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by R. C. (RCat) Arquette
I had a father who was an alcoholic. His brother was an alcoholic. I have an older brother that was an alcoholic, (who switched to self medicating with a host of pharmaceuticals) and a younger brother that died last year from cirrhosis of the liver after years of indulging the bottle. I too am cursed with the ability to fall into the booze and destroy myself, but for some reason I've been able to hold the demon in check for the last twelve years or so. It took a long time for the light to go on for me, but it finally did. Of course this doesn't mean I've given up drink…oh contraire! I love a glass of chilled White Zinfandel…or two or three and I couldn't exist without a fix of Guinness on occasion…or two or three and every once in awhile I have to indulge myself with a couple fingers of Cuervo Gold…or two or three, but I've got a handle on it; I'm in control. I was totally out of control from age 17 to 38 and watching my bottle buddies and their antics is what finally made me back off, regroup, and apply a little maturity to an otherwise repulsive behavior pattern. You know what I'm talking about; the drunk! I remember (which to a drinker is a minor miracle in itself!) going to the beach each week with a group of drink addicted friends and coming home pickled. On the last occasion I did this, I passed out on a beach towel and no one bothered to touch me for about two hours. I'd already been in the sun for about three when this happened. My fair Irish / French complexion doesn't allow me to tan…I burn…and brother did I burn that day! I missed Sunday and two days of work because I was so damn burned I couldn't get my shoes on! I had blisters everywhere…including the tops of my feet. Talk about pain! Earlier in my boozy career I suffered the usual black outs after these all night chug fests. I had to listen to others recount my activities from the night before and it was usually pretty embarrassing stuff. Yet this is the type of behavior that keeps drunks flocking together; some kind of safety in numbers. I suppose it amounts to, "If I look stupid then I'm at least involved with a larger group of stupid people who act equally stupid and therefore, no one is going to give me any crap about it." Sound reasoning to a drunk and the type of thinking that keeps these flocks of sots hanging together til one by one their livers check out. On one occasion I was nursing the usual mindbender hangover when a couple of the partygoers from the previous nights debauchery showed up to compare wounds. They all were grinning and seemed to be a lot better off than I. My eyes looked like roadmaps of Indiana, my tongue was asleep under a heavy coat of goop that tasted like the garage floor looked...and my head throbbed with a pain that is indefinable…totally off the headache Richter scale. One of the grinning idiots took it upon himself to inform me that I'd been quite a hit at the party. "Oh yeah?," I said, as my sphincter suddenly tightened, "Why, pray tell, is that?" …I attempted a feeble grin…waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Oh hell yeah!," came the snickering reply, "You were down in the middle of that little stream at the end of the driveway with an oyster bucket on your head!" I thought things could have been worse…but he wasn't through. "And you were singin' 'Purple Haze' at the top of your lungs!" Okay, I thought, this I can live with…I'd done it before, but…he wasn't through yet. "Butt Naked!" Which was punctuated with gales of raucous laughter. I attempted to smile and look as if I'd known what I had been doing; to assume the posture of a man in total control. Ridiculous idea…who in their right mind is in control standing naked in a 6 inch deep creek with an oyster bucket on their singing Hendrix tunes! They didn't buy it. I felt like a dork. As it turned out, they were just pulling my chain. These "friends" of mine (with friends like these it's no wonder my life has been such a traumatic experience!) had fed me this line of BS knowing that I'd never remember what I'd done in a million years. I was irritated at the prank, but relieved to know I hadn't really put on the aforementioned display. This is a drunk for you. It wasn't until years had passed, after this event, that I finally put all this behind me..well, almost. I attended several of these drink fests and had to endure the antics of all my old drunk friends while sitting sober on the sidelines. No fun at all. It's like being in a monkey house with bezerk monkeys. I quit…well, almost. In the past 16 years, on various occasions (important ones of course), I've fallen into the deep end and have been quickly reminded of the "good old days." GACK! So it can be said that I am not without sin. The last occurrence of this fall from grace just took place a few weeks ago, at a Christmas party an old friend of mine puts on each year, but that's a tale for another time. I'll just leave you with the image of an empty bottle of Tangary Gin, a thorough bathroom cleaning, and two days lost…one a workday. And oh yes, I can firmly attest to the fact that a drunk is still a drunk when he's had too much to drink. Say amen brothers and sisters! Now that I've
publicly humiliated myself…I think I'll go hide somewhere
for awhile…
Who is this Guy RCat? Currently, his duties include acting as the head of a family consisting of an overworked wife, a vibrating teenaged son, and an over stimulated housecat. An elder daughter resides at some distance with her own family; a husband, two sons, and a daughter. As head of this merry band of pranksters, the illusionary aspects of his carefree life are played out on the stage of daily routine. RCat is a self described "survivor," having lived through the "flower power" promises of the 1960's with the goals of world peace, universal brotherhood, free-love, and the legalization of certain organic herbs. Contrary to what others might say, he can still remember parts of it quite vividly. Sadly, those cosmic issues have now been reduced to the cliché. He now, more realistically, understands the world has gone quite mad and no longer cares to be a part of the continuing descent into oblivion. The thought of putting on a loincloth to venture forth and live out his days meditating in a tall tree in a distant forest sounds appealing. Of course, he isn't kidding himself. Chances are a noisy bunch of cretins will quickly invade the tree next to him. Ah well, such is the way of this planet we call home. In the meantime, he scribbles poetry, short stories, and essays, as well as a choppy stream of drawings, cartoons and works of art. All done with a grin as meditative mental therapy in an effort to hold onto what little remains of his sanity. Enjoy him while you can, he is the quintessential endangered species.
For more from RC visit his columns: Decmeber, then, before; and his poetry |
Nothin' Better
Songs
of
Since New Years has just crept past again, I've
been thinking about my days spent abusing my liver. I finally
learned my lesson about 20 years ago, but it seems like it took
forever to see the light. So I thought I'd speak on the topic
of your garden variety drunk; let us begin...
R.
C. Arquette, "RCat" to friends and fellow writers,
is an aging hippie and practicing curmudgeon. He was dragged
into the world, kicking and screaming, back in the middle of
the last century; 1950 to be exact. His outburst clearly showed
his disdain for reality at the earliest of stages. He grew up
living in the sub-tropical splendor of the "Sunshine State,"
Florida, US of A, where he attended Jr. College and after twenty
years received his AA degree; what can I say, life kept getting
in the way.
