The Vicious Circle

TW - Alcoholism

London spins with the Earth at a smooth 650 miles an hour. But to me it’s a jerk and twist, jerk and twist. Downward, airless, like a corkscrew forced into a too-tight bottle. Like that pink wine we used to serve at Classic Italian. Mateus Rosé. It had an inadequate, narrow neck and a bloated, bulbous body like the victim of a violent strangulation. My palms prickled whenever I had to open one at a table. If the spiky point of the waiter’s friend wasn’t dead centre in the cork on the first push, then metal grated against glass on the second. The cork split on the third. Tiny brown pieces like dried out faeces, dropped into the drink on the fourth, ruining the dining experience, and often, my tip.

Waiter’s friends. Sigh. As useless for opening wine as they were for cutting flesh. The tiny knife was never sharp and mostly just ripped the foil; it never cut through my skin, just left red pressure marks. The boot-lever notch almost never latched on to the lip of the bottle first time. It took two or three attempts to extract the cork, and the angle was often wrong, breaking the damn thing halfway out.

Maybe I was a bad waitress. Maybe I had bad friends. I met Joe at Classic Italian.

Why am I dredging that up? Catherine wheels. First time I saw them was my first date with Joe. Bonfire night. Sixteen years old. Battersea Park. They sparked and fizzed in circles while spiked hopelessly to their posts. They started while Joe was at the beer stand. They went nowhere despite their constant movement. Some lessons come too soon to be appreciated. Am I still spiked now?

The first sip of hot scrumpy covered my tongue in a whirl of appley flavours. Sweet but sharp, a tang of lemon, a kick of alcohol. I accepted the drinks to impress him.

That was how the night started. That was how it all started.

The night ended with Joe’s dirty fingers down my throat and hot, acidic vomit coming back up. It scorched the back of my mouth and inside my nose. I coughed to clear the vile taste - that made it worse. I drank some water and passed out.

I felt a lot of things the following day. Including the sensation that the top left quarter of my head had caved in, and the remaining portions were using all their strength to force it back into shape from the inside. There was also a distinct soreness between my legs I couldn’t explain, and Joe refused to comment on.

He harvested me at my prime, scratted me in his mill, and left me to ferment. I knew how those apples felt.

I quit the restaurant. Jerked and twisted my way out. Landed squarely in the beer garden of a pub that served strong cider and turned a blind eye to my lack of ID. It was there my “habit” developed.

Well into my thirties I still go back to that first date every time a firework sparkles. I wonder where Joe is now. Dead and rotting I hope. It’s New Year’s Eve – and lovely Sam will be back in time for a consensual midnight kiss.

Fuck you, Joe.

As well as the axial spin, the globe is rotating in orbit around the hellish-hot sun at 18.5 miles a second – hardly anyone feels it. Those of us who do are jammed into tight corners as if on a perpetual fairground waltzer. Jammed in, puking, and abandoned while the guy at the controls falls asleep from the desperate fatigue of attempting to maintain a balance. At least, with all this movement I’ll never be bored - the view keeps changing. The flying debris of my life whips by in a tasteless tornado every time I’m reminded of my past. Maybe I’d rather be bored.

Cider helps with boredom. It’s always wine to celebrate. Vodka for disappointment.

I didn’t get the grades for university. The stinking planet was momentarily stopped by my father’s displeasure, and his leather belt. Liquor dulled the pain while I was thrown into employment at a commercial laundry service by the inertia. My neck sore from following the hypnotic swirl of the tumble driers as they lulled me out of my hangovers and into a false sense of security.

Olly, the senior supervisor, handled a lot of cash. His fingers were always filthy when he forced them between my legs in the back room. The UTIs were frequent and unpleasant and were not accompanied by any kind of sympathy from management. Olly would get angry to be denied access while I was treated. I couldn’t drink on the medication, so we both detoxed from our respective habits for the occasional week. After every dry spell I concluded I was not going back to the bottle. Sadly, Olly was quick to revert to old habits and only a vodka binge could help me back into his demanding rhythm. After a couple of years he became bored with my alternating hot and cold cycles and removed my late-start privileges. For the first few days I made it in on time but soon my skin started crawling with withdrawal and the back room became a place to throw up into bin liners. I had to buy my own cider again. I couldn’t afford the good stuff in the quantities I required. The resulting hangovers rolled into each other. I became incapable of turning up at all before lunch. Olly had to “let me go”.

When you’ve had nine pints and you close your eyes, the room spins, your head spins. It’s a long cycle from which you may or may not emerge clean. I’d gone in on a boil wash without separating my colours, with no detergent or fabric softener. I came out dirty grey with missing buttons and fraying edges.

Fuck you, Olly.

