Who Are We, If Not For Our Addictions?

I had my first taste of alcohol at the tender age of 14. I had been invited to a sleepover at a friend's house. Her parents let all the other parents know they would be there but instead they blew out of town, leaving us with unfettered and pre-approved access to the freakishly large bar which inhabited approximately two-thirds of their family room.  It was stocked with a veritable cornucopia of liquor, in mass quantities.

We took turns behind the bar, taking orders, mixing drinks, pretending like we knew what we were doing. Most of the girls were drinking the ever popular slow gin fizz or Texaco tanker sized glasses of Reunite White Zinfandel, the signature drink for young girls on the south side of Oklahoma City. I opted for a blend of Coke and Jim Beam Bourbon. Boys were there too. My friend was new to the school but apparently had wasted no time in getting to know people. She was, shall we say, experienced beyond her years.

By 8:30 in the evening, people were puking in her front yard, boys and girls were kissing in closets and our hostess was, I kid you not, calling local radio DJ's and asking them to come over when their shift ended to have sex with her.  She promised them sex and a box of donuts, you know, just in case the sex wasn't enough.

As was usually the case for me, I placed myself in the parental role. It was an inebriated version of a parent, doing the best I could to make sure my friends were all safe and protected. I had witnessed first hand what drugs and alcohol can do to an already fucked up kid and I wasn't about to let anything happen to my group of unsuspecting friends.  When the boys introduced drugs and fights to the evening's itinerary, I took steps to remove the boys and the drugs from the property. I can't remember if I threatened to call the police or my three bad ass big brothers but suffice it to say, the boys left.

One by one, we all piled into our girlfriend's bedroom and systematically passed out. By the time I got there, it looked like a scene from the civil war.  Bodies were thrown about, contorted into unnatural looking positions as if they had  been gutted and left to die. I found an open spot in her bed, crawling in and burying myself under the covers, hoping I too would be blessed with the gift of unconsciousness. But it was not to be.

The room began to spin out of control, closing my eyes made it worse. I tried to focus on an object across the room.  "Make it stop", I pleaded with God - promising to never, ever allow liquor to pass across my lips again.  Just make this go away so I can get some sleep.  Then the wave of nausea hit me so hard, I barely had time to react. Like one of  those cartoon characters who turn to gel and ooze across the floor, I made my way to the bathroom where I would spend the rest of the night with my head propped against the cool, white surface of  my new best friend.

At some point, the wrenching did stop but to this day, I can't smell Jim Beam without feeling a little queasy.

(To be Continued.....)