I remember his shoes.
They were white, almost perfectly so. They were used but you could tell that he had taken great care to ensure they stayed white and looking as new as possible. They were cleaned white. The shoe laces were tucked neatly inside and they were sitting next to each other under the coffee table. The only part that wasn’t white was the blue N and B on the side.
I think I may have noticed them because I was trying not to look at him. He was sitting next to his mother. His leathery, 45+ year old skin was bouncing with every sob and glistened with the moisture of his tears as they streaked down his face. No effort was made to dry them. His head rested on her tiny shoulders.
And then there was the smell. I don’t think most Americans have any sense of what a real alcoholic smells like. I’m not talking about the smell of bourbon or the stench of gin after a long night’s drinking. No, I’m talking about stale booze that has been fermenting in the person’s gut for days on end because their liver cannot keep up with the alcohol being pushed in. It takes a few days of constant drinking to get that smell. I’ve only smelled it once here in the states, in Vegas, in the morning on a guy who was sleeping on the strip.
I just wanted to turn around and leave. I can be less than sympathetic to people’s self-induced problems, especially at the ripe age of 23, but there I stood staring at his shoes. I knew what was coming, this wasn’t the first time and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. For God’s sake, his own uncle had drank himself to death and yet, here he was, once again, with no idea where he had been for the past three days or what happened to the majority of his paycheck he had received the Friday before he disappeared. Of course, his wife had kicked him out, as she threatened to do every time. Hell, I would have done the same.
But there I was staring at a grown man’s shoes while he sobbed on his mother’s shoulder.
I knew why I had been summoned, but I waited for him to ask. Then I walked back to my room and got the money and handed it over. He thanked me and promised he would pay me back at the end of the month. I knew he would, he always had. I also knew his family would be showing up on a regular basis right around dinner time. In Chile, if you are there at the right time, you get fed.
It’s got to be one of the most cliché lines of all time, “I regret ever taking that first drink.”
My first drink was when I was 14. A cousin of mine who had dropped out of school and my parents were trying to save, was staying at our house. My parents let him borrow the car and made sure he made it to school every day. Or so they thought.
We snuck into his mom’s house and snagged the whiskey kept under the counter as cough syrup. Then we headed out. Jolt was a thing at that time. I poured out about 1/3 of the bottle and poured in the whiskey. We hung out at the park playing soccer and sipping from the soda bottle. Then we made our way over to Chad Staheli’s house, he had no idea we were drinking, and spent some time swimming in his pool. I don’t remember getting woozy or feeling any differently. Then again, I only drank maybe 1/4 of the bottle. It was shared throughout the group.
And that was that, my first drink.
Do I regret it? Nope. Not at all.
I have this thing about regret. For me it’s to hate what has been and to despise where you are. Life is a bunch of stepping stones that carry a person to where they are. To regret those stones is to feel pity for one’s life. You don’t get to do it over, so why regret the experiences that you have had.
And beside that, I’ve never disappeared for days on end. When that happens, you are more than free to re-ask me that question.
Growing up in Southern Utah, I never really experienced drinking until I was in Chile. My first experience with a drunk was Gabriel. He had learned English in Australia. He had these faded blue eyes that were almost always glazed over. He had a car but lived with his uncle, Manuel, in a shack in Recoleta. He was the first person that I could smell that he was an alcoholic. He would promise us things and then show up on our doorstep well after 11 asking for money. I kind of despised him and everything about his life. He was honest with us, but I never respected that.
It wasn’t until I lived in Renca that I began to understand. There was a group of old men. They were all skinny and looked like they would break if you even touched them. We would see them every afternoon as they gathered on the corner outside of the Bazaar. At first, I didn’t know what they were doing. Then I noticed the jug. Every afternoon they would start drinking. And they would still be drinking as we went home at 9:30. I have no idea how long they stood out there sucking down that cheap wine.
At this point, I had been in Chile for over a year and I began to sympathize with them. For whatever reason, I knew why they drank. I understood the need to escape. And I felt the draw of it. Surrounded by misery that can’t be solved, escaping into a jug of cheap wine sounds like a great solution because there really isn’t one.
It probably has more to do with the fact that from the point I can remember until I was in my teens, every single mother fucking person would tell me how good of a kid I was. Teachers, priests and random strangers. I was quiet. And for some reason, people thought I was cute. They all told me how good of a kid I was and my parents smiled with pride.
I’ve always wanted to be a fuck up.
Ever since my early teens, I’ve fantasized about being the bad uncle. The one that all the kids knew, but everyone understood that he had some problems. Everyone would see me at special occasions but that would be the extent. You know, Uncle Lukas went a little off the deep end. And in my mind, some of those kids would understand and want that too. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it’s always been.
I started drinking when I was 23. There was an expectation of entertainment on Friday night. People would show up because they knew I had money. After something to eat, things would get boring. We would ride over to the corner liquor store and buy a couple bottles of Pisco Sour. Then we would drink it. It was fun.
And I understood.
P. L. and R.
