Never Again

The incessant pounding woke me out of my drunken stupor.

"Is anyone in there?" I heard someone yell. I didn't respond. I couldn't.

Lying in a fetal position on the cold tile floor, I felt as though my stomach was going to explode. Seconds later it did.

With two painful muscle contractions, everything in my stomach heaved onto the floor. It didn't come out all at once; it shot out in three retching spasms. Spent, I rested my aching head back down on the cold floor. What I wouldn't have given for a soft pillow.

Take five or six beers, mix in more than a few jiggers of vodka, and finish up with just a touch of stomach acid. Shake not stir and what you get is the warm, revolting, concoction pooling on the floor in front of my face.

With the back of my hand, I wiped away the drool seeping out of the corner of my mouth, spit out the remnants, and blew the mucus dripping out of my nose onto the sleeve of my suit jacket. Not one of my prouder moments, but one that had been happening more often lately.

I willed my blurry eyes to focus in the dim light. They weren't cooperating. They wanted to close. I had no clue where I was. The only thing I knew for certain was that I was still drunk. Very drunk.

I remembered leaving work and meeting up with a few friends at Tony's. Happy hour was from five to seven o'clock ever night. Happy for me—a dollar off all call drinks. A few of the guys did tequila shots. Not me. I stuck with my poison of choice, Gray Goose vodka.

I don't remember what time the others left. I vaguely recall someone saying that if he didn't leave soon, he'd miss dinner and there would be hell to pay. My own wife and family never entered my mind; I was too drunk to care. Once again, I was well on my way to losing another night.

Beer in hand, I was leaning against the bar when my body slid sideways. I dropped my beer and grabbed for the bar rail to keep myself upright. The bartender shook his head and walked over.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut you off. You've had more than enough to drink. I strongly suggest you don't try to drive home tonight. If you like, I'll call you a cab."

That was about eight-fifteen, and now it was? I had no idea. I needed to get up and go home.

I pulled my face out of the puddle of vomit, and made a feeble attempt to sit up. I failed miserably, ending up like a turtle on its back. I cursed myself. How many more times? I didn't have an answer. I had more immediate problems.

I focused, and for the second time attempted to sit up. This time I managed to roll onto my hands and knees.

My stomach cramped up again, just to let me know it wasn't finished punishing me. I gagged but, thankfully, nothing came out. I shook my head in disgust.

That's when I noticed the white object to my right. A toilet. I was in a bathroom. How fitting.

Like a baby, I crawled on my hands and knees through the vile liquid towards what appeared to be the door. I reached up and grabbed for the knob. It took me three tries before I managed to pull myself up onto my feet. Clinging to the knob for dear life, I took two deep breaths and focused. I can do this.

I gave the knob a twist. It turned. I opened the door, staggered out into the hallway,

stumbled, and fell back against the wall.

Move, I told myself.

With my right shoulder resting on the wall, I slid along the hallway, towards the sound of voices. A woman stepped out of a doorway, gave me a once over, grabbed her nose and hurried through the doorway at the end of the hall.

A minute later I heard someone yell. "Say what? You've got to be kidding me."

As I stumbled into the bar, I came face-to-face with the bartender. He took one look at me, and then raced down the hall towards the men's bathroom. Even with the door closed I heard the swearing. Seconds later he grabbed me by my jacket, and shouted, "You're out of here." He shoved me towards the front door. Outside he leaned me up against the wall. "I'm calling the cops, so don't even think about driving away."

Drive away? It would take a small miracle for me to even find my car much less drive it away.

Ten minutes later, I was dumped into the back of a squad car. Only then did my head begin to clear a little. When we pulled up in front of my house, the police officer turned around to face me.

"This is your first and only warning. Next time, you'll be spending the night in the county drunk tank."

I thanked him for getting me home safely. I opened the front door and walked into a quiet, dark house. Everyone must be asleep.

In our downstairs bathroom, I showered, toweled off, and looked at my reflection in the mirror. What I saw sickened me. How did I go from having a few beers—just to take the edge off—to this? I knew the answer, and for the first time said it out loud.

"You're a damn drunk!" I shouted at my reflection.

I walked into the kitchen and threw my clothes in the trash. I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table. That's when I saw it—a two-line note.

Steve,

I can't do this anymore. The boys and I have gone to my parents. Drink yourself to death if you want, I don't care anymore.

It wasn't even signed.

I ran upstairs to empty rooms. Everyone was gone. I was alone. I called my wife's cell. She didn't answer. I didn't think she would.

Disgusted with myself, I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. I threw open the refrigerator door and yanked out every bottle of beer inside along with the two bottles of Gray Goose in the freezer. I opened each and dumped the contents down the drain.

I made my way to my desk and grabbed the phonebook. Sitting at the kitchen table, I found the phone number I was looking for on page four—Alcoholics Anonymous.

I thought again about my wife and kids as the phone rang.

Never again!