I wrote this entry in one creative burst, something I rarely do in a piece this long, with barely an edit except for the odd typo. The roughly 1,600 words that follow are raw and visceral at times, and I likely could have written more … maybe in a part two if I’m so inclined. And while the overarching theme may be personal, it might appear ironic or even hypocritical to write these words because I worked (note the past tense, which we’ll get to) from a bar/restaurant a few days a week and am writing a series of blogs about the bar life. However, water and coffee are my beverage choices, maybe a Diet Pepsi or two, and most of the time when I was there, I was pounding away on my laptop’s keyboard in a corner booth as I nibbled on a light lunch, taking advantage of the excellent Wi-Fi, the view, and the energy this space gave off. When finished working, I walked the twenty minutes home, or first sat at the U-bar by the POS system (John’s former spot) and unwound, or chatted a little with those nearby. Staff and regulars know I’m quiet and low maintenance, and we respected each other’s space.
That addressed, it’s not the dramatic kind of drunk that gets talked about in headlines or rehab commercials. It’s not the one where someone’s sprawled out on the pavement, slurring apologies or wearing smelly clothes and unshowered for a week. It’s not the one who goes on a bender once and has to be helped into a cab since he can barely walk. He or she does that one night, but then returns to a manageable two drinks a week. That kind of drinking is explosive and easy to spot, easy to distance yourself from, and easy to criticize.
What was harder to watch were those who arrived daily, usually at the same time, consuming five or six beers and a couple of tequila shots, maybe more. A gradually louder tone soon started with a dollop of profanity making its presence as did the stories that begin halfway coherent and trail into nonsense and maybe even shouting to emphasize a point. The people, a few, not all, came not for a social hour or a celebration, but for a four-hour sedation. It’s a numbing habit and maybe an addiction because they came in for the buzz that never really ends.
I saw it slowly take over as one drink became two and three. The fourth beer or mixed drink glass hits the counter louder than the first or second. So does the drumming on the counter. By hour three, they were not there in a sense; they were still laughing and talking, sure, but louder than only thirty minutes before, and some took the inebriated step into recalcitrant. The F-bombs became more frequent. The eyes slowly narrowed, and some females became especially touchy-feely. Their light behind their eyes began to dim; not all at once, but progressively over weeks, months, and years. It doesn’t happen to all of them, just some. Yes, I know they are sitting at a bar and that is what people do there, consume alcohol. But bear with me.
I watched this unfold where I had been working from, but not anymore. I planted myself more permanently at the library today. It’s the same scene on repeat where I was, and I needed to get away from it, maybe for a month or two, probably longer. I needed to because lately, besides inspiration, I felt something between sadness and exhaustion whenever I saw it. Because I know this story and I know it very well. I grew up in it. Both of my parents were alcoholics who kept their addiction to the home front. My siblings have wrestled with the bottle in their own way. And me? I consider myself a teetotaler. Maybe once a year, twice every five years, I’ll have a beer or a rum and Coke. That’s it. Not because I’m holier-than-thou or above it, but because, frankly, any more than that scares me. I also like being in full control of my faculties and never worrying about a DUI or some other negative event influenced by alcohol consumption. I saw what alcohol abuse did, and I felt the peer pressure to consume more after I made that decision. I saw what it kept doing to people. I can’t and don’t expect to avoid every place that serves alcohol, including people’s homes. That is unrealistic. But I’ve decided to greatly reduce my exposure to it for reasons discussed in this piece. I have also seen what alcohol could have done to me had I let it.
