a bet of $1 and a ten second limit. I did it in 7 and used the extra loot to put in for the next liquor run. My status went up a bit, and from then on, I would often be included in any future drinking sessions.

The most significant catalyst for my future as a hard-core Jack man would start soon afterward. My 4-foot 11 mother was a Jazz booking agent and I, all of 6’2” at 13, spent many weekends helping her carry promo material and hanging at the club while her musicians played. In that time, I met the owners, the bands, bouncers, and everyone in-between. By me being so much taller than my mother and introduced as simply her son, nobody questioned my age, and when offered drinks, I took them and drank them with the experience of someone who had been drinking for years, as I had by that time.

This was a magical time for me. The Jazz scene was in full force at venues all around the city and my mother, the daughter of a known drummer, was an integral part of it. Now, not many teens in the early 80’s was into listening to cats like Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk or Coltrane. But, then again, not many kids had legendary artists like Jack McDuff, Charles Earland and Von Freeman hanging out at their house because they were not only Moms clients but close friends. I think that’s the reason that she didn’t think twice about letting me hang and drink like I was a part of the scene. It’s probably the same way she grew up with the same type of people doing the same types of things.

Now, it was my godbrother, a gay friend of the family that helped me take it to another level. On my 16th birthday, I suited up and joined him and his crew for a night of clubbing. We started the night with my first Giordano’s stuffed pizza, which I credit with helping me soak up the alcohol of my first and, by no means, last Long Island Iced Tea of the night. The 5-liquor drink immediately became my favorite and helped usher in a new, higher tolerance than had previously been held. That night also made me realize that the right clothes and attitude can get you in almost anywhere.

I still hung out during high school with my friends at house parties and House parties at local schools and venues. But it was just as likely that you would see me wearing a sportscoat and spending my hard-earned fast food and telemarketing money at Jazz joints like The Other Place, Chic Rick’s, and The New Apartment Lounge. It was also during this time that I found that I couldn’t take the hypocrisy of my Mom’s helping to end my childhood but wanting me to stay in a child’s place when it was convenient for her. Then it was my Pop’s bullying asshole way of trying to make me feel less-than up until the night when he found out that punch he threw to my chest didn’t move me but ended in me moving in with my Granny. And finally, me moving to my own one-room apt because Granny’s curfew of 10pm was just about the time that the band would be starting their 2nd set at the club.

This alter-ego at night and weekends was a far cry from the guy my classmates nicknamed Benny Hill in freshman year because of the silliness and joking. The only person that knew anything about that part of my life was my best friend who thought Jazz was for crazy people (until he got older and it started to speak to him in those crazy tones as well!)

I have an idea how I was perceived in school because, well, I was there and present for most of the feedback. But most of my classmates have no idea that by the time I was a senior, I was dating women who were twice my age and may have been somebody’s mother that they knew. I’m not bragging about any of this, but it’s just a fact of my life that when presented with the quandary of who to take to my prom, I chose the youngest lady I was dating at the time, a junior from Columbia College.

Just to skip ahead a bit and wrap-up this sharing session, I’ll just say that drinking has been a part of life for as long as I can remember. Like I said to start, that liquid I.D. or id to be more precise is nobody’s doing but my own. Even though it was there, I chose to drink. They say you shouldn’t have regrets because good or bad, your life has made you who you are and it’s up to you moving forward to make any changes you feel you need to make the most of the rest of it.

That sounds good and all. But for me, I just want to be happy. Do I want to look in the mirror and like what I see? Sure. Would that make me happy? Probably. But I’ve never been a “gym rat”, and would it make me happy to do it? Probably not. But who knows? Would I have more money in my bank account if I didn’t drink so often? Sure. But then what am I saving it for? Travel? Do the drinks taste better there? Would I get more accomplished if I were sober more often? No doubt. But for who? Currently, in my life, I no longer have any contact with any of my relatives. I have no kids. My best friend is 2,000 miles away and, of the friends I have that are close by, we haven’t been close. And as far as a HER, well let’s just say that I let Her go 25 years ago and my attempts at a replacement have been laughable, at best. Also, my fault.

I don’t want pity and I don’t want prayers. I’m not that dude. What I would like is for those who have met me to have some sort of understanding as to the Why's. I will continue for whatever and wherever this path will take me. And who knows, maybe I’ll even “do some good” before it’s all said and done. But I have no illusions that my dreams have, for the most part, been deferred and mostly because of my fears, complacency, and procrastination. I’ll have to live and die with that. But in the meantime, I’ll probably just drink to it and try to smile while I do.