Bikers, Birthdays And A Lucky Escape
A tiny episode of my life
Sit down, relax. I will tell you a story about when I realised that alcohol is not my friend.
The 1990s. It was a sunny and warm Saturday in May. This is the month when I celebrate the day when I showed up in this world.
We (ex-girlfriend and a couple of her friends) sat around. A few bottles of wine on the table. I was too inexperienced to know that alcohol is not my friend. Alcohol is like a guy who you think is your friend but in reality, it’s a psychopath which likes to see you suffer.
We sat, talked, drank and smoked cigarettes. Nothing out of the ordinary. At some point, I got bored and decided to invite a few friends from my motorcycle gang and a few friends from the neighbourhood. By that time I was pretty drunk. The velocity of drunkness and joy of being surrounded by friends kept me excited. The girlfriend and her friends left, she couldn’t stand my drunk face. I can’t blame her, I can’t stand my drunk face myself.
The word spread fast that I was having a party, more people came to enjoy the madness. Soon there wasn’t enough space in the living room. The furniture was rearranged to accommodate the space for everybody.
I couldn’t contain my alcohol-infused happiness. I smashed my birthday cake on the wall. The clown of the evening. Someone found empty bottles on the balcony and soon those bottles flew out on the pavement and cars down below the building.
Both sets of my friends got along well. No fistfights, no insults. The happiness didn’t last. I got tired of it all and decided that it was time to leave the party. I decided that it was time to leave this town, this country.
I didn’t say anything to anybody, I put on my leather jacket and left. I decided that I’d walk towards the border. It’s not far, mere 100km or so.
The next morning I found myself sleeping next to the road not too far from my home. I couldn’t understand why I was there. The dirty, smelly birthday boy in a ditch. I walked back home with the fear that the flat is burned down and my parents are back witnessing the deeds of their vicious son.
When I arrived back everyone was gone, only one friend sleeping on the bed. What a relief. The pieces of the cake were still on the wall. Somehow, with the help of my friend’s girlfriend, we managed to clean the flat before the parents came back. Unfortunately, the marks of the cake stayed on the wall.
Alcohol is soul poison. It’s the worst drug known to a man. It turns people into mad, twisted psychos. I fucking hate it. Sometimes, I have a glass of wine or a bottle of beer and I can sense the madman waiting in the flanks.
I was lucky to understand that alcohol is not my friend and I am fortunate enough to have such good friends and interesting experiences in my life.
