Before I go much further, you may want to know that much of the content was culled from the correspondence from a friend who was kind enough to write me several days after my discharge from the hospital. If you're a new friend to or reader of the chef, you may also be interested in Shiftless Chef's Tips for Eating Well During One's Stay in a Mental Facility, written immediately upon my release close to a year to this day. There had to be a reason I didn't post this at the time, and it was a good one because sitting on it for this long turned out to be a good decision. If my friend happens to be reading this, thank you for your concern and for humoring me. I was a handful that day.
My wife, who is, as you know, a beautiful woman in every way imaginable, and I went through tremendous struggle until a little over a year ago when, after close to twenty years' service at Houston Public Library, she received a promotion to management. We're not nearly members of the jet-set yet, but when we budget right, we're confirmed members of the rental car-set.
I've been unemployed for two years, and I can assure you that my employment status isn't a lifestyle choice. Despite filling out mind-numbing after mind-numbing application and reworking my resume until it glitters like a set of brand new dentures, the phone didn't ring and my no one wrote me back. After nine months or so that sort of vexation, I, first, started going through the motions of finding work for which I am suited, and then, for all intents and purposes, quit looking altogether. At the time, posting food pictures on Facebook was a more promising career prospect.
If you know the song Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones, you've heard the line about little yellow pills. The ones I'm prescribed are blue, but I ran for them just the same, like the song's put-upon housewife. Blue pills and booze together were more fun than Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. I played third wheel, more than happy to let them yank me around town, maybe like Sammy Davis Jr. The problem is, Dean and Jerry don't stick around long, and Sammy's stuck with the mess later.
My relationship with alcohol was tricky. I'd quit drinking for ten years. During that time, I realized that alcohol had put a real dent in my productivity, to say nothing of my well-being. I did fine without it. At no point did I ever crave it. I did miss some of the accoutrements that accompany it, but I didn't miss the booze, the hangovers, or the entire days lost afterward. However, I hated being the guy who orders a Coke at the bar during outings with friends. My buddies are all drinking beer and I'm getting dirty looks from bartenders when I ask for a lime to garnish my pop. If nothing else, drinking again solved the garnish problem.
"A Bombay Saffire martini, dirty, three olives, two cocktail onions, served in a glass shaped like Catherine Deneuve."
"Would you like a $100 bill as a coaster?"
"How much is that coaster?"
"Coaster's on the house, you handsome devil You're a man who knows how to order a drink!"
When I drank, I was a two-fisting Robert Mitchum with a hard-on for the world and a fistful of quarters in the jukebox. I'd put on a nice shirt, my shiny shoes, and a smirk, ready with a quip for the first bigmouth who thought getting his kicks at my expense looked like a sure bet. You and I know that was complete horseshit, and I didn't need my mouth on more than a couple of occasions that I can recall, but on a couple of others, I nearly got it knocked off my face for good. Why I wasn't reduced to a pile of mayonnaise in the middle of downtown Houston, God only knows.
One night, my wife and I were out and we were having a ball, talking to the bands and dancing like they were playing the songs just for us. We went outside to hang out with one of my old drinking buddies when two scenesters strut in and kick up a shitstorm, which my wife's chair got caught up in, I came to learn. I didn't get the chance to confront the cocksucker who swiped my wife's chair that night.
I ran into him months later. During the interim, I learned that his name is _a___ (don't kid yourself - Houston's a small town.) _a___ , despite a demeanor suggesting a liver begging to be cut out of his body, was the most dapper man there, dapper enough to have a fetching, dope-silly chick on his left arm. He wasn't hard to spot - he's a head taller than anyone in the room at any time. His height and build didn't register at the time, and I walked up to him and said, "You're _a___ right? Yeah? You're a fucking prick, _a___ !" He should have knocked my block off and used it as a wreath to to warn any comers and to wish his guests a happy holiday season.
Instead, he calmly asked why I called him a prick. Not yet disarmed, I reminded him that I didn't take kindly to his taking my wife's chair. _a___ defended his honor, saying said he didn't remember the incident and besides, he's not the type to go around treating the ladies that way. His friend confirmed this, calling _a___ a "gentleman," and a perfect one at that. My senses snapped back to their rightful places, and I took the opportunity to weasel my way out. We ended up shaking hands, and that was that. I haven't seen much of _a___ since, and I'm not asking around for his address.
I have plenty of fun drinking stories, too. The one about passing out as my nieces opened Christmas presents isn't one of them. There's also the story about a day that I'd declared excruciatingly uneventful and in need of livening up. We had a six pack in the fridge and a bottle of champagne. We'd bought both for some occasion that I don't remember, but I do remember that I was proud of myself for having not touched the beer up to that point. It was around 3 in the afternoon when I cracked open the first one. You always start tentatively because you wonder whether drinking a beer is the right thing to do on a Tuesday afternoon, but soon enough, 3 o'clock on a Tuesday becomes the Fourth of July, and you're thinking that two will keep it that way. Two tops, no more than three. Three beers later, you still have the wherewithal to realize your math was faulty. I'm certain that Einstein didn't come up with the Theory of Relatively after an afternoon of drinking wine in a box because calculating the amount of beer you'll need to liven up a dull afternoon is impossible.
But you don't need to be a self-medicating math machine. One rule above all is immutable: you're going to need all the beer. You'll sip slowly at first, but you'll get there, and you'll get there quick. That's the calculation you didn't perform. But why waste a God-given day doing something you tried to duck out of in college?
Another rule is that you're going to run out before you're finished. I'd run out of beer way too fast, but there was still the champagne. My wife bought it because she wanted to make punch with it. She might be a little upset that I drank it, but she'd understand. She knew I felt bad and that draining the house's liquor supply helped to smooth things over. I didn't want to drink it, but that's all we had that day. Because I ignored the rules, I didn't bother to put it on ice; with any luck, a couple of glasses would do, and I could just recork it so my wife could have some. There was no time to waste waiting for it to chill. I made a ceremony of it. I popped the cork like a mob boss at his daughter's wedding. As I did so, I said to myself, "She'll get over it."
Two juice glasses of champagne later, my wife hadn't quite made it home yet, and I was miserable again and the schmuck who drank the nice champagne he and his wife were supposed to share. The only promise the evening held was the company of his delightful wife, miserable, frightened, and likely very upset with her husband. Later that night, we were on our way to the emergency room when the rain crashed down so hard we turned back halfway and I slept it off.
I didn't have much luck with the stuff, and frankly, I don't feel like pressing the luck I have; however, I'll rarely begrudge a man a drink. If you're like me, you cast a jaundiced eye at those folks whose greatest joy resides in telling everyone else what they need to do. They never mean well and they're among the worst. If you don't puke on my shoes, the odds are you're okay with me, and if I ever puked on yours, please accept my apology and put me down for a pair.
If anything, I'll tell to you drink up if you need to. Having peeked in on the other side of it, I can tell you that life really can be the bitch some people say it is. Just do me a favor if you do: have one for your old pal Don. He saved you the last one.