Anyway – fireworks. I have to be home before they start, for everyone’s benefit. I make my excuses and totter down uneven pavements. I trip a few times. At the top of the steps into the underground, I catch myself on a filthy bin. There’s a bottle sticking out. Wait. I haven’t got anything left at home and no cash to stop at the corner shop. I’m a few pints down, so I pull the bottle clear of the stinking trash with a jerk and twist. Smirnoff Vodka. About a quarter left. Obviously, some kind stranger left this here for me.

Thank you, stranger.

Home in no time. Key dances around the lock. Maybe the key and the lock are magnets repelling each other. Maybe the spin of the planet is catching up with me. I jerk and twist the key. That works.

Home ten minutes and the doorbell rings.

“Hi, come in.” I say over the intercom.

I shift a pile of dirty laundry and a half-eaten pizza off the sofa. Even though Sam hasn’t been round for over a week, I haven’t made much mess. I swing the door open. A short man in a black suit and paisley tie is grinning in the stairwell. He’s taken his overcoat off in anticipation of coming in, but his blue striped scarf is still clinging to his neck.

“Hello, I’m Rick. I’d like to talk to you about God.”

What the heck, maybe someone virtuous can inspire me to sober up.

“Come in Rick! Happy New Year!”

He flinches as he takes a breath. Maybe the air’s a little stale. Rick pulls his coat back on and says he’d rather talk on the doorstep, but I insist he should come in for coffee. I don’t have any milk. Or sugar. Or clean mugs.

He sweeps crumbs off the sofa with his hand, piles the plates on the coffee table, and turns his nose up at my offer of a biscuit. He perches himself on the edge of the couch and settles for a glass of tepid water. My second-hand Smirnoff isn’t an acceptable beverage for Rick.

There are a few cans and bottles festering around our feet. Rick stands them up and puts them to one side while he talks about Jesus and the afterlife.

What Rick really wants is to talk while I listen. Talk and judge me.

His low-pitched voice blends in with the traffic and chatter from the street. I drift into a different but sort of related world and recall what I can of Dante’s Inferno. Given that I am unbaptised I conclude I would only make it as far as circle number one – Limbo. But the more Rick talks about sin the more he sounds like my mum. Which level would she condemn me to?

Mum would probably send me down three full circles for the sin of gluttony. She thinks I drink too much, and apparently for this “sin” the appropriate punishment is to be left face-down in foul-smelling icy mud and attacked by a large three-headed dog. It sounds only marginally worse than a full hour in the company of a religious fanatic who feels the need to openly tidy up in someone else’s home. Rick makes me want to seek solace in the only way I know how.

“It’s been lovely to meet you, and it’s not that I’m not absolutely fascinated by your sermon, but I am expecting visitors soon, and I should probably freshen up.”

“Yes,” says Rick. “Freshen up. You might want to open a couple of windows.” He sniffs.

“I don’t suppose you could lend me a tenner for a decent four pack?”

“I was excited when you invited me in, but cleanliness is next to Godliness, and you are very far from both. I’ve been spreading the good word for twelve years and I’ve never been so shocked by the state of anyone’s home or ignored so rudely when I’ve tried to engage. You’ve not listened to anything I’ve said. I’m at a loss as to why you offered me coffee when you had no intention of even washing a cup. No, I will not lend you money for drink. I will pray for your soul. Now kindly let me leave.”

Fuck you, Rick.

The place isn’t that bad, and I’m offended by Rick’s apparent observations. But he’s gone now and perhaps I should take a fresh look at myself. The bottom of a bottle can be heaven when you’re just visiting. But if you live there long enough the angels abandon you and the demons take hold.

It is a bit of a mess. And Sam’s coming after work. Sam, my hero. He’s a mixologist. He thinks this is a problem because of my drinking “habit” and he’s looking for a different job, but for now he’s at the Twister Bar. He finishes at 10 tonight, just in time to come home and kiss me as the new year rolls around. I promised I’d be sober, and the bedsit would be clean. I promised. Oh. I actually did. He’ll be heading over in an hour!

I brush my teeth and put the kettle on as if a strong, mint-backed coffee will make me walk straight. Maybe it will. I dance around the living space throwing cans and bottles into bin liners and putting them by the door. I stash the pizza in the fridge, though the place already stinks of its spicy outlook and garlic attitude. I open a window and crank the heating up.

My phone beeps. Message. Sam.

Hi, I’m so sorry to do this, but the bar is rammed and Steve is sick. I’ve been asked to stay on til close. I can’t say no as I owe some hours and I’ll get triple time for the rest. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll bring breakfast in the morning - we can have the whole day tomorrow. Stay out and enjoy the fireworks. Hugs x

Enjoy the fireworks? He has no idea how much I hate their glittering reminders of torments past.

He also has no idea how much effort it will take to make my place presentable.

