Coming To

The liquor cabinet was what, maybe five feet away?
He could lean forward from where he was sitting, right there on the stairs, and open it. There were three unopened bottles of scotch in there. Three Christmas gifts. Three years without a drink.
Matthew sat there, in the dark, wearing sweats pants and a bathrobe. What time was it now? 3:30?
He knew where she was. He wasn't stupid.
She knew that he knew.
The whole situation was insane, and yet it seemed to feed on itself daily, becoming more and more familiar, more like normal. Like it's a normal thing to live out your days half considering murder and half considering suicide.
Like it's normal to hate the person who wears a your ring on the third finger of thier left hand.
Like it's normal to be lied to day after day, and to hope that one day it will all stop. One day it will all just go away.

Like it's normal to just have a drink and relax.



Matthew’s thought about the latest round. One of her cronies had seen him at a local tavern. She had called him from the bar where she worked; demanding to know what was he doing, why was he out, what about the kids?
“ Linda, I was out with a friend,” he said over the phone, “I was talking to him about some side work. And the kids were with my mom. Do you really think I would just leave them by themselves?”
He knew even as he spoke to her that it was pointless. She was in a rage.
She was always in a rage.
He had been awake when she got home, as usual. As usual it was hours after her shift ended.
As usual they didn't speak.


Matthew looked at the liquor cabinet again. He could almost taste the scotch; that jolt when it first hits the palate; that smoky sweet aftertaste. He could almost feel the burning sensation as it went down.
He could drink.
He could drink it all away.
He could go to the pantry and find that joint that he had stashed long ago. Find it in the glass jar on the top shelf, way in the back where it was safe from the kids. Light up, inhale deeply, crack open a bottle and….sweet relief.


He thought about that morning; it had been Saturday, Matthew was off work. He had gotten up with the kids and made pancakes for breakfast. They ate together while Linda slept.
Matthew had done the dishes while the kids watched cartoons.
When she had finally gotten up she had given him the cold shoulder. She was out the door as soon as possible, taking the kids with her to shop yard sales. Matthew knew he wouldn’t see her until just before she had to be at work. It was a relief, really. He was so tired of the fighting. Tired of all of the anger and the bitterness. He was tired of her rages, and he was tired of his own.
That evening, as she was preparing to leave for work, the arguing continued. He'd followed her out the front door.
“You know what Linda? You’re just jealous. You’re mad because I’m developing friendships; I’m trying to create a life for myself. You’re mad because I was out. It's okay for you to go out, it's ok for you to stay out all hours of the night. But it's not okay for me; and that's bullshit. If I want to go out, I'll go out. But we both know the difference between me going out and you going out is this: I’m not out fucking everybody in town.”

The hate in her eyes would have been shocking had he not seen it so many times before.
“You, Matthew, are a worthless asshole.”

She turned and walked away. He’d stood there, on the doorstep, long after she rounded the corner. Stood with his nose running from the cold, wiping at it with numb fingers, staring at the bare brown trees reaching upward from tiny patches of earth between the sidewalk and the street.

“Worthless asshole.”
It rang over and over in his head.

“Worthless asshole.”
3:30 in the morning and she was still not home
 
The liquor cabinet was right there. He could just reach out and crack the seal on one of those bottles of scotch.
She hadn’t seen an asshole yet. He wanted to show her what an asshole really was.


A memory comes to mind, of his uncle. How many years ago? 10 years ago?
Uncle Bill, standing right there, in this very same house; back when Matthew was helping his grandfather take care of his grandmother. His crazy, mean, grandmother.
Back before she had died, before the house had become Matthew’s.
Uncle Bill the alcoholic; a member of AA, who had by then been sober a number of years. He was holding a plastic sandwich bag in his hand.
“Boy, you know why I’m here?”
“I guess because grandma wanted to see you.”
“You have been smoking dope in my mother’s house, boy. And that is wrong. I will not allow this shit to go on.”
Matthew had looked at the bag, incredulous. “That’s nothing but stems and seeds, Uncle Bill. I can’t smoke that. That bag’s been lying around for months.”
“I don’t care how long this bag has been lying around Matthew. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. You have a problem, boy. You had a problem in Florida, and you have a problem here, and you have got to know that.”
Matthew left the next day. Gone back to Florida, back to his old life. The dope was better there anyway, and all of his old friends were there.


