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The first time I managed to
get enough alcohol in me to feel it, I knew I found my answer.
It was sloe gin. That was a long time ago, but I can smell
the grape fragrance now and can feel it going down my throat.
As I grew up, I'd sipped liquor and beer at friends' homes
from time to time. I could never imagine why anybody would
drink the stuff. It burned my tongue and throat and tasted
awful. This sloe gin was different. It burned a little,
but the sticky sweet flavor made it possible for me to swallow
it. My parents were out of town on a trip. It was October,
1969 and I'd just turned 19. I was living twenty miles away
and in my second year in college, but that didn't stop me
from doing what a million other teenagers do when their
parents leave town - had a party. I invited some high school
friends, and one brought his older sister and her friends.
One of them had the sloe gin.
I took another swallow of the liquor. Soon I began to feel
it. Warmth spread through my body and moved to my brain.
A miracle happened. My fear disappeared. My acne was cured
I could talk to girls. I could dance.
This was great!
I had never had a better time in my
life. I felt that sense of euphoria, well being, and relaxation
that I chased for the next 32 years. I drank most of that
pint and more. Back in my trailer the next day I felt fine.
Memories of that party consumed me —the freedom I
felt and the absence of anxiety. I had to do that again.
I made a few phone calls and soon a party was planned for
my trailer for the next weekend.
The year before that party at my parent's house, some of
us were playing ping-pong in the college student union.
A guy I didn't know was talking about his drinking from
the night before. I said I didn't drink alcohol. The drinker
said, "It must be terrible to wake up in the morning
and know that's the best you're gonna feel all day."
What a stupid thing to say, I thought.
The week after my first drink, I understood what he meant.
It was party time. I invited my drinking friends. My roommate
wasn't interested in a party with alcohol so he wouldn't be
around. Somehow, I also had a date. I don't remember how that
happened. Somebody must have arranged it. It was with Laura,
who'd I'd wanted to date when I was in high school, but I
never had the courage to ask her out.
Saturday night came and my drinking friends came. They had
no sloe gin, but they did have vodka and orange juice. I discovered
I could swallow screwdrivers as easily as sloe gin. In fact,
I quickly came to savor the taste. The first warning bell
should have rung.
The trailer was a 14-foot singlewide. From front to back,
there was a small kitchen, a living area, then a hallway that
led to two tiny bedrooms. My memory is hazy on the party's
beginnings, but I remember well that I soon was having a great
time. That euphoria I had experienced the week before was
recaptured and it was easy to talk to Laura. How different
that was! My friends were taking care of mixing the drinks,
and I kept them busy.
Laura and I ended up in one of the bedrooms. My memory of
what happened in that bedroom is crystal clear. We kissed.
I'd never kissed a girl before. Things progressed. As boys
grow up, a great deal is made of getting around the bases
with a girl: Holding hands on first base. Kissing on second.
Other, more intimate, touching on third. The homerun was the
ultimate goal. That night, I made it to third base.
Third base!
Man, I'd never even been close to the ballpark, and during
my second night of drinking alcohol, I had gotten to third
base! There is absolutely nothing more powerful for a nineteen-year-old
male than that.
I discovered something else that evening —what it felt
like to be really, really drunk. Laura, who was still in high
school, lived twenty miles away near my parents and had to
get home. She drove us to her house in my car and somehow
I made it to my parents' house. The next day I discovered
the hangover. It wasn't fun, but the memories of the night
before got me through it.
Later that week, my friends told me how much fun they had.
They had particularly enjoyed the fact that when making my
drinks, they'd loaded them with vodka. Ninety percent vodka
and 10 percent orange juice they said. They were full of admiration
as to how I'd handled all that liquor. They said they'd have
all been passed out far before I even acted drunk. They were
in awe .I was proud .I shouldn't have been.
I should have paid attention to that second warning bell,
ringing loud and clear.
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