Anger and relief circle each other like prize-fighters in a ring. I wonder which one will land the first punch. How can he let me down like this? Anger throws a mean right hook. Thank God I have time to tidy up. Relief blocks the attack.

I play it cool with a short reply: That’s annoying but I’ll be fine. Bring pastries tomorrow I’ll be waiting! Hugs xx

My stomach sinks into a swirling abyss somewhere in my guts. I know the only way I can get over this stark disappointment is with more vodka. Maybe some wine to welcome in the new year. I make a five-point plan:

1.       Cashpoint

2.       Corner shop

3.       A little mixing of my own

4.       Tidy the hell out of my flat

5.       Get to bed in time to recover for the morning

Sam will never know.

Besides, I don’t have a problem with drinking, he has a problem with me drinking. There’s a difference. He needs to take that on board, but I don’t want to rock the boat. Besides – he sells alcohol for a living – hypocrite.

I return from the shop with 25% off six bottles of red – it would have been rude not to. And a second bottle of Smirnoff. Also on offer. Yes, that money was for next week’s food, but if you can’t splash out on New Year’s Eve. . .

Ok, maybe I suffer from an occasional overindulgence, but with no indulgence at all I enter a flat spin into the sea of boring, bored and bore. It’s not as if I haven’t tried, and I used to come quite close. These days if I only drink coke for more than a day or so the boredom washes over me in waves of physical pain. I shake with it as I try to stay afloat but there are sharks out there. Despite the exertion I find it impossible to stay awake, but I dare not sleep for fear of drowning.

Sam has thrown me a life ring. He’s pulling me in against the tide, one promise at a time, towards safe harbours. I wonder how strong the rope is. I wonder if I’ll run aground.

I’m getting too sad. It’s a happy occasion. A new year, a new start, a new bottle of red. It’s always wine to celebrate.

Maybe I shouldn’t. I promised I’d stay sober tonight, I promised I’d clean the flat, but then Sam said he would come round. He gave me a reason then took it away. It’s not his fault. I’ll save the wine and clean the flat. We’ll have breakfast tomorrow and I’ll start the new year fresh. Maybe I’ll even take the bottles back. Clean flat, clean conscience, clean me.

Was that a firework?

I’m right back there.

Fuck you, Joe.

***

Knock knock.

It can’t be Sam. It’s only 8.47am.

I gather my hair at the nape of my neck and spit rancid mouth-debris into the toilet. Delivery? No - they would have pressed the bell downstairs.

I force myself off my knees and stagger to the wash basin, splashing my face. If I brush my teeth he won’t smell it.

Knock knock.

A key turns in the lock.

“I brought pastries!” The door creaks open. “What the Hell?”

“Let me explain, Sam. I’m just in the bathroom.”

The fridge door opens and snaps shut. Shit! There’s still vodka in there. What else is lying around? Cold pizza with congealed cheese and a hardened stuffed crust. Cold pizza with stomach-churning jalapenos and extra spicy beef. Cold pizza with a bite taken out of the point of every slice. I go back to facing the toilet.

“Are you being sick? You promised.”

Glass clinks in the kitchen area. He’s moving empty bottles around. He sighs. There’s a pause and some other indistinct noises. Another pause.

“I’m going home and taking my pastries. You do whatever you want.”

The door slams. Sam’s footsteps trail down the stairs. My stomach is empty. I’m dry heaving and my nose is running.

It’s ten minutes or so before I can stand and rinse my mouth. I emerge into the living space. He’s opened the curtains. Sunlight glares into my half-closed eyes. He’s lined up last night’s wine bottles on the kitchen top. Five of them. Five. One for every month we’ve been together. I think I was singing about it. Celebrating him. He can’t be mad about me celebrating him.

I collapse sideways onto the sofa with my head on the arm. My eyes close. Did someone sandpaper my teeth and towel-dry my tongue? How do I get off this spinning planet? The jerks wrench my gut, and the twists split my brain as the waltzer takes another turn. I blink until I can half-focus on the coffee table. There are two glasses with red stuff in and a piece of paper in front. I pull myself up to the edge of the couch and lean in over them.

There’s a stick of celery in the glass on the left. I sniff each drink. The right-hand glass has the sharp tang of tomato juice. It mildly turns my stomach. There’s a strong whiff of vodka from the one on the left. I heave. A hint of tabasco sticks in my nose. Bloody Mary. He’s left me a tomato juice and a Bloody Mary. He knows it’s vodka for disappointment.

Cocktails combine many things in the shake and spin. Sweet, sour, sugar, bitter, juice, cream, spirits. I’ve never seen one without ice. Melted. I must have been in the bathroom a long ten minutes.

I pull away, hands on knees. I focus on the paper:

HAIR OF THE DOG?

OR ESCAPE THE VICIOUS CIRCLE?

COME ON SOPHIE, MAKE YOUR CHOICE.