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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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ESCAPISM
A. Frank Bower
I drink. Sue me. I know; it is a bad start. If you are the kind of person who wants explanations, read on. If not, go do something constructive. I have little better to do with my time in jail, so I will tell you how I got here.
The world is full of problems. This is not a news flash. There are no answers; flash. Do not get me wrong; I have utmost respect for those wonderful people who fight for fulfillment, seek answers, struggle to overcome obstacles, and effect changes. God bless them. However, I ask, what does it get them?
Has this blue and green ball progressed one iota in ten thousand years? Damocles’ sword has dangled over our heads the entire time. The sole change: the cord got thinner.
I seldom hear escapism used. When I was growing up—sort of—it was bandied about more than peace, love or chocolate. I—we—were told to face things, not avoid them. Grow up. Deal with it. You know what I’m talking about; don’t play dumb. Look at “pop culture”. It is escapism. America is escapism. We may not want to admit it, but there it is. Take a great piece of pop art...like Oscar-winner “Crash”. It deals with issues; I love it. Know what? It massages our sense of ethics. While end credits run, it is gone.
I subscribe to Shakespeare’s idea; “‘Tis a tale told be an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing’”. Again, there are no answers. I work, struggle, strive. Like you. My efforts led to the same results humankind’s have. I ride the merry- go-round, never get off it. I reach for the brass ring: it is drenched in Krazy Glue.
So, to all you dreamers, grab a drink and get real. There is no cure for pain. We can just numb it. I know my choices of numbifiers cause other problems. I did not say I am stupid. I have tried Percocets, pot, et cetera. This is America. Alcohol is legal. Sure, I still get in trouble, but no drug charges.
So, again, I drink. My name is—are you ready for this?—Jack Barmash. Not John, Jack. As in Daniel’s. My old buddy. Furthermore, the nickname I have worn for four decades is Jigger. I believe I should live up to my name. I do.
A friend of mine refers to alcohol as genius juice. I could not agree more with the negative connotations. It describes where my brain goes when I over-indulge. I call it Stage 5. Blackout behaviors. Allow me to itemize.
Stage 1: First two drinks. Socialization, with no perceived internal changes.
Stage 2: Three to five. Mellowness begins to soothe me. My muscles relax. At this stage, I am able to stop.
Stage 3: Six to ten. Humor reigns supreme. I enjoy people. At some vague point during stage 3, the logic of alcohol kicks in and makes it impossible to stop.
Stage 4: More than ten. I achieve numbness. This is the goal. However, this is the most difficult stage to maintain. It is the problem. To remain numb, I must continue to drink, which leads to—
Stage 5: Too many. Beyond stage 4 and before 5, is a hazy area of numbness where control disappears—more or less the point. If I could spend my life at 4.3, I would have it made. That Herculean task has yet to occur. Stage 5 blackouts did not happen in my early years. I achieved blood-alcohol saturation; those sedative buzzes were exquisite. Alas, the body rebelled. Saturation was short-lived. My last visit there occurred when I was twenty-two.
My first DUI, at age twenty-six, my level was 2.6; nowhere close to saturation— although far above legal limit. I attended classes for ten weeks to clear my record.
My second DUI happened in another state; I managed not to pay dues for it. The state just wanted my money. It is why I was pulled over in the first place. You know, out-of-state plates.
I did not avoid the third. My driver’s license was suspended. I drove without it until my next DUI. My bicycle became my friend again. You have no idea how much ribbing I took. You try to barhop on a bicycle.
Luck has never been a lady to me. I smacked my bike into a mailbox while headed downhill in stage 5—witnessed by the occupant of a squad car. DUI number five. How could they count that? Well, they did.
I took much more verbal abuse after the incident. My next step did not help. I barhopped by bus. I refused to walk. There would be too many witnesses to my swagger...stagger...whatever.
Before long, I just could not take people’s put-downs. I quit going out to drink. I stayed home. I discovered my cat, Amaretto, did not like his namesake. I do. However, he does love beer. We shared many. On occasion, I invited people to my apartment. Those who accepted were in worse shape than me. So, I returned to solo sipping...sloshing.
A month ago, while in my familiar stage 5, I drove my car. Damn thing was idle fifteen months and needed to run. Good excuse, huh? I do not remember driving it.
I must have thought I was in unfamiliar territory; I got lost. What do you do when lost? Ask for directions. I looked for a gas station, but it was the middle of the night. I saw—sort of—a building with lights on. I parked in front, finished my beer and went in. I admit my vision was impaired. At the time, I did not perceive video; I saw collections of snapshots. Did I weave? O course I wove. I asked the first mobile image to register to my vision, “Where am I?” I will never forget his answer.
“The police station.”
Like I said, there are no answers to problems. I have seen strange things here. You know, ‘pink elephant’ syndrome. No, I have never seen pink elephants—make the connection, will you? I did see four black dudes shoot craps in the corner of my room...cell. Yeah, like there is room for other people in here.
I do not mind hallucinations; they are humorous. Besides, I know what they are; they will go away. I can deal with this temporary situation. The shakes bother me; I keep spilling things. I need my coffee. I have just one problem in jail.
I can’t drink.
