Roxanne

"It means suck it up, move on and do something for someone else, or get busy dying." ~Leon R.

*

I woke up naked, covered in sweat, the light blue cotton sheets soaked and cold against my skin. My head was pounding from too much rum and beer the night before. I looked to my right and she was laying there, the girl from last night, her short brown hair just barely covering her pretty face. I wanted to wake her up and tell her it was time to go, but I couldn't remember her name. I rolled out of bed and grabbed the edge of the dresser before I fell, dizzy from standing too quickly.

I headed down hallway towards the bathroom for aspirin and water. My hands were shaking so violently as I jumbled through the medicine cabinet that I dropped several bottles of whatever pills I had on hand until I finally found the aspirin. I threw several of them in my mouth, turned on the sink and downed them with three big gulps of cold water. I splashed my face and wiped the sleep out of my eyes. I felt better, still not sure what to do about the woman in my bed.

I walked back to my bedroom and stared at her sleeping body for a minute. They always looked so innocent when they were sleeping. I took a slow deep breath and just said, “Fuck it.” I walked over to the bed and nudged her a few times with my foot.

“Wake up! You gotta go chick. I got stuff to do.”

I walked to the closet and started getting dressed as she rolled over.

“Huh? What time is it?” she said as she looked at the clock on the nightstand, “It's only five am???”

“Yeah, but I've got an appointment. I gotta take care of some important stuff this morning. Where do you need me to drop you off at?”

“Ugh! Enfield,” she said wearily, “Sorry about your back, sometimes I just get carried away.”

“Don't worry about it, I'll be fine.”

I had forgotten all about that until just then. I flashed back to a vague memory of me grabbing her by the throat last night with my left hand, my right hand balled up into a fist ready to hit her because she had gouged my back with her fingernails as I was fucking her.

She got out of bed and started putting her clothes back on, baggy blue jeans, a baggy white shirt and a Celtic's jersey. I thought it was a shame. She was a pretty Italian girl and an animal in bed. She had potential if she'd only dress like a lady instead of a thug.

Then it hit me, “Roxanne! That was her fucking name!”

“You ready Roxanne?” I said with my keys already in my hands.

“Yup.”

As I was driving, I quickly realized that I was still drunk from the night before. My head hadn't pounding yet, and my mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. I stopped at the Shell gas station along the way, with it's bright yellow lights just starting to dim as the sun rose in the horizon.

“You want anything?” I asked her.

“No, I'm good.”

I went in and came back out a couple of minutes later with a purple Gatorade and a pack of Newports.

It was a long quiet ride to Enfield. My Newport cigarette made me feel nauseous as I smoked it. We drove right by the strip club where I had met her the night before. She lived out in suburbia near the Somers line in a nice, modern New England house, with sand-colored vinyl siding, white trim, a two-car garage and a manicured lawn. I shook my head in semi-disgust. So much potential, and here she was dressing and talking like some street thug. I wanted to say something, but who was I to talk? I was practically the same way.

We hugged and she kissed me goodbye.

“You want my number?” she said as she got out of the car.

“Sure”

She gave it to me and I repeated it back to her as she was saying it.

“You're not gonna write it down?” she asked.

“Naugh, no need. I got it right here.” I said and pointed to my head.

She stood in the driveway and watched as I pulled away. I lit another cigarette feeling like a complete scumbag, but still happy to be rid of her. She knew I'd never call.

I headed straight for the refrigerator in the garage when I got back home, slapping the bumper sticker on the side of it that read, “Never Trust A Man Who Doesn't Drink.” I opened it, grabbed a cold Newcastle, popped the top with my blue Patriots lighter and took a long swallow.

“Ahhh!” I sighed with relief.

I felt better instantly as the shakes went away. I could smell the stench of alcohol coming through my pores mixing with my body odor. I closed the refrigerator door and headed upstairs to take a hot shower.

“Fucking bitch!” I said to myself, growling and gritting my teeth as the hot water hit the scratches on my back making them burn. I took another long swallow of my Newcastle, which was getting warm too quickly from the steam, and tucked it safely into the soap rack. I still felt like a scumbag.

