Functional Alcoholic

It starts to rain properly. Eventually, I get back to the house. Every inch of me feels dead. I’m not even angry at everything that’s happened. I’m just tired and sad. I put my Yamaha YZF-R6 back in the smithy with my helmet, lock the doors, and get inside. I almost don’t bother to take off my shoes or hang up my jacket. I switch the lights on and stumble into the kitchen over to the fully stocked bar. I call myself a glophead. Greyson says I’m a “functional alcoholic”, meaning I can “maintain daily obligations and routines” but still “misuse alcohol” via “binges”. It’s just making up for lost time- Efficiency! It’s just more efficient. Why drink a little everyday and end up dependent or tolerant when I can drink a lot in one go infrequently so the buzz doesn’t lose its goodness? It’s not addiction if I space it out; it’s control, and a way to keep my brain pathways primed for and accustomed to the alcohol’s effects. It’s a reward too, and anticipation is half of the pleasure but it’s better when your tolerance levels are basically reset. And I need a reward after the shitty day I’ve had. So, let’s make my favourite - a paloma. Because MY bar, MY drink! I used to make them all the time for myself when I was a bartender until I was fired, which definitely isn’t because I kept smuggling the good expensive shit home. LET’S DO THIS! In fact, let’s make it my original Bang-fer-yer-Buck edition as a favourable threesome between booziness, taste, and thrifty affordability. I’m here to get drunk on a budget after all. Might as well as get the most inebriation for the lowest cost, you know? To start, I shove a highball glass into my freezer. Then I go through my collection of bottles to begin what I hope will lead to the best drunk moments of my life.

“Honestly, any drunk moment will be ace at this point,” I mutter to myself as I scour the bookcase of liquor. “Where’s the damn Blanco tequila?! No, that’s the juice- Oh, actually, I am gonna need that. Ruby red grapefruit aaand…uhhh…there it is, the cranberry juice. Agave nectar syrup, fresh mint leaves, a thin orange wheel and a lime wedge, club soda…tequila! There you are. And salt and chilli.”

Now armed with my ingredients and tools, I quickly fall back into an old familiar pattern. I grab my phone, put my headphones on, and hit shuffle on Spotify - Makin’ Whoopee (Eddie Cantor). How perfect. I hum along as I muddle the mint leaves in a cocktail shaker. I start to get lost in the music and pour the tequila, juices, and a teaspoon of agave syrup with a single ice cube (nothing more, nothing less) into the shaker. Turn up the music. I grip it with a confident looseness and start slowly, gradually ramping up speed and intensity as the song chorus builds. At the peak, I’m shaking fiercely in time to a fast tempo, like I’m dancing with the shaker. Not the worst partner I’ve had by a long shot. Just gotta keep it supported with my palm, although I can’t help but flick my wrist to keep time. Just when the music reaches its crescendo, I stop sharply on the downbeat and end the vigorous fifteen-second shake on a perfect note. Now, to rescue the highball glass from the freezer since it’s needed.

Turn up the music. I rim half the chilled glass with salt and chilli powder, then strain the drink into the glass in one elegant swinging pour in sync with the music in my ears. Now, to top it with a splash of club soda and float overproof rum on top. Oh! And garnish with thin orange wheel and lime wedge, and BOOM! A certified Cassidy Martínez Bang-fer-yer-Buck paloma. On one half of the highball glass’ rim, salt and chilli powder are crusted on. A large singular ice cube is slowly melting. It floats in a bright reddish-pink liquid that graduates to a paler pink tone towards the top on a surface that glistens with pinprick bubbles. The mint leaves and thin orange wheel float on top with it, adding pops of green and orange in a small pool of dark rum that’s floated on the surface, swirling slowly into the surrounding liquid. Condensation drips lazily down the sides as the icy contents chill the glass exterior.

“¡Salud!” I yell and chug. “Oh, eso es bueno. Mmmmh, eso es realmente bueno.” I let out a massive sigh of relief as it slides down my throat, hitting all the right spots. The tequila bites with teeth, harsh and dominant, but is balanced out by delightful tart and slightly bitter citrus flavours. Juicy and bright, with a subtle hint of berry sweetness in the background that smooths out the acidity. It isn’t too fizzy, the flavours aren’t diluted too much, the agave nectar rounds off the mouthfeel and mitigates any rough edges in the spirits, and the salt-chilli rim amplifies any savoury qualities and livens up the palate. The floated overproof rum adds a boozy gasoline-like scent and warming sensation while the orange wheel and mint provide pleasant fruity and herbal aromas to the nose.

Jodidamente perfecto. You’ve done it again, Major Martínez! Whiskey in the Jar (Metallica cover) blasts through my headphones into my ears. I lazily nod along as warmth spreads through my chest and limbs. A grin settles my face as the alcohol soothes and chats me up. There’s a mild permanent flush in my cheeks and the tips of my ears. Aww, paloma, girl, you’re making me blush! For the average person, they’d already feel a little drunk. For me, it’s a nice mild buzz. But that isn’t what I want, so I make another. “Skål!” Two is enough to get me to loosen up somewhat: relaxed shoulders and jaw, more outwardly friendly and engaging, occasional slower blinks due to the start of muscle relaxation, I laugh more freely, and my short-term memory fades a little. For the average person, they’d clearly be intoxicated. Mmh, two palomas massaging me and giggling in pretty pink.

