This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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A different day; same old hangover.
I debated over opening my eyes, or
throwing up over the side of the bed.
My morality hurt.
I always got up very early after my forgetful,
drunken adventures.
I suppose I needed the extra time to
try and recall the day before.
I was a drunk trying to put together a blank jigsaw puzzle.
What had I done last night?
Insults?
Acts of humiliation?
I would know soon enough.
My editor, who went by the pen name of, “my wife”, would show her commentary through her angry glances.
Or grin and offer me pancakes.
I was hoping for pancakes that morning.
I changed my clothes that reeked from excessive compulsive sweat and half regret.
But first things first-
I needed to vomit.
I hit my knees in front of the toilet and assumed the position to drown.
I would iron myself and evaluate my condition in the mirror-
not too bad for a case of beer and “some” vodka.
My fake, quivering smile would lift up my black circles and crusted eyes.
Still wobbling a bit, I grabbed the handrail.
The drunk mans crutch.
It creaked as I quietly moaned, while making my descent downstairs to the living.
I tried to look nonchalant-
just another day.
If I looked and acted sober, it would continue to perpetuate my image of “Joe Six Pack”-
a part-time drunk.
I never hid my drinking because it seemed
too seedy and revealing.
I ran across my wife in the kitchen and said,
“Good Morning!”
I never said good morning to anyone when I was sober.
Traditional salutations are always awkward to me.
“Morning,” she said.
What- no “GOOD MORNING!”-
No kiss on the cheek!
She seemed neutral,
so I studied her movements and waited for the eye contact that would give her thoughts away.
I strutted with purpose to the refrigerator and
grabbed a beer.
I CRACKED open the first canned beer!
To my wife, the cracking sound was like a
gun shot into peace.
But to a drunk man,
it is a gun shot to begin the race.
I guzzled the beer despite the after taste of vomit.
Three breakfast beers are the equivalent of Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, and Valium all rolled into one.
One down, two to go!
The first beer was barely staying in my rotten gut.
But with many years of practice, and a trite prayer,
I kept it down.
Things were going well-
no scowling faces.
No whipping remarks.
Soon my hangover would end and another alcoholic fit would begin!
I was still feeling awful, but I was optimistic.
Walking past my wife, I slapped her on the behind.
She hastily twirled around and said, “Do you remember what you said last night?”
I CRACKED open the second beer and replied, “No- what did I say?”
