Intergenerational

In 1974, I am in my twenties, and in denial of the fact that I am in the early stages of alcohol addiction. To my way of thinking, there is nothing better than a few pre-party drinks to calm the nerves before setting off for a gathering of people you haven’t seen since your boyfriend broke up with you. Especially if you are hoping the ex will be there, realize he has missed you, and beg for another chance.

           I knock back a one-liter bottle of vino before taking to the road for the 30-minute drive. No big deal. I am used to consuming two-liter jugs in one sitting.

           Arriving at my destination, a stranger lets me in. Where is Irene? I head straight for an open bar in the kitchen and splash a rum and coke into a huge mug. As I knock back my anxiety medication, Irene bursts into the kitchen.

           “Hi Vicki! So glad you came. Come say hello to everyone!”

           I see Peter across the living room and my heart clutches. He is talking to a girl. He nods, but then turns away.

A dining room table is set with platters of scrumptious food. I admire a stunning, ceiling-high Christmas tree, twinkling with arrays of white and blue lights. After telling Irene how beautiful her new house is, I lapse into an awkward silence. Irene wanders off.  Couples are laughing, sharing stories. Nobody speaks to me.  Periodically, I wander out to the kitchen for a refill. The raucous laughter accentuates my loneliness.

           Suddenly, Irene stands up on a chair and makes an announcement from the center of the crowded living room. “Hey everybody! It’s time to liven things up. I know a great party game.”

           The conversation quiets. Everyone waits for her to continue. I notice a slight slur as she wobbles precariously.

           “Okay. This is how it goes. The girls go first. One at a time, you put on a blindfold and try to guess who each guy is. Touching is allowed, but no talking.”

           As she waves the scarf around, a ripple of laughter circulates the room. I avert my eyes, looking to escape back into the kitchen for another refill.

           “Gimme that!” yells Helen, Irene’s sister. I watch her tie the scarf around her head. Better her than me. Please, not me.

Chuckling, the men form a circle around her. As she fondles each of them in private places and attempts to guess their identities, onlookers hoot, cheer and applaud.

           Mannie goes next. Blindfolded and boisterous, she performs with gusto. When she reaches Dan, Irene’s boyfriend, she massages his hair, runs her fingers over his face, then proceeds to work her way south.  He is clearly enjoying himself, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Suddenly, a voice bellows above the laughter.

           “You bitch!” roars Irene. “You’re after MY man!”

           The clamorous audience is stunned into silence. Mannie tears off her blindfold and lunges at Irene, who scrambles into the kitchen. Mannie pursues, yanks open a drawer, and seizes a butcher knife. Irene flees back to the living room. Mannie follows, brandishing her weapon. I attempt to block her.

           She glares at me, knife raised, with black eyes from hell. “Get out of my way, or I’ll kill you!” I stumble aside and watch in horror as the two caterwaul and crash into the tree. It topples. Ornaments splinter across the polished, hardwood floor. Peter grabs Mannie from behind and pins her arms at her sides. Irene’s sister, Helen, sucker-punches her in the face. The knife clatters to the floor.

 “Merry FUCKING Christmas!” hollers an onlooker.

           Shaken and horrified, I escape. Nobody notices me leave. I cower behind the wheel of my car and try not to retch. Using the CN Tower as a signpost, I weave south along the Don Valley Expressway, one eye closed to improve my eyesight. I arrive alive.

 Nursing an excruciating hangover, I promise myself to stay away from booze. Sucked down by the quicksand of loneliness, I wallow in disappointment that Peter barely acknowledged me.

Abstinence over the next week is a marathon of deprivation. I wake up on New Year’s morning, congratulating myself for my sobriety the night before. To achieve this, I have sacrificed my social life by hiding in my room, ruminating about the pitiful reality of being single.

To offset these forlorn thoughts, I tell myself there is something to be said for being free of the crushing self-loathing and brutal hangover that follows a night of partying. Maybe I’ve got this drinking thing beat.

I head downstairs for a coffee. My father is awake, bent over a glass of straight gin, his usual drink of choice. His hand is shaking as he reaches for another sip. His blue-grey eyes, red at the rims, peer at me with a deep sadness from far away. I miss him. He has been so withdrawn for so long.

“Happy New Year, darling,” he rasps. He has been coughing continuously and refuses to listen to my mom and go to a doctor. He fumbles for his cigarettes and struggles to light up with his Zippo. A cloud of smoke mingles with a ray of sun shining through the window.

“Care to join me?” he asks, raising his glass.

My mouth waters at the thought of a double shot of gin, mixed with tonic water. I’ve been good. I deserve a drink.

“Thanks, Dad.” I root in the fridge, find the mix, and grab a glass without any further thought. I light up a cigarette from my Christmas carton, a gift from my parents.

“Remember when we used to go fishing at the cottage?” I ask, yearning to retrieve memories of my childhood.

My dad nods, smiles with nostalgia, and recalls the time he caught a whopper. A few drinks later, I feel connected to him again as he retells war stories, and recalls reckless adventures from his young adult years, many of which involved intoxication.

“Poor George was so drunk, he staggered onstage during the symphony and peed in front of the audience!”

I’ve heard this tale many times. As he recalls the episode, his laughter erupts into choking hiccups. I pat his back, wishing I could hug him, and knowing he will swat me away.

My mother joins us and immediately pours a drink. “Hair of the dog,” she announces, raising her glass of rye.

She is unusually jovial. Typically, she has an edge of impatience, but today, she is willing to be silly. We play a game of cribbage, and chuckle at my father’s inability to push the pegs into the tiny holes.

Hours later, as I collapse into bed, it dimly occurs to me that I have broken my pledge of abstinence with hardly a thought. Oh well, it’s New Year’s, right?

Eight months later, my father will die of throat cancer. Eight years later, I finally quit smoking.

It takes twenty more years after that for me to find escape from my second progressive and life-threatening addiction. I need other alcoholics who have chosen to let go of alcohol to show me the way out of hell. To them I am eternally grateful and strive each day to pay it forward.