I put some strong citrus scented body wash on my sponge and scrubbed my body as hard as I could, but I couldn't scrub away the guilt. I started to think about my life and how I ended up where I was. I fell to my knees as I rinsed the soap away covering my face with my hands, sobbing.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I said through clenched teeth. My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I had plans at one time. A bright future. I probably should have been in college right then, studying, but something had gotten skewed along the way. Now I worked all week in a warehouse, loading trucks just to keep my probation officer happy and myself out of jail. I spent almost every night hanging out in run-down old strip clubs and dive bars pretending to have a good time all the while feeling sorry for myself. Always blaming other people for my problems.

I took another long, deep breath, stood up and turned the water off. I caught a glimpse of my own eyes in the mirror as I pulled the shower door open. All I could see was an empty shell of the kid I once was, my bright future long past gone. I finished the Newcastle and threw the empty bottle in the trash.

I got dressed and headed back to the garage. Only two Newcastle's left. It was still early in the morning. I'd have to pace myself until the package store opened around eight. I hoped the package store owner wouldn't be late today or I'd have to drive around the neighborhood looking for him as he took his morning walk. I hated doing that to him, but he always jumped in my car with a smile and a pleasant mood as we would drive back to the store. I always wondered if he secretly hated me for interrupting his exercise.

As I was walking out with another cold Newcastle in my hands, my brother poked his head out into the garage.

“That girl still upstairs?” he asked.

“Naugh, I brought her home earlier.”

“You brought her home already??? You dirty dog, you!” he laughed.

“Fuck you,” I replied and shot him a dirty look.

It was him and his girlfriend who had set me up with the girl. She was in the car with them waiting outside when the bar closed. Apparently she was going home with us whether I liked it or not. I hadn't wanted anything to do with her that night. I was too busy trying to talk to this gorgeous Puerto-Rican dancer who I had spent the night with a few weeks earlier. She hadn't spoken to me in a week, ever since I threw her and her obnoxiously drunk friend out of my car at two in the morning.

My brother turned around and walked back to his room, still laughing. I walked into the house and sat down to watch television. I thought about going back to sleep but knew that I wouldn't be able to now that the sun was up. I looked at the clock again. It was only seven. The package store didn't open for another hour.

Another long, deep breath. It was going to be a long day. No doubt we'd head to the bar in Suffield around noon. The French Guyana bartender and her cousin would be there. They were cute and always let us run up a tab without a credit card. Plus they never kept track of what we drank. I can't recall how many Saturday afternoons I had stumbled out of that place completely shit-faced for no more than five bucks.

Yup, it was going to be a long day drowning out the memories of last night and the many nights before that. If someone had told me at that time that there was a better life around the corner and all I had to do was reach for it, I would have laughed and told them to fuck off. Looking back now, I didn't think I'd ever learn. How could I when I already knew everything? I didn't have the time for that shit anyway; I was too busy dying.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...” ~Psalm 23:4

*

I'm trapped in a dark alley. Cold red bricks rise up around me on all four sides, like skyscrapers with no rooftops in sight. I'm sweating. There are galvanized metal trash cans down one side, their garbage overflowing. The stench of rotted meat fills the small area. There is a rusty, wrought-iron fire escape across from me. It is the only way out, if only I could reach it.

Thick heavy steel chains cut at my wrists and ankles as I struggle to break free. I am pinned to the wall. One is wrapped around nothing but my throat, it's weight bearing down on me like an ox bound to a plough.

My attackers are relentless. They have no faces. They have no gender. Their voices rasp in my ears and all around me, but they do not speak. They whisper and scream, but they have no mouths. They are but shadows.

They claw at me, tearing me apart from the inside out. Flames rise up in all directions from everywhere and nowhere, burning my skin, reflecting in my eyes. All I can do is growl.

I grit my teeth, and spit, “That's it!? That's all you've got!? Harder! Hit me harder!”

And I laugh. I laugh because there is nothing else I can do. I laugh because it hurts. I laugh because I love it! The pain. It brings out the best and the worst in me. It reminds me that I am ALIVE!

“C'mon! Harder! I'm still here! I'm still standing!”

And I laugh again because it hurts so good. I created these demons. They are within me. And I let them loose because they needed to be free.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I inhale them through my nostrils. I can feel them struggle as I push them back down where they belong, deep into my soul. I bow my head and slowly I begin to relax. I feel it begin to snow as they disappear. The weight of the chains melts away as I exhale. I am free. A phoenix risen from the ashes.

