Paradise Found
I always said that Milwaukee’s Best was the worse beer ever made. Towards the beginning of the night I would tell you that the initial flavor is vomit and it finishes like battery acid. During the daylight hours I would snobbishly condemn the consumption of such a flagrant and destitute beverage, I would speak volumes to the purity and cost effectiveness of Lone Star and Budweiser. I was too good for such garbage and it surely belonged in a small paper sack being clutched by a filthy, toothless man living under a train station in the ghetto.
However, at the end of the night; after the bars have closed and the kegs have floated, after the licorice schnapps and whipped cream vodka bottles have run dry, after the last drop of Kentucky Deluxe has been mixed with the last serving of powdered diet crystal light, after all of the cans and bottles have been sculpted into monuments of accomplishment and success. While limp human bodies droop and hang on furniture like a mannequin graveyard, I am awake and I only have one thing on my mind. I stumble to the refrigerator and ice chests to scrounge the remnants of that sweet and stingy liquid that i still crave.
The cold storage devices are like small barren shipping containers with a vast and endless nothing. In the refrigerator a five day old slice of pizza sits in a halfway open box, it looks like a broken plastic car part or a piece of shoe leather. The Sriracha sauce has a impenetrable layer of crust around the nozzle and a shoe that was removed and lost sits playfully in the middle of the cold abyss. It looks hopeless. The idea of going to sleep at this point doesn’t feel quite right. I am an Olympic drinker, a heavy weight, a Spartan warrior and sleeping is like giving up. Passing out due to total catastrophic inebriated annihilation is the only fate worthy of my greatness.
I head back to the only open spot on a couch that smells like a giant abused frat house pleasure sock. I rummage through the ashtray and find a small black fragment of a 2nd generation blunt that was rolled from four different kinds of roach weed. I roll it around with my index finger and thumb, I feel about two tiny clumps of bud, two stems and 5 flakes of shake. I’m like Macgyver with roaches; I hold it at the very tips of my fingers like an assembly line robot would, I place my lips around my fingers so as not to burn myself. One flick of the lighter and I make it vanish with a mighty draw, eight seconds later I exhale the entire thing. VOILA!
I lay my head back and close my eyes. I wonder if I’ll drive home or sleep on this couch that has random stiff parts on the cushions that could be from either spilled curry or other more obvious and disconcerting liquids. I wonder what I’ll do tomorrow. I wonder if I should eat now or wait until noon when I wake up. I wonder if I should drink water. I wonder… Wait… Hold on… The vegetable drawer… I didn’t check the vegetable drawer!
I spring up stiff like a shovel being stepped on and I waddle back to the kitchen with the determination of an injured marathon runner making his way to the finish line. I come in fast and slam up against the cold and giant silvery structure. I wildly rip the door open like it’s Christmas and I finally get to unwrap my present and find out if I got the newest accessorized action figure or a lame turtleneck sweater.
As my eyes scan down to the vegetable drawer, I say a small prayer. This is an exciting and potentially disappointing moment. It’s like a scratch off ticket and I am prepared to lose but am also considering the odds of winning. I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I cautiously shimmy the little drawer from right to left until it finally clunks forward. Before I open my eyes I ask God and the Universe to please allow me this one thing and I won’t ask for anything else for a while. I open my eyes and look down…
In the movies when someone looks into a treasure chest or a recently heisted bank vault you can see the glimmering yellow reflection of success hitting them in the face as they smile and know that their efforts have been rewarded. That’s how I felt and that’s how I looked. Bingo! I’m sure my face shimmered as the reflection of that lone can of Milwaukee’s Best hit my face like a solar flare of majestic brilliance. I am lucky. I am blessed. I gently cradled that gorgeous sweating can with both hands as if it was the magnificent fetus of Jesus. I adored it with a gentle swipe of my thumb and carefully wiped the mouth of the can clean with my shirt as if it was a priceless antique.
The sound of accomplishment was a crisp tisss as the perfectly leveraged mechanical arm broke through the perforated slot with Swiss precision. I licked my dry cracked lips in preparation. It was time. I pressed the cold rim of the can to my lower lips and dove into the ambrosia with a generous yet conservative gulp making sure not to spill one precious drop. That ice cold liquid of the God’s was as delicious as it was refreshing and I was finally complete.
It was hearty, yet it had complex notes of yeast and barley. It coated my pallet with a delicate fizz that I ran my tongue through letting the hops sting my taste buds and tantalize my salivary glands. This was surely the finest beer I had ever tasted and I enjoyed every drop as if it was a 1921 Dom Perignon. Twelve captivating ounces later I was satisfied. I felt as if I could contently fall asleep on a bed of nails or the kitchen floor. I melted back onto the luxurious couch and stretched my legs. I rubbed my hands across my chest and made a deep fulfilled sigh before I grinned my way into the void of satisfied drunken slumber.
Those were the ‘good ol’ days’ back when I drank.
As I sit and write this; It has been 32,261 hours since my last drink, which is basically 3.6 years or 192 weeks for you Moms and Dads out there. I feel amazing, and every one of the last 1,344 days have been a blessing and new opportunities to explore life without the constraints of alcohol’s agenda.
Nights like this story recounted used to represent what I thought was having it all. I thought if I had enough booze, I could achieve something perfect. I thought I was living the life that I wanted but since I had been doing it for so long, I had forgotten what the world was like when I was a child. I had forgotten about the boy who wanted to be a musician and a dancer and a writer. The boy who found so much wonder and amazement in every detail of nature. The boy who’s eyes were so wide and so curious that every creek and every trail yielded endless adventurous stories. I woke up one day and found him. I awoke to paradise, and I could die tomorrow; grateful and content.