But I’m still sharp and mostly sober. Need another. “Kha sehat walary (ښه صحت ولری)!” Now there’s a warm tingling feeling throughout my whole body. My speech begins to slur subtly on the harder consonants when I try to sing along to the music in my ears. My balance is still steady. I’m just…slower, and very chatty. And elated! Although, the music and the trio of palomas are a little hard to follow when it gets too complicated. Good. This would send the average Joe slurring and stumbling. Yeah, this is a strong buzz. I’m getting there. Just two more and I won’t remember today at all. “Skål!” My hands and feet feel numb. Probably explains why I’m swaying when I stand, more so than usual. Doesn’t explain why my face and body act like a cartoon. Mmh, cartoons. Jessica Rabbit - a certified fucking hottie, right next to blonde beauty of America - Norma Jeane Mortenson. God, I’m drunk. The average bastard at this point? Fucked. Severely inebriated. It’s harder to follow what the four palomas are giggling about now. Ughhh, and they’ve surrounded me. So clingy. But I’m still functioning. One more. So close…

“¡Salud!” Yes. Yes! My vision is blurred, I struggle to focus my eyes, my speech is slurred and mumbled with volume control issues, I’m bumping into shit- Ho- Holy fuck, the room is spinning. Ooh, touchy touchy, pretty pink palomas, you’re gonna wrestle me to the floor like that. ¡JaJA! “OH! You know wyhat would be a great idea? Texting my bsent friend! Hde can come ojver, and weed can drunk off r assess! ¡Jajaaaa! Yes!” I get up and stagger into the living room, still dancing to the music as I fumble to get my phone out of my pocket. I hiccup a little and accidentally trip onto the couch. “Hey…” I giggle, putting the drink on the coffee table. “Hey, Siri! Call- hiccup Call Hwum- Hum..oga…taaar… hmmy. Hummingbird. Hummingbird boi! Call Hummingbird boi!”

“Okay. Calling Greyson Hakimi…”

“Yaaay!” I cheer and listen to the phone dialling with a sloppy smile. It rings four times before being answered.

“Hello?”

“Hhhiiiii, Gay-sun!”

“…Cass?”

“YeeAh.”

“Oh…G-d. You are…drunk, aren’t you?”

“FUCK YEAH, BABE! I am LIT as FUCK right now.”

“…I pray that this wasn’t preceded by war media again.”

“I need it,” I defensively hiss through my teeth. “It’s good pain.”

“Cass, I have seen you enough times on the holystoned floor of your bedroom in the complete dark, bathed only in the cold light of your old 90s TV model as it plays Grave of the Fireflies while you silently sob with The Iliad and The Odyssey and The Trojan Women as your pillow, cradling All Quiet on the Western Front or The Return of the Soldier or Noureddin, Son of Iran or One Woman’s War: Da (Mother) to your chest-”

“SHUT UP! S’like…“ I force myself to giggle and relax - to slip back into the alcohol’s grasp. “Sleek Dionysus himself has possemhremhremhressed me…”

“Cass, now is not the occasion to be speaking madness.” He sighs, probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “Another spontaneous binge… You know you make it exorbitantly difficult to prove that you’re an alcoholic.”

“Then I fuckin’ ain’t one! I gotz control; I don’t drunk daily. Not lyke mh chronos-cally drunk…”

He huffs, clearly not wanting to argue about it with me again. “For what purpose has the functioning alcoholic contacted me on this occasion?”

“I want ooh to c’mhere. C’mhere an drag yur ass to my place. Aight? I wanna get absolutesly wastd with…not by myself. And bring Devin!”

“…Why?”

“Because she’s hawt, obviously!”

There’s a pause of internal debate before he sighs heavily. “Thirty minutes.”

“YEEAAAH-! Oh SHIT-! ¡No, mi precioso teléfono!”

The palomas shove me off the couch and I scramble around for my phone. I whine disappointedly when I find it again in the blurry swirling haze of pretty pink. The screen is cracked, part of the frame is dented, and one of the buttons on the side is slightly dislodged. I try to turn it on. Nothing. The screen stays black. It’s finally run its course. “Fucking piece of shit!” I hiss and angrily throw it. It shatters loudly against the floor. I flinch at the noise. Shrapnel. “NO!” I cry, my hands rushing to protect my head and neck. My memories scratch over my blurred vision. Pain festers in my arm and chest. Flashes rip through my body: exploding snippets of voices, scenery, emotions. My eyes dart around. The shadows and pretty pink twist and warp into monsters, screeching and hissing at me. I cry in a hoarse voice, stuffed up with stinging tears. I sway on unsteady feet when I try to back away, but I’m surrounded. It’s hot and cold, my breathing is fast and uncontrolled, and I’m drowning in my own head. Flee. My eyes stick to the window, and the world freezes as my thoughts glitch. Trip. My body moves of its own accord, staring through a thick swaying blur.

Escape.