I open my eyes. The sun is shining down. The trash is gone and fresh winter snow covers the ground at me feet. I grab a hold of the rusty iron ladder and begin to climb. I cannot see the end in sight, but the the closer I get the warmer that sunshine feels upon my face.

I smile. It is going to be a good day.

Fuck This Fucking Rain (The Poem)

"Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend." ~Albert Camus

The rain falls down,

all around me

pitter-patter, pitter-patter

I miss you

my friend. You are but a

memory, a shadow

on the wall.

It's pouring now, as I drive

down a long, winding road beneath

the dark night sky.

pitter-patter, pitter-patter

as it hits the ground. I

try

To find a song on

the radio, but

none can match, the

emptiness I feel inside now

that you're gone, only

the rain.

pitter-patter, pitter-patter

We hardly knew each

other, but

your effervescence inspired

me. The rain started

when you left.

A gentle reminder,

a cleansing, washing

the world around

me with it's sound,

pitter-patter, pitter-patter

short-lived

dreams, of climbing

mountains towards castles in

the sky, of Cuban

food and

writing

I had that feeling

before the rain came. I

could smell, even taste

it in the air. I wanted

to hold on

To that beautiful

day forever, but I had

to let you go. I

watched as you walked

away

I sighed

I cannot control

the weather, and I know

that it cannot rain

forever.

Some sunny day

our paths will cross

again

until then, good luck and

farewell my friend.

How The Twelve Steps Ruined My Life!

"I can't tell you how many times I've seen someone turn around and head back down that hill after struggling so hard to get where they were when the top was just a short distance away." ~Brian D

*

I was sitting at the stage in a strip club in Springfield. It was dark in there even though colored strobe lights flashed all around me. It felt like it was getting late. The music was loud. I had moved to the stage from the bar where twenty-year-old girls were busy flirting with men old enough to be their grandfather's. Working them for their money only to gossip about how disgusting they really thought these old guys were later in the dressing room.

There was a drink in my hand: club soda, easy on the ice, two limes. I had taken the straw out. Men who drink out of straws just look gay. I leaned back in my seat and caught the eyes of the brunette on stage. She was leaning against one of the poles and her eyes smiled when I looked her way.

I've been frequenting strip clubs for almost ten years now. It's hard to believe it's been that long since Anthony and his uncle first brought me into one. I can vaguely recall how nervous I was then. If I was new to this I would have thought she liked me or maybe at least that she thought I was cute. But no, her eyes smiled because she had just found her mark.

I can't describe her in detail; they all look the same after a while.

I threw a couple of dollars down and she started dancing. I glanced down at the money, two crumpled bucks.

I flashed back to nine years earlier. My brother had just moved back to town. I started bringing him to the strip clubs with me. Back then I would take one of my dollars, fold it half, fan it out, and place it between two other bills so that it looked like I just put four bucks down. I didn't bother doing that anymore. You get the same dance for one buck that you get for four. If you watch the same girl make her way around the stage you'll realize that it's all just a routine for her. Like dancing by numbers, one, two, three, and turn , one, two, three... Once you've been to the strip club enough the routine of it all becomes comical. The girls have it down just like any other job if you work it long enough. At every fast food joint there's certain steps to take to make a burger. At the strip club there's certain steps to take to have a man hand you his paycheck.

Once she was done dancing, she leaned forward and whispered, “Thank you,” in my ear. She smelled good. Strippers always smell the same. It's like they have some special perfume that only strippers wear: Eau De Stripper. (That kind of sounds disgusting now that I think about it.)

I threw a couple more dollars down. She started dancing again. One, two, three, four....

I haven't been able to enjoy myself in a strip club since I stopped drinking. I can't forget that last column on my fourth step, “What was your role in this?” Ever since I worked that step and then shared it with my sponsor on the next step, I haven't been the same. This little voice in the back of my mind keeps bothering me, telling me things that I know are true but that I don't want to hear.

Right now it was whispering, “What if that was your daughter up there on that stage?”

“Shut up,” I thought to myself, and I pushed the thought away.

When she was done dancing this time, she knelt down in front of me and started picking up her money, adding it to the rest of the crumpled bills strapped to her thigh.