I was working my way through college, and one Saturday morning, I was expected to be at my retail job extra-early to do some duties with my colleagues. I never showed up because the night before, I partied hard into the early hours with some buddies and slept (maybe I passed out, which is a much more serious condition) until 1 p.m. or so. One of those guys I partied with was also expected to be there the next morning. He was wiser than I was and checked out of the party early, with only a buzz going. Me? I could barely walk after downing twenty-six ounces of rum straight up, and don’t remember most of the night, who took me home, any part of the ride, or how I got into bed. I don’t know why I went on that bender, especially knowing I had to be at work by 7:30 a.m. When I woke up, there was a pile of vomit next to me on the bed, that I somehow didn’t choke on it in my state. I shudder when I think of it as I write this. Naturally, my manager was livid and wrote me a warning when I was coherent enough to come in and face the music. I was a good and trusted employee, but I had let everyone down, including my friend, and their respect for me took a nosedive. I got a few side lectures from co-workers about responsibility in the ensuing days that I didn’t want to hear, thinking they were overstepping their boundaries, and thinking my supervisor’s discipline and talk were sufficient, but I deserved every one. It took me a while to rebuild my reputation and longer to forgive myself. My manager asked if alcohol was a problem; she knew I was a stereotypical weekend partying college student (no drugs of any kind), but it never affected my performance or my attendance until that fateful morning. I said no, but my parents, both still living at the time, were alcoholics, and maybe I’d better watch this. That was the day, way back in the mid-1980s, that I said enough was enough and quit drinking, except for that rare one.
Alcohol, in my experience, and let me emphasize that, my experience, isn’t a casual friend. It’s a thief that destroys, not only brain cells, but lives. It steals clearheadedness, potential, connection, time, and money. It shatters relationships, sometimes permanently, and I don’t just mean someone getting killed or maimed. It turns rooms that could be full of possibility into places where stories die the same way they’re told: slowly, messily, and without an ending. Depending on the personality type, alcohol abuse can turn decent people into loathsome, despicable, manipulative, fear-inducing, entitled, respect for no one, physically and emotionally abusive, repulsive assholes. Harsh words and too many adjectives? No, and I stand by them because I (and maybe you) have experienced it up close.
What I saw at the place I used to work from, a lot wasn’t villainy — it was resignation. They weren’t raging (well, maybe one was) or aging well. They’re fading. Punching the clock on their days with several pints, a shot or two; a ritual. Possibly dulling the edges of disappointment and maybe trying not to feel the sharpness of a life that didn’t go where they thought it would. Sometimes, it’s easier to pour something into a few glasses than to pour yourself into change.
But it became hard to watch and listen to, even as background noise that normally didn’t bother me, especially when you’ve seen where alcohol abuse leads. I’ve seen the vacant expressions, the tension in the shoulders, and heard the forced laughter. They have good hearts, and I’m not speaking of all of them here, but I’ve seen how the first drink is a relief, and the third, fourth, and fifth are a need. I’ve heard the same conversations told by people who, deep down, are begging not to feel anything at all and masking pain. So I sat there, working quietly in the corner, but now saying, especially come afternoon when they began filtering in, I can’t be here anymore, and what the hell am I doing here? I didn’t feel this way two weeks ago, but now I do, and it’s not a fleeting thing. Perhaps this place served its purpose when it came to inspiration. Believe me, it opened the door to more than just the bar series. Maybe the kegs of afflatus there ran dry. I am not judging (well, perhaps a bit. I’m human); I am just observing. Observing possibly, but I doubt it, with too fine a sensitivity needle because of my own choice when it comes to alcohol, how I grew up with it casting a massive shadow over the family, and the repercussions that can still be felt to this day. Because this isn’t about a night out for those few but rather a pattern. A loop and a trap disguised as comfort.
It’s a reminder of everything I’ve walked away from. Everything I’ve chosen to break free of, even when it would’ve been easier, far more socially accepted, just to join in. I don’t hate bars or hate drinkers. I was at that place, wasn’t I? And tacitly spoke well of most. I just know what this kind of drinking does. And I know that some people don’t realize how far they’ve sunk until the buzz is the only thing keeping them upright. I know once beautiful people, inside and out, who are no longer either. It’s not because of aging, but because of a nasty drinking habit.
It’s been said that Leo Tolstoy was inspired by the people in the village square who unwittingly helped him write. But for now and likely for a while, I’m moving to the library for most of the day and leaving this place behind. I like these people, including the amazing staff who let me work out of here. I will miss some of them and the view of the lake this place affords me, but the library is only two blocks farther down the road.
John Berkovich Talks 