Relapse

Christopher G. Bremicker

d gotten over a huge hump in life and thought I had recovered from my nervous breakdown. I’d been sick forty years. To celebrate, I decided to have a drink after twenty-five years of sobriety.

I made this decision at night, when I got over the hump. I knew to never make big decisions at night. Wait until the clarity of morning, my brother, who was an administrator by profession, advised. I knew this but got out of bed, put on my clothes, and headed for a bar.

First, I called my Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor to notify him of what I was doing. I got his voice mail, left a message, and thought he was in bed. He turned off his cell phone at night, I thought.

The first order of business was to get some money. I did not have any cash on me and did not know if bars took credit cards. So, I walked to the Super America gas station a block from my apartment building and took out sixty dollars from the ATM. I did not know what a drink cost these days, it was so long since I drank.

I took the bus toward downtown. I was excited and scared. I felt like I was going to basic training in the Army. I decided on Louie’s Bar, but the bus stopped at Smithy’s for another passenger and I got off. It looked like a friendly place and Louie’s was a Hell hole. I opened the door of Smithy’s and walked in.

I outgrew bars at the time I quit drinking. If I did not outgrow them, I would never have quit. I used to love the places, from cement floors to chrome and glass.

I expected Smithy’s to be crowded with people having fun. There were a few people in the corner, next to a pull tab booth, and the bartender was picking up salt and pepper shakers. He wore an argyle sweater tucked into old blue jeans.

I took off my coat, placed it on the back of the bar seat, and sat down. I felt at home. The bar was dark and neon signs lit it.

I ordered a Manhattan. I told the bartender I wanted cheap bourbon, with bitters, cherry juice, and a cherry. “What kind of vermouth do you want?” he asked.

“Sweet,” I said. He looked under the bar and found a bottle of sweet vermouth. “What kind of bourbon are you using?” I asked.

“Makers Mark or Jim Beam,” he said, to give me a choice.

“Which is cheaper?”

“Jim Beam.”

“Use Jim Beam, please.” He made the drink.

My twenty-five-year Alcoholics Anonymous medallion hung on a chain around my neck. I considered taking it off and placing it on the bar. I considered telling him about it.

He placed the drink in front of me and I laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He gave me change. The drink cost seven dollars. When I drank heavily, they cost one and half bucks.

I sipped the drink. The alcohol burned my tongue, scalded my throat, and warmed me. It was a cold, wet April night. I could taste the bourbon, sweet vermouth, and cherry juice. The drink was delicious. I was not used to the burning sensation and liked it.

There was a baseball game on the television over the bar. The Giants were playing somebody. I loved to watch baseball and watched the athleticism of the players as they batted, threw a man out at first, made a double play, and pitched. The players were young, in wonderful physical condition, and their skill was hard to believe.

I sipped the drink. The bartender moved around behind the bar and people behind me talked softly. It was a quiet weekday night.

I began to feel the effects of the booze. I was getting happy, emotionally full, and my imagination began to soar. I nursed the drink.

Then I slid it out from me and in front of the bartender. “Do you want another one?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Same way?”

“Same way.”

He made the drink, put it in front of me, and withdrew a ten-dollar bill from the money I had on the bar. He placed the change on the bar with a flourish. “Thank you,” I said. I did not forget how to drink at a bar and was making a Chinese tea ceremony out of it.

The second drink got me drunk. I continued to watch the game. I began commenting on it. “Don’t swing on that pitch,” I said, or “They got him!” as they threw a man out at first.

Then I lost track of the game. Someone hit a double and drove a man in. One man caught a flyball in right field. I did not know what the score was.

I sipped the drink, noticing only the burning alcohol, the taste of the Jim Beam, and the sweetness of the drink. It was a good Manhattan. Manhattans were strong drinks.

My A.A. sponsor called. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m having a drink at Smithy’ s, ” I said. “You’re welcome to come down.”

“Are you all right?”

“All is well,” I said. He hung up. I set my limit at two, before I left my apartment, and that’s where I stopped.

I left the remainder of the money on the bar for the bartender, used the restroom, and weaved past the bar and out the door. I weaved down the sidewalk and stood at a bus stop. I was drunk, babbled to myself, and weaved around the bench of the bus stop. There was another Super America near the bus stop and its lights went out as I waited for the bus.

The bus arrived, and I staggered onto it. I did not remember the ride home but had the wherewithal to pull the cord at the right stop. I weaved home, took the elevator to the tenth floor, entered my apartment, and took my laptop downstairs to our community room.

I began to work on an art history paper. I was taking a class at the university and was rewriting a paper on which I got a poor grade.

My sponsor called again.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home, working on my art history.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“That textbook you bought me ruined my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to study now. Without it, I would have blown off the course.”

“

I’m glad you’re okay. Call me in two days.” thought about myself for a while at my daily devotions. I had no consequences from the night before, except a slight hangover. I had a headache. I did not lose my family, driver’s license, or job.

I was too drunk to think. I went to bed. I was nauseous as I took off my clothes. I got into bed and fell asleep. In the morning, I had no remorse.

I had another kind of responsibility. I had friends who depended on my sobriety. I resolved not to tell them. Nor would I tell my brother, whose reaction was unpredictable. He was an A.A. Nazi and devoted to its principals. I made a mental list of who to tell.

I met a woman once at an A.A. convention who relapsed after thirty years of sobriety. She showed up at a restaurant, where she was a waitress, drunk. She laughed about it. The impact of my behavior did not sink in yet.

I contemplated my spirituality. A.A. was a spiritual program because alcoholism was a disease of the soul. That’s why they called booze, spirits. I did not feel guilty, at least yet. With human contact, my guilt might surface.

I wore my sobriety on my sleeve like a gold cufflink. Now it was gone. I had less than a day of sobriety.

I needed to go to an A.A. meeting and confess. I needed a psychologist. Instead, I wrote this and went to class. Life went on.

At Starbuck’s on campus, a young barista, who was excited about her job and life, looked at me with dismay. My inner peace and serenity were gone. I was tormented, hungover, and bewildered. I lacked the joy I exported once. To her, I was another drunk buying a cup of coffee.

I waited for the consequences to hit. At one A.A. club, I watched as its members pilloried a man who relapsed. I hoped it did not happen to me.

My belly, where my feelings of joy resided, was dead. My face, once filled with beatitude, was barren. I fell off the wagon.