“What's your name?” she asked.

She wanted to talk. I've always enjoyed talking to strippers. They're great listeners. They don't really care what you have to say, but they listen.

“Jorge,” I replied, “What's yours?”

“Giana,” she said.

“Seriously?” I thought to myself, “You've got to be fucking kidding me. I need to get out of here.” I couldn't tell if the little voice was laughing or crying.

“No, that won't do,” I said.

“What won't do?”

“Giana is my daughter's name. We'll have to call you something else.”

“Oh, Steph then.”

“Steph. Is that your real name?”

“Yup. How long are you staying here for?”

“I was just getting ready to leave, Steph.”

“Would you like a private dance before you go?”

Fuck me! Of course I did.

“I guess I can stay a little longer,” I told her.

Ten minutes later I pushed open the cold, steel door with the tinted glass that led out into the street. I had to shut my eyes for a moment as the sunlight hit me. It was only just after noon, and I was already fifty dollars lighter than I had been twenty minutes ago. I walked to the meter where my car was parked. The frigid winter air whipped against my face. I hopped into my car hoping that no one I knew had seen me because I felt ashamed.

Oh, how things have changed since I quit drinking. People say that strip clubs are degrading to women. They're not. They're degrading to men. And I was just now realizing that.

I took a long, deep breath as I turned the key and started the engine.

The little voice spoke to me again, “What was the point of that? You just spent fifty dollars to feel like a scumbag.”

I pushed the thought aside again and looked at my own green eyes in the mirror. The voice was right. I took another long, deep breath, and drove away thinking it would be long time before I would go into another strip club.

Now what was I supposed to do with my afternoon? I should have been at school right then, but it was too late class had already started.

I thought about calling Arelis and seeing if she wanted to hang out as I headed towards Main Street. She was a young, pretty Puerto Rican girl I had met a couple of months ago. She lived right up the road in the South End near the Italian social club. We talked a lot at first, but it dwindled off. She had three kids at twenty-two all with the same guy and they all lived together. One big, happy family. I felt bad.

The little voice started again, “Is it fair to her if you call her to hang out? What about her children's father?"

"Fair to her? Fair to him?" I said, talking to myself, "What the fuck do I care?"

"You were in his shoes once, how did that make you feel? What about your children, is it fair to them?” the voice replied.

“Fuck you little voice!” I spat back silently, and pushed the thought out of my mind. The little voice was really starting annoy me.

Almost a year ago, before I quit drinking and working those steps, this would have been an awesome day. I would've been drunk by now off rum and Coke with lime, “Cuba Libre” it's called. There is an ongoing joke amongst Cuban exiles:

“How do you make a Cuba Libre?”

“You mix rum and Coke with lime on the rocks.”

“No! You kill Fidel Castro!”

So, I would have been drunk by now on this beautiful, frigid winter day playing hooky from school with nowhere special to be. I would have just had a blast throwing money away at the strip club. Imagining that I was so much better then those old men in there who just didn't "get it," when really I had so much more in common with them than I would have ever known.

I would have just called Arelis and made plans to meet up with her for a booty call.

"Tell your boyfriend to watch the kids for a while, because you need to go to the store," I would tell her.

Then we would have met someplace classy like a parking lot somewhere behind a warehouse in West Springfield. And the thrill of it all would be so much fun.

I would wake up the next day feeling like a piece of shit, but it would be alright. I woke up every morning when I was drinking feeling like a piece of shit because I was. I was a selfish, lying, two-faced scumbag.

Instead I was heading home, tail tucked between my legs with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Thanks to AA and the fucking twelve steps, I now had this little voice constantly whispering in my ear, holding me accountable for my actions.

I realized after working those steps that I was responsible for my problems. I couldn't blame things on other people, places or things because I always played a role in my life. Hell, I was the main character.

I also learned that I was powerless over everything in the world around me. I could control myself and my actions only.

Moreover, I held resentments against people for doing things to me that I had easily, carelessly, and selfishly done to others.

All these years I had thought that problems followed me around everywhere I went. When things got to be too much I would run away, but they would find me. The patter would repeat itself over and over throughout my life. Now I knew why. I was the problem. I couldn't run away from myself no matter how hard I tried.

