Just something I am working on

Let me preface this by saying that I am far from a prohibitionist, I believe that some folks are fine with social drinking. I am not one of those people. A beer or two is never enough. In fact, enough only came when I became too drunk to order another or the money and free drinks ran dry. Most often last-call meant running to the convenience store for a twelve pack. Some of us just ended up genetically unlucky in the drinking arena. What can you do?

It is a sickness they say, whoever “they” may be. Treatable with the finest of therapy: caffeine, nicotine, some spirituality and a ton of self analysis mixed with a bit of loathing. This will be my first time attending an alcoholics support group; hopefully I’ll make it through without wanting to claw my ears out listening to the whining and drivel of a bunch of winos that transferred their addiction from the mead to the meeting. I often wonder why one of the most physically addictive drugs on the earth is treated with classes and Jesus meetings. It is sort of like treating cancer with an onion poultice tied in cheesecloth around the patient’s neck.

No one wakes up one day and decides to be an addict. It creeps up slowly, starting with a few drinks on the weekends then a glass of wine or two with dinner. Soon the wine bottles start getting bigger and cheaper until before you know it the bottles are exchanged for a box. It is when the boxes, bottles and cans hide themselves, only to come out when no one is around, that the dangerous and frightening life of alcoholism begins to unfold.

Alcoholism is it’s own entity. Alcoholism breaths with castigated lungs; it is complete with emotions ranging from anger and depression to elated mania; alcoholism speaks in terms which seduce you into the noxious ride that seems endless and necessary. It tells you that you are ok even when you find yourself face down on the kitchen floor crying. Alcoholism refuses to be called an addict.

So today, I decided to pack up my various addictions and take them to a meeting where they will be pulled out one by one and exposed for exactly what they are (even if it means dragging them kicking and screaming). Let the games begin.

But let’s start from the beginning, shall we.


The Dirty Floor Blues


“I’m moving out anyway!”

“Why? so you can get drunk and sleep in your own driveway?”

Her strong alto voice bounces off every aching neuron. I would cringe but my neck feels like someone hacked at it with a machete for the 3 hours I actually slept. Of course she is wrong, I am moving out because I want to get drunk and walk into my own house without the morning after interrogation.

I know this isn’t the end.

“Your father was an alcoholic! You know you shouldn't drink at all! Why are you doing this to me! Can’t you just be a normal kid!”

Yadda Yadda Blah Blah…The script hasn’t changed much in the past two days. Therein lies the quandary. I am no longer a child. I am a full-fledged adult and with the ID to prove it. The state says I can drink, so damn it, I will drink.
Yet each syllable that falls from her pursed lips digs deeper under my skin until I want to do nothing but run. Run away someplace where I am unknown, un-judged and un-responsible. Six Tylenol and a cup of coffee, my walls safely up, she continues never missing a beat. All I can hear is the humming in my head. Until she turns in absolute frustration to leave the room and leave me to my thoughts.

Finally silence wonderful, luscious, syrupy slow, elegant silence. Those few moments when her voice is tired and my nerve endings can realign while I prepare for the day. First class, then the little bar in the two-story bungalow I pass on my way home.

The Dirty Floor. Seediness condensed into a little white house on the fringe of downtown Charlotte, NC. Not a bit of finish remains on the plank wood floors. The bar is worn from years of elbows resting on the edge holding up hands that clasp the glass vessels of wet sanity. Every stool is patched with duct tape and held straight by a book of matches (any one of which could set the whole place to blaze with a single spark). The air is filled with smoke even at 8am when the hard core start their day with strong coffee making plans to end it with a shot and beer at last call.

Slick, the owner, a heady concoction of sleaze and style has a past as checkered as the curtains hanging in the upstairs window. Of course he could be the owner of any dim lit blues club in any city across America. But to me he was a Greek god, the Zeus of Zydaco. Overwhelmingly tall, he is the sort of handsome that was at one time breathtaking.

“You look too young to be in here.” His voice bellows and scratches, somewhere between bronchitis and lounge singer a combination of second hand smoke and years of puffing cigars from dawn till dusk.

“Just turned 21!” “A shot of Southern Comfort and a Budweiser.” “Please.”
Fidgeting with my purse to pull out my three days old, hot off the presses ID to prove that age is no longer a factor. I’ve been 21 long enough to know the importance of a good first impression even if it is only noon on Thursday.

“That you are” with a tilted smile he slides the ID back to my hand. “I suppose this round is on the house.” Behind his deep-set eyes surrounded by heavy gray bags there is a young man remembering his own first drink of liquor, the one that brought him to know the blues.
“Steven, get this young lady a round.” With a sly, practiced grin Slick returns to his crossword and stogie.

Steven is about as handsome as a bartender can be. Dark hair, wind swept and slightly messy lying lazily above gray eyes that glimmer with a constant air of mischief. That outdoorsman style, complete with beard and flannel shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your eyes glance down to the golden cross hanging around his neck.

“So you’re a heavy hitter, huh?” With a laugh, he shakes the Southern Comfort with a scoop of ice, thinking he should numb the burn that he knows will follow behind the sweet liquor.

