It Wont Slow You Down

         When I was maybe 26-27 years old, a local guy named Ed was killed in an auto accident in my hometown. I was an acquaintance of his, at best, but I had a few friends who grew up with him, thus he was a fairly familiar face around town. His parent’s house was the social center of his little neighborhood, and beer was the nexus for this particular group of friends. Even well before he or any of the gang was of “legal drinking age”, you could drive down his street on any warm summer night, and find them enjoying a few cold beers, discreetly as possible, of course. Ed’s folks seemed to be from the “at least they’re home where I can keep an eye on them” school of thought, the neighbors didn’t seem to mind, and it all seemed kind of normal to everyone after a while. Our little suburban utopia has more than its fair share of taverns, one would figure that once the gang hit the magic “21” mark, most of them would begin gathering at the nearest one, which is exactly where Ed spent the last afternoon of his life. After an afternoon of some serious beer-pounding, Ed and his buddy decided to take a spin over to another local dive, and in his zeal to continue partying onward into the night, Ed’s pal took a curve way too fast and hit a tree. Ed was dead at age 25; with a cop holding his hand on the side of the road telling him he’d be OK.

         For whatever reason, the appeal of alcohol never rubbed off on me. I never liked the taste, or the buzz, or the aftereffects. I have been drunk, I have drunk socially, and I have a drink or two on very rare occasions here and there. But it never integrated itself into my everyday life, as it has a way of doing. I’ve always seen it as the drug it is, and it is a drug that just doesn’t do it for me. It certainly has played a role in my life overall, however, my father more or less embalmed himself with cheap scotch for a decade and a half, and died at age 62 a shell of his former self. I have friends younger than me, who to this day base almost every social event around getting hammered, then loudly discussing other times they have been loaded. But for me, from a user perspective, booze has never been my drug of choice.

         To my peers awash in the alcohol culture, the idea of not enjoying the drunken buzz is unfathomable. Every woman knows how to make a drink I will just love, that I should try, that has no alcohol taste at all! Men tend to vaguely question my manhood, and explain that by taking the drug whose effects make me miserable over and over, I will eventually become used to it, and want it as much as they do. Other people may enjoy the high, or feel heroic in some small way from becoming ill from the side effects, or take pleasure in not remembering substantial segments of their social lives. Even though I heartily endorse the right of every American to enjoy an ice cold Bud a few times every hour, it’s a right I personally choose not to exercise. I enjoy lighting my fire in other ways.

         But anyway, back to Ed. His funeral service was just like any other funeral for someone who was fairly popular and young, lots of family, friends, and well wishers, and heavy with disbelief and sorrow. I didn’t know him well enough to go, but a few good friends of mine were in attendance. One of Ed’s drinking buddies from way back wanted to leave a six-pack of beer, among the flowers and such, as a kind of loving tribute to Ed. The gesture was politely refused by the family, and Ed’s mother took time during the eulogy to gently rebuke Ed’s peers regarding the dangers of casual drinking and its unintended consequences. Several of Ed’s friends took exception to his mother’s comments, and the implication that drinking was responsible for his death. My friends seemed to almost agree, putting themselves in a state of denial about what was clear to me, at least.

         I asked them how they would feel if, hypothetically, I had a heart attack and died while snorting and puffing my way through an eight ball or two, and one of my coke snorting buds tossed a quarter gram in my casket for the afterlife. I pointed out to them that Ed was a person, and beer is a liquid sold for profit by soulless conglomerates. It makes people become sluggish, and slow witted, and drunk. No one ever thinks they’re going to get wasted and die today, but it happens all the time. Ed’s mother was grieving, and probably had a ton of guilt about allowing all that heavy teen drinking on her property for all those years, and wanted to express her thanks to his friends by reminding them to be cautious, and they were more concerned about defending the honor of beer. I gave them the cold reality they did not want to hear. Ed was dead. His pals were going to hoist some coldies in his memory, until it all settled in. Then they’d do it less and less often, until it became a once a year gesture, if that. His buddies would move on, his girlfriend would move on, and Ed would slowly become no more than memories, and age would make those memories more and more distant until they were almost nothing. Those are the cold facts, I told them, and those realities make loving beer seem pretty insignificant, don’t you agree? Their faces wore the looks of realization that someone had died, and it was real.

         12 years later, it all made no difference at all. The gang still drinks just like they did back then. They get plowed, they drive home and pass out cold, they chuckle and make jokes, they still panic if they attend an event without an 8 person supply of beer for every two people present. And surprise, no one mentions Ed very often anymore, no one salutes his memory with a frosty mug at the local bar. Besides maybe someone in his family, I’d bet I’m the only person who is remembering him at all tonight, which is pretty sad, considering I always thought he came off as a bit of a dick. His goombah, his pal that night, who drove the car he died in, he’s spent most of his time since that night crippled and trying to escape punishment by denying he was the driver. I don’t know if he drinks beer anymore, but it would hardly surprise me if he did.

         I’m still glad I never wanted to get used to it, personally.