I had developed a conscience.

"A conscience! What the fuck was I supposed to with that?!?" I thought.

I shook my head. Fuck me! My life as I knew it was over. After you took away all the bullshit that had made up my life, the lies and the selfishness, there wasn't much left. I was just an empty shell of my former self. And the thought of having to go down a new, unfamiliar path in life without all of those coping mechanisms that I had grown to love scared the shit out of me.

I could ignore the little voice. I could just say, “Fuck it!” like I had so many times before. That would be so easy. So comfortable. So familiar. But if I did, I would be skirting back down the same dark, winding path that I had worked so hard to climb up. I knew where that path eventually led to, the bad place. The place where nightmares become reality. No money to pay bills, but plenty of money for steak, champagne, and cocaine. Coming down after a long night wanting nothing more than to just curl up in a ball in a warm, steamy shower and die.

Yes, my life as I knew it was over. I couldn't go back to that. Ever.

“Thanks AA! Thank you for showing me the light in all this darkness! Thank you AA for ruining my life!” I shouted to no one in particular as I drove down the interstate, not caring if anyone saw me or not.

I didn't know where I was headed, but at least I wasn't headed back to where I came from.

Fuck This Fucking Rain

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~Carl Jung

*

“These things usually happen like that,” she told me.

“I know,” I replied, “Always when I'm not looking for it, when I least expect it, and when it's most inconvenient.”

“That's life.”

“No, that's just my life.”

“It happens to everyone,” she said.

“Yeah, but it happens to me all the fucking time. I must have been a really bad person in a past life. Either that or God just thinks it's fun to fuck with me.”

“God doesn't fuck with people.”

“Seriously? Then why does this shit happen to me? I was doing just fine, living my life, things were going well and he just throws a wrench in the works.”

“Just because you don't understand him, doesn't make God crazy. He knows what he's doing. He has a plan.”

“Oh yeah?” I said sarcastically, “Well, it be nice if he fucking shared that plan with me. That way we'd be on the same page.”

A long silence.

“Apparently you've got your mind made up, there's no talking to you right now.”

“I don't wanna fucking talk. There's nothing to talk about! I wanna ride my bike down the highway, in and out of traffic, as fast as it will take me. I wanna watch cars zip by me in a blur. I wanna just go until I'm so far away that nothing else matters.”

“You can't outrun your feelings, Jorge”

“I can fucking try!”

“No you can't, your bike's in the shop and it's raining.”

“Fuck you! And, fuck the fucking rain!,” I said, “I wanna break stuff, glass preferably. I like the way it sounds when it shatters.”

“Then go break something!”

“Fuck you! I don't have anything to break that I wouldn't regret breaking later when I had to clean it up. I need a drink!”

“No you don't.”

“Rum. No, champagne!”

“Yeah, ok Jorge. That'll help.”

“Do you think champagne would taste good mixed with rum?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not? Everything tastes better with champagne.”

“Shut up, Jorge. You're not going to throw away a year's sobriety over this because I won't speak to you if you do.

“Yes you would, you love me.”

“I do love you, but you do this to yourself. It's always the same thing. Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. Then you wouldn't get your feelings hurt.”

“I can't help it,” I replied, “Alcoholics are all emotionally sensitive. It's a scientifilogical fact. It says so right in the step book.”

“Scientifilogical?”

“Whatever," I sighed, "I'm going home.”

“Bye.”

I open the old wooden door and step out onto the porch. I look out across the yard to the farm in the distance. It's pouring rain.

“Fuck this fucking rain!”

Unreasonable F@#%ing Expectations

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. Thy will, not mine, be done.” ~Serenity Prayer

*

“I can clearly see what role they've played, but I'm having trouble figuring out MY role in these resentments,” I told him.

“Hmmm... How about unreasonable expectations of others?” he replied, “Often times we set our expectations of other people higher than we set our expectations of ourselves.”

“Ok. I can see that for some,” I said, “but what about my mother and father? Is it unreasonable for a child to expect his parent's to live up to their responsibilities? I didn't ask to be brought into this world only to be abandoned.”

“That's in God's hands," he replied, "Is it reasonable for you to expect that it should have been done differently?”

“No," I sighed.

