There were always a lot of people in my house. I have two sisters. There were usually cousins or a student of my father's living with us. During the summers, my mother's sister would come with her kids and stay with us. There were various members of my dad's church who came for indeterminate amounts of time. I bring this up because of our food situation and my lack of control around consumption.
There was always enough food for us, but never too much. If we had a box of cereal, the most I could get at was a bowl and a half. At dinner, there might be seconds of one dish or another, but not much more than that. If there was pie at dessert, we each got a tiny piece and then it was gone. I never went hungry as a child, but I never had to learn when to say no to food either. There were a couple of instances when this didn't happen, and they stick out in my mind.
Occasionally, my sisters would go off to church camp, and I'd be left alone like an only child, which seemed the grandest luxury in the world. Not only did I have my choice of television shows, but my choice of seat while watching the show. I could have friends over without us being terrorized by my older sisters and their friends. Best of all, I got to choose the restaurant we went to for lunch after church.
One such weekend, my sisters were gone, my dad was out of town, and there were no other people in tow. It was just my mother and I. She told me we could go wherever we wanted to go. It was either Bonanza or Sizzler, I don't remember which, but I remember the meal well. I got the steak with the all-you-can-eat shrimp. I ate the steak, and started in on the shrimp. I finished the shrimp and asked for more. The waitress brought me more and made some remark about that should do me. I was going to show her. I finished that plate and asked her for thirds. She made a big deal about me being able to eat a lot, which was probably an insult in her mind, but I thought it was great.
My mom was of the generation where a kid who eats a lot is healthy and growing. Besides that, anything that wasn't expressly candy or dessert was good for you, whether it was battered, fried, or whatever cut of meat—it didn't matter. Whatever Bisquick casserole she made I ate with reckless abandon. I routinely had eggs, bacon (what we called “fatback”), and pancakes for breakfast. Lunch was sandwiches grilled in butter, or hot dogs. Dinner was more ordinary Good Housekeeping kind of fare, but the side dishes were carb heavy and often a colored gooey Cool Whip mess she called Ambrosia. I think the only thing that saved me from a junior high heart attack was that a lot of the meat I ate at dinner was very lean wild game that my father killed in the fall and that we ate from the deep freeze all year-round. My point is that my mom was the last lady in the town who was going to tell me not to have thirds, or fourths, even, although she'd be strict with dessert.
I'm not sure how much I had, but finally I was coaxed into leaving. I remember the heat coming through the window of the station wagon warming my neck. It reminded me of the time at the county fair when I was convinced to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Oh no, I thought, I'm going to barf.
Barf I did. All that batter-fried shrimp was returned to the sea from which it came. I had never been sick from eating before. The good news is I got to stay home from school on Monday.
This was the only time I didn't go back to what made me ill, but there were many other instances of excess. As I got older and the house emptied out of people, I'd eat a box of cereal after school, from ripping open the lining to the golden powder pouring in the bowl. After two bowls, my gums were torn up and hurting, but I wouldn't stop until the bowl was empty. After it was gone, I'd try to eat dinner a few hours later with my gums cut and my tongue rubbed raw. The next week the same brand of cereal would be there, and I'd do it again. The only thing that stopped me when I started eating was running out.
There were nights when I couldn't stand up, but as I la yon the floor looking at the empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table, I'd think about how I wished I had another bottle.
I drank exactly the same way from the time I started. I never left a beer or a cocktail unfinished. I'd buy half-pints of vodka or whiskey in my younger days and drink the whole thing. That seemed to be enough for me until I started buying pints; then a pint of whiskey was what I had to drink before I passed out. The fifth bottle proved my nemesis for many years, as I would drink most of it before passing out. But soon enough, I found myself finishing those over three or four hours while watching TV. Somewhere around that time I'd find my way back to the liquor store completely wasted, but still wanting more. There were nights when I couldn't stand up, but as I lay on the floor looking at the empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table, I'd think about how I wished I had another bottle.
So is it a matter of my nature that I couldn't control my eating as a child, and therefore couldn't control my drinking as an adult? Or is it a matter of nurture that I was allowed to eat as much as I did, and was never taught self-control? Is self-control something that can be taught to another individual, or is it something we learn through trial and error? If we learn it ourselves, are there those of us who are incapable of learning it? I don't know the answers to these questions. But what I do know is clear: I have self-control issues when it comes to physical things that give me pleasure.
Often people will offer me a bite of ice cream or a bit of their chocolate whatever. I usually decline. They usually force it on me. If I have one bite, when we part ways, I'm at the corner store buying a pint of Ben & Jerry's and thinking about what pint I will buy the next day. I'm obsessive about ingesting food. The bad side is, this food is bad for my health. The good side is, if I eat a pint of ice cream, I don't call my ex-girlfriends at 2 a.m.
When I drank whiskey this way, I combined a self-control problem with a substance that is physically addictive and lowers inhibition. There is no set of circumstances in which this turns out well. There are no tools left to fight the compulsion to drink more. The only things that would stop me at this point are the liquor store closing, running out of money, or getting thrown out of the bar after last call.
Where Everybody Doesn't Know Your Name
On 16th Street in San Francisco there's a bar called The Kilowatt. This is where I drank on Sunday mornings with The Boys. We watched football and drank like men. Andy, the bartender, made me bourbon and Cokes in pint glasses. From 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. we watched the brutal ballet that is the National Football League. Outside, Rob grilled the meat, and we were all bonding.
Many were the Sunday afternoons when I'd bid farewell to The Boys and stagger off to the BART station to make my way home, to catch HBO's Sunday night lineup with a nightcap of bourbon. All in all, a good day indeed, spent drinking well over a quart of whiskey.
I thought that if I quit drinking I'd let everyone down. They'd miss me. The bar wouldn't be the same without One of the Boys, would it? I was the literary one of the bar. I imagined myself to be the Frasier of the 16th Street Cheers. I was the hard-drinking, underappreciated-in-his-own-time writer, whose published book had unfortunately been ahead of its time.
There was no way I could let them see me in the bar during football without a drink. It would be much like seeing Barry Bonds limp after a pop fly in his later years, or watching a boxer past his prime step into the ring, or listening to the Aerosmith album they did right after they quit doing cocaine. It wouldn't be right. Luckily for me, I got sober in February, as the Super Bowl was wrapping up the NFL postseason.
I approached the bartender, Andy.
“I'm thinking about getting sober,” I admitted.
“That's a great idea,” he said without hesitation. When your bartender really wants you to quit, it's time.
Further than that, if you don't know who the worst drunk is in your favorite bar, it's you. When you quit, someone else becomes the worst drunk in the bar. They've all been comparing themselves to you, saying, “At least I'm not that guy.” Quitting is threatening to them. Your drinking validates their drinking. You may know a lot of people who drink as much as you do; you also know a lot of other alcoholics.
For