I had paid special attention that morning when picking my outfit. Wanting to look young and sexy but not so youthful as to not be taken seriously. Thigh highs, a too short schoolgirl skirt and a little white shirt stretched tight across my barely blossomed chest. In an effort to complete the ensemble with an air of acerbity, the ever-present combat boots were laced and buckled to the knee.

Somewhere between a hooker and a high-school slut, the outfit makes me feel like a woman. The liquor will make me act like one. Normally shy yet loosened a bit by the surroundings, I look sagely into his eyes and search for just the right words.

“Nope, fresh off the boat.” I giggle, my elbows raising me up from the tacky stool. The position lifts my skirt to the edge of tawdriness. With a few bats of my eyelashes my face pinks with the balmy glistening of young lust.
A lazy smile that seems to say he’s seen my kind before follows as he places the shot on a napkin and slides it across the barrier between us.

My sweaty fingers run around the rim of the shot glass. Grasping it like a toddler holding a sip cup, I bring it to my lips smelling the honeysuckle sweetness. ‘Here it goes’ I say to myself as the chilly, syrupy liquor fills my mouth. With a swallow, I cough and twist my face like a child at her first taste of lemon. Laughter fills the bar and embarrassment fills my eyes with tiny pools of tears.

“Oh, it’s ok! We’ve all been there. This stuff is stronger than it smells.” Steven recognizes my sudden change of mood and feeling sorry for me he walks around the bar to pat my back and hand me a beer both to kill the burn and the humiliation.

His touch is like that of a big brother or a very young father. My body leans back into the comfort of his hand. I take the beer, my hand still quivering from the shot of hot courage.

The bar is dark even at mid-day. Folks start wandering in for a burger or a liquid lunch of scotch and water. The newspaper scatters itself down the bar as football scores and heated political discussions are yelled down to men who never look up but nod or shrug their answers while clasping their cold bottles. These people are not so bad, not nearly as stereo typical as Cheers and certainly not the red nosed, oily and frightening looking winos of the movies. They are seemingly of normal intelligence, approachable, average and some even attractive.

“Think I’ll get a few bucks change and try the poker machines, God knows I feel like lady luck today.” My head reels with excitement and alcohol though I try to look collected, with five dollars in my hand I give a nod to the bartender entranced by Jeopardy. He shouts out the answer over the din of incorrect calls being murmured, yelled and whispered all around me. Leaving his game show only long enough to get my change, he smiles and turns back towards the nicotine shellacked TV.

I am a regular already. The whistles of acceptance as I stand, confirm my suspicion. Time to win some cash. “This place is going to become my second home.” I think as the machine eats my dollars one by one.
I didn’t realize how important the old Dirty Floor Blues Bar would become over the next few years

Okay, let us stop right there. Did you really think I was gonna write some dime store Lolita nock-off straight from the annals of a 1970’s Harlequin subscription. Well, it is actually how I started on my path towards alcoholism and addiction. The names and exact location has been changed but the basics are all there. Seems innocent enough. A young lady, freshly 21, finds a seedy bar, sows a few wild flower seeds and becomes an instant regular. My intentions were not bad but they were far from good.

On that day I learned two things first sexual manipulation was a ton of fun (and made drinking a lot cheaper) and second alcohol made me sexier than I could ever imagine. Men love to see a woman down shots, especially if she is already half undressed. The liquor made me laugh a little harder at the dirty jokes and hug a little more the old men. The Dirty Floor was the perfect laboratory to experiment with my new weaponry.

Ohh and sometimes I catch myself pinching my own nipple in public...is that weird or what?

Interesting read Isis, TY for sharing.

My, oh my!

Isis - you are a very, very, very good writer. While I was reading, I could actually picture myself in The Dirty Floor, picture you standing there. I hope you continue. Words are sometimes a good shelf upon which to sit pain.

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That was fun to read ... nice work Isis

Thanks for the read Isis. Good luck with your battle, because it is.

Seconded. You without question, have a gift, Isis

Excellent writing indeed! ^.^ You have a knack for giving impressions and details without going overboard. It'd be interesting to have some photos to compare the realities of the place with what grew in my head reading that.

Isis
You have taken the first step by admitting that you are powerless. (Surrending is the key)

The sun beats down
upon this desert land.
My land,
My home,
Our home.
Rise up oh hoppit-cahng.
cry out you false mohawk.
See the rolling hills of green
cut away. Laid bare flesh,
stripped down to granite.
A tomb!
Pimples rising four walls square
pock the hillside a disease.
Cry out you fearsome Lenape.
Beat your chest,
quake and moan.
The Horror!
Where did you go
so long before we
flooded your rites?
Do you weep Father?
when you try to tell
of how it was, not long ago.
When you were small here.
of the hills you knew?
I shudder seeking breath
piercing my soul, in grief.
I know that too Father.
This once great lake was two.
what will be left to show them?

Thank you all for your wonderful words....The next section is on it's way and I'll probably blog it instead of trying to get one of those incest riddled publishing companies to throw it away before reading.

Why does SL go down during the one hour I have to run about?

Isis - I hope that you will continue sharing what you write. It is both insightful and an outstanding read. If you blog it, please post a link here.

.

Thanks again Rose...here's the link. If anyone has constructive critisism feel free to post the negs as well.90 Days to Life

*hugs Isis tightly and smooches her cheek*

Hang in there honey!