Alcoholics Go to Meetings

(Originally Published in the George Street Carnival 2014)

I shouldn’t have driven home from the bar last night.

I ended up in my bed naked, hung-over and miserable with a strange bruise on my elbow. My jeans lay at the foot of my mattress from my drunken thrashing.

I must have settled with just getting them off. Doesn’t explain my underwear though, wait, was I wearing underwear? I haven’t done laundry in a while. Fuck.

I pull my guts together. I’m lucky it’s a short walk to the bathroom because the whiskey gods have had enough of my insolence, and decidedly dropped me to my knees in front of the porcelain altar.

My upheaval is so violent that I’m confident that I have burst the blood vessels in my eyes with the retching of my throat, but before I can look into the mirror to check I’ve got to disconnect the syrupy strands of mucus, blood, spit, and cheap booze from my mouth with the back of my hand.

I throw myself head-first into the shower letting the hot water singe my face and feeling it cascade down my calves. I brush my teeth twice to try to cover up the rye staining the back of my throat.

Feeling that the booze gods are happy with my baptism, I shut the water off and trot to my room. I pull on my jeans, still no underwear, and a gray t-shirt. I feel my pockets, grabbing my wallet. And I’ve got ten bucks left. Fuck, I need to stop drinking. I grab my phone; 8 texts and 5 missed calls.

Later, not now, I can’t do it now. I need food, no, I need a burrito. I feel the weight of my car keys in my back pocket. I’m probably still too drunk to legally drive.

I pull on my sneakers and put on my sunglasses. I walk out the front door letting the screen door slam behind me.  There is a red sedan parked in the front yard, it’s probably one of my roommate’s friends. Parking sucks here, so friends usually just park in the yard, though it looks like this guy had a hell of a time getting in.

Tire tracks have churned up the grass and it looks like he came close to side-swiping a tree. At least someone else is feeling my pain.

My car on the other hand is parked remarkably well for the amount of alcohol that was in my toilet this morning. Maybe I wasn’t so bad last night.

I look down the drive at a cop car slowly passing by as I pull out my keys. It doesn’t fit in the lock. I try to jam it, cursing piece-of-shit cars, booze, and hangovers. I look down at my keys and realize my bottle opener is missing and that these aren’t my keys, but that I’ve used these keys.

These keys turned the ignition last night, and I was behind the wheel. I turn and look at the officer and drop the keys.

I really shouldn’t have driven home from the bar last night, especially since I walked there in the first place.