"I'm sure they did what they thought was best at the time. And, I did the same thing when it was my turn. My son lived with my mother until he was five-years-old,” I stated, even though he already knew, “She saved him from being adopted by strangers because I didn't live up to my responsibilities. He would have grown up not even five miles from me, and I never would have even known him.”

“We cannot control the actions of other people, places, or things. No matter how hard we may try, the only thing in this life that we have any real control over is ourselves,” he said, “When it comes to the actions of other people, places, or things, all WE can do is control the way WE react to them.”

“So, no unreasonable expectations of others, only higher expectations of myself,” I said, “I think I've got it, but I'm not sure I can do it. It's human nature to expect other people to behave in a certain way. That would be like asking me to stop dreaming and just give up hope.”

“That's why we strive for progress, not perfection. You may not be able to stop yourself from being disappointed from time to time, but you can change the way you react to that disappointment,” he said.

“True,” I said.

“Pray on it. See what you come up with,” was his last advice.

Then, we said our goodbye's and I hung up the phone. I left the house to go for a walk. As I set out, I took a long, deep breath. The cool night air always had a way of helping me relax and concentrate. I could smell the forest and almost taste the damp leaves on the trees all around me.

There had really been something else on my mind when I called him. I was disappointed about a relationship that I wasn't looking for, but that had come into my life regardless. I couln't bring myself to tell him that though because I didn't want to hear what he'd have to say.

He'd lecture me again, “You're not ready for a relationship yet. Until you take the time to heal yourself, you have nothing to offer anyone else.”

Thinking about that made me angry. I knew he was right. I had known the answer the whole time. It had been whispering in the back of my mind only I kept pushing it out.

No, no. Anything but that, I told myself.

I started to run. I cursed at the sky, "If I'm not ready, then why has this been put in my lap? I was doing just fine until this," but the voice wouldn't leave me alone.

“Let it go,” it said, “Just let it go.”

Popping My Alcholic Cherry

“You may believe that relapse begins the moment one ingests a drink or drug. That is what I always believed. This is a myth. Relapse begins with a sense that you’ve got it down, this sobriety thing. This leads to complacency. Complacency leads you to stop doing the things that helped you to get sober. Then the old behaviors creep back. Over time, these old behaviors begin to grate away at your self-esteem. This is when the thought of a drink or drug comes in. Because they work. Because they soothe that sense of fear and self-loathing like no other way you ever have found.”

~A very talented, gifted, and inspiring anonymous writer

________________________________________________

I started drinking when I was thirteen-years-old. I was hanging out with my brother and some friends at the indoor swimming pool in Windsor High School. It was almost time to go. I was sitting in the hallway where they displayed all the trophies and pictures of people I had never met, the air was warm and humid in that hallway and the smell of chlorine was strong.

I went outside to cool down and sat on the steel bike rack in front of the door while I waited for my brother to get changed so we could head home. An older boy named Jack came up to me.

He whispered, “Hey, you wanna buy a bottle of Vodka for $5.00?”

Then he slung a black backpack off from his shoulder, and opened it to reveal a clear bottle with a red label. It was a liter of Popov.

“Yeah,” I said. Of course I did, what kid wouldn’t?

I told him to wait for me and ran through the parking lot to find my grandmother sitting in her brown ‘88 Chevy Celebrity. I could just barely see the top of her large plastic framed bifocals as I got nearer, but her poofy white hair stuck up like a beacon letting me know she was in there. She was listening to AM radio, WTIC 1080. She always listened on Sunday nights. Back then they played non-stop Frank Sinatra every Sunday night. She told me once that she didn’t even like Frank Sinatra.

“Why do you listen to it then?” I asked her.

“He was your grandfather’s favorite. It reminds me of him,” she replied.

My grandfather was a short, round, mostly bald Sicilian man. He had passed away when I was about four-years-old.

I don’t recall what I said to her, but she gave me the $5.00 that I need to pay Jack.

I ran back to the bike rack worried that Jack might have left, or worse sold the bottle to someone else. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him still standing there alone. I handed him the money and he handed me the bottle from his bag. I wrapped it up in my towel so that my grandmother wouldn’t be able to see it when I got back to the car. It was a done deal.