“Worthless asshole.”
He knew she was out whoring around. Again.
Relief was right there; five feet away.


The blackouts. There had been no rhyme or reason to them. Sometimes he could drink all night and remember everything; even if he got trashed. Other times it only took a few.
He would wake up at home, in his own bed. Memories of the night before trailing off to…..nothing.
Panic.
Every single time; panic.
Every morning after a blackout he would spring out of bed and race to the window; ripping the blind up to see if his car was there. Every single morning it was parked on the street, right where it belonged.
The worst blackout he had ever had was when he woke up, after a Friday night bender, to the sound of his mom in the shower.
Matthew had walked into the kitchen and looked out the window. His father’s car was not in the driveway. Where would he have gone this early on Saturday, his day off?
But it hadn’t been Saturday. It had been Monday. And the last thing Matthew had remembered was going to the bar on Friday night.

He’d continued to drink.

“Worthless asshole.”
Fucking bitch. Fucking whore.

Another memory, this time from three years ago. His son, still a newborn. Matthew and Linda had been visiting with friends, having a few drinks. The baby, Sean, had been asleep on the couch, snuggled in a bed of pillows. As they were getting ready to leave Matthew walked over and picked him up. Sean had opened his sky blue eyes and looked at his father. Just for an instant a look of confusion crossed the infant’s face.
For the tiniest fraction of a second, his brow had knitted up.
It was like a photograph in Matthews head now; himself, just a little high; not quite swaying on his feet, holding his two month old baby.

Since that night he had not touched one drop. He had not touched one single drop of alcohol during his daughter’s entire lifetime.
He’d quit.
He’d quit before, too, for countless other reasons.
He could stop any time he wanted.

“Worthless asshole.”
“You want to drink this away”, he thought.
“You know you want to drink this away.”

You want to drink this away?

He remembered what it was like to drink every day because he knew that he was kidding himself if he thought it would be any different this time.
He’d drink in bars, in strip joints, at home, in the car. Wherever he was; that’s where he’d drink. Sometimes he’d not even known where he was. He had vague memories of images; people talking, walls, doorways, cars, a campfire on a beach.
He saw himself, driving with a beer between his legs, lighting up a joint.
Himself, out of control, laughing as he tripped over a pool cue in some bar.
Himself, ordering his scotch straight up, no ice cubes to take up space in the glass. Himself looking incredulously at half finished drinks left sitting on the bar.

“Worthless asshole.”

The sense of filth that won’t wash off.
That sad, defiant look in the eyes of someone he loved when they finally gave up on him.

The constant craving, craving, CRAVING!!

But he could always stop. When he had had enough he could always stop.

Who was he kidding?
 
He remembered how it felt to drink every day. After awhile it felt like he was dead inside. It felt like now, but less painful. In fact, he wanted to feel dead inside. He wanted anything but to feel this; this constant rage, this constant disappointment. This constant sense of panic that drove him to open his mouth and let the words fly. Words that did nothing but alienate himself from his wife and from himself. Words that did nothing but fan the flame of pain that constantly burned within him.

Maybe it was better, in a dead relationship, to be alive.

How do you stay stopped?
How do you stay stopped and how do you relate to a life that is out of control?

He sat there, on that step in the darkness for a while longer; cradling his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. Cars passed, whispering through the night; headlights sliding from one wall to another. Anyone of them could be her.
None of them was.

Finally, he sighed. He stood up, and turned. He walked up the stairs and entered his children’s bedroom. He looked at his son, then walked over to his daughter’s crib and lightly touched her foot; felt her warmth through the plastic sole of her pajamas.

He went to his room and climbed into bed. He slept.
He got up with the kids and made French toast. They ate together while Linda slept.
Matthew did the dishes. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello, Uncle Bill? This is Matthew. I was wondering if you could take me to an AA meeting tonight.”