When I got home that night, I went straight to my room. I had to think of a place to hide that bottle and quickly. School was almost out for the year, and if my grandmother found out that I had a bottle of anything my summer would be ruined. Alcohol was absolutely and completely forbidden in our home. I dug through the junk at the floor in my closet and neatly tucked it away between some old clothes. That would do for now.

Several days later my brother, my friend Brendan, and myself were skateboarding down Pierson Lane past the tobacco fields with their torn white nets, and their old red sheds. We were heading for an abandoned warehouse that we had broken into earlier that year. There were some offices in there that we had left unexplored because they were too dark and creepy. Our imaginations had run wild thinking of the things or beings that may be hidden inside. We were headed back there armed with flashlights and knives to find out.

I was the first one in through the back door that we had previously broken open. I was scared to death of what may lay inside but my pride wouldn’t let me show it. We walked up to the first door, huddled around outside of it like a S.W.A.T. team ready to pounce, then we burst in yelling like crazy to anyone who might have been hiding to show themselves, flashlights in hand, knives drawn. We continued to go from one dark room to another in the same fashion until we came to this one room in particular.

It was one of a few unopened doors down a dark, dingy hallway that led back to the warehouse. Wires hung from the ceiling and everything smelled damp and moldy. As soon as we opened the door to that room our eyes all went wide. In the center of that room there was one old, grey metal desk. On top of that desk, piled high, were hundreds of Playboy magazines. For a bunch of thirteen-year-old boys, we had hit the jackpot!

Of course we did what anyone in that situation would do, we skated as fast as we could back to our houses and grabbed our backpacks and our bikes, met up again, and got back to the warehouse in record time. We split the magazines up three ways and headed home for the night.

When I got there, once again, I went straight up the stairs to my bedroom. I dug through the pile of stuff on my closet floor and made space for my stash of Playboys next to my bottle of Popov vodka. I had the feeling that this was going to be a great summer.

I have always been an early riser for as far back as I can remember. There is something special for me about a new, crisp, fresh day. It’s a time of day when anything seems possible, when dreams feel like they can come true. That summer, every morning, I made sure that my bedroom door was locked and I sat at my desk, with my bottle of Popov and dreamt of Pamela Anderson. I can’t express in words how I felt when I discovered that this beautiful woman whose naked body sprawled across dozens of my magazines actually starred in a television show that aired on cable.

My grandmother never questioned me every morning when I got up early, came downstairs, filled a tall glass up with orange or cranberry juice, and went back to my room. I was known to spend weeks locked away from the world reading science-fiction and fantasy books delving ever deeper into a world of elves and wizards. A world where some young man realizes that his long-lost father was some great king of lore, and that it is his mission in life, his birthright to save the world from some evil force.

At some point I had managed to sneak into the boxes of my grandfather’s stuff which my grandmother had stored in our basement. Alcohol was forbidden in our home, but inside those boxes were neatly wrapped bar glasses, shot glasses, and other bar equipment. I couldn’t figure it out at the time, but later learned that my grandfather had owned a bar on Franklin Avenue, “Little Italy” in Hartford at some point in his life. He had closed it long before even my mother was born, but he kept the bar equipment. He collected it.

I snuck a couple of shot glasses upstairs. I used them to carefully measure shots of my Popov vodka to mix with my juice in my tall glass.

Every morning that summer I sat there with my drinks and my Playboy magazines. I don’t recall much about the magazines now besides Pamela. The one thing that pops into my mind when I think back is the ads. There were lots of ads. In them were tall, dark, well-dressed men. They were always standing in front of a sparkling new sports car or an ornately decorated mansion. There was usually a beautiful model hanging by their sides. Those ads were always selling the same thing, alcohol. A bottle of Bombay Sapphire or Tanqueray was usually prominently displayed somewhere in the photo. In the corner of those ads were recipes for cocktails using whichever alcohol was being promoted, recipes which I eagerly jotted down in a notebook that I designated solely for that purpose.

That summer I came to associate drinking with growing up. I wanted to be that guy in those photos. I wanted the hot model girlfriends, the sparkling new sports car, the ornately decorated mansion, and a bar to store all of my bottles of Bombay Sapphire and Tanqueray. I wanted to impress my friends with the drink cocktails I poured.

That summer I became an alcoholic. I also became a fan of Baywatch.