Booze at 13: Bad Choices, Lost Memories, and Premature Fatherhood?
An alcohol-fueled youth spent playing chicken with fate.
Late June, 1979
Jenny Phillips was a punk rocker.
More importantly for the purpose of this story, her boyfriend Jason was a punk rocker who, like all good punks, had a healthy disdain for the rules of civilized society.
Vandalous, anarchic, essentially a dumb seventeen-year-old, Jason yelled to Eric and me as he and Jenny stepped out for a night of hardcore slam dancing, "I left a six-pack in the fridge. Help yourself."
Sid Vicious would have been proud.
“Wanna drink some beer?” Eric, Jenny’s brother and my best friend, asked, clearly forcing his enthusiasm.
“Sure,” I replied, not convinced I meant it.
After all, what did I know about drinking beer, or any type of alcohol for that matter?
I was just thirteen and alcohol was the last thing on my mind. Of much more importance was mastering the art of the five-minute shower, the amount of time I was led to believe through schoolyard gossip that I would have to complete the task. And with my personal best hovering around the six-minute mark, I still had a lot of work to do.
Yes, I knew I would be expected to face the timed post-gym class shower in high school, but it had never occurred to me that I might be expected to drink—or perhaps even get drunk—at parties, get-togethers, and in random parking lots.
However, Eric calculated, correctly I might add, that with product in hand and parents out for the evening, this was the opportune time to get started.
As far as I knew, Eric had never imbibed before, but with all his enthusiasm it felt like he was more experienced in this area, so I let him take the lead.
“You grab the beer and I’ll find the opener,” he said, rummaging through various drawers.
I placed the beer on Mrs. Phillips' kitchen table, pulled up a seat, and began to stare intently at the six cold, perspiring bottles in front of me.
They were mysterious and foreign, not at all like the pedestrian cans of beer my father downed after mowing the lawn on Saturday afternoons.
These beers were encased in an amber glass that curved ever so slightly inward from the base, rounding out halfway up the length of the bottle, then gently tapering towards the top, finishing with a small, pouting lip formed just below the capped mouth.
A golden sheath with a red chevron covered the top third, giving them a sophisticated, mature look, made even more so by the exotic-sounding name written in sloping script.
Michelob.
I began to sweat, flush with a sense of forbidden fruit, as if I’d stumbled into the boudoir of a beautiful older woman, catching her in a moment of slight repose, wearing the barest of coverings, which I knew were destined to end up on the floor in mere moments.
Sticking with this metaphor, I wondered if I would be able to handle what was going to happen next?
Would I charge in like an over-anxious amateur, speeding through the process, and finishing too fast?
What was the etiquette?
Was I supposed to sip it or chug it down?
What did you do when you drank, I thought?
Was drinking in and of itself the act, or was it just an accessory to an act?
And was it okay to sit on the Phillips’ plastic-covered furniture in the living room?
Ultimately, foreshadowing the countless hours of squandered time and potential yet to come, we drank beer and watched TV.
Spring, 1991 (with a brief flashback to 1982)
It was the hottest place I’d ever been.
I opened the cooler between the front seats only to find two cans of grapefruit Shasta floating in the remnants of what had been ice less than an hour ago.
I hate grapefruit Shasta, I thought to myself.
“Where are we?” I asked my parents.
“Laughlin,” my father said.
“How hot do you think it is?”
The bank we were passing supplied the answer on its digital sign.
“A hundred and twenty-two,” he said.
It would be twenty years before I’d again find myself in Laughlin, occasioned by an impromptu trip with my best friend.
It started out as a normal Friday afternoon.
When the clock struck five, quicker than Fred Flintstone slid down the back of that brontosaurus, I bolted out of my office straight to the closest liquor store.
My usual order was a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft, tallboys if they had them.
I threw the brown paper sack holding seventy-two ounces of liquid amber into the passenger seat of my car and raced home as fast as I could.
Golden Time—trademark pending—was about to start.
It was a slice of time I looked forward to all week long.
The time, after work was done, but before the real weekend festivities kicked in. Pre-weekend, you might call it. And for me, there was a very specific ritual.
Upon arriving at my apartment, I grabbed my igloo cooler and filled it to the top with ice, then halfway with water. The ratio of ice to water was very important; exactly two to one. Too much water and the ice would melt too fast. Not enough water and the ice could not fully conduct its coldness to the half-dozen beers it held.
When you’re a pro drinker, these things are important.
With the igloo prepped to perfection, I brought it into my room and placed it on a stand to the left—never the right—of my drum set.
Just for a moment, I paused to stare at the top of the glistening cans, all nestled snugly in their ice cocoon.
They had nothing to do with the raging hangover that would be on tap in a little over twelve hours.
No, they were pure. And clean. And represented all the potential for the night to come, with none of its consequences.
Pulling one out almost seemed a sacrilege, but Golden Time™ is finite—at least for a week—and at some point, you need the “crack.”
The crack that accompanies opening the first beer of the weekend may be one of the most beautiful sounds known to man. Like the starter gun at a track meet, that crack signals the beginning.
The beginning of Golden Time™.
Headphones on and sticks in hand, I’d spend the next two or three hours beating the living shit out of my drums, pausing just long enough to power down as much beer as I could between the final beat of one song and the first beat of the next.
Drink, drum. Drink, drum. Drink, drum.
There was a beautiful, semi-alcoholic rhythm to it, and before I knew it, the six-pack was gone and it was time to hop in the shower, throw on some clothes, and head out to my bar of choice—Hogue Barmichaels.
Hogue’s was large but intimate, with alcoves and niches that came off the main dance floor—perfect to sequester a lovely young lady if you were lucky enough to find one who was interested in you.
And there was usually a lot of interest. Even for a socially awkward dork like me.
However, for some reason, on this particular Friday night, Hogue’s was uncharacteristically slow.
With the pickings slim, our buzzes wearing off, and post-buzz boredom setting in, my buddy alighted on an idea.
“Why don’t we get out of here?”
“Great,” I said, instinctually going for the standard, “Vegas?”
“No. Vegas is too far. What about Laughlin?” he said.
Vegas is decadent, filled with women, booze, and gambling. Laughlin is shamanic, filled with women, booze, and gambling.
Located along the Colorado River near Native American land, Laughlin is more earthy and mystical than Vegas. If Jim Morrison had to choose between the two, the Lizard King would have definitely opted for Laughlin. And seeing as I was right in the middle of that Doors phase that every twenty-something male eventually goes through, I agreed.
“Sure,” I replied, excited by the change of course.
We paid our tab, jumped into my friend’s ride—a decrepit 1982 Datsun pickup—and headed out.
This was a particularly dicey move for a five-hour trip because whenever the engine got to a certain temperature it would just quit, necessitating a cool-down period of indeterminate nature, anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours, before it would start again.
And we were about to drive almost three hundred miles.
Through the desert.
At night.
Best we get some beer.
Somewhere in the late ’80s (as remembered in September 1997)
Today I woke up with a throbbing headache, no doubt caused by the 3rd, 7th, or 10th drink last night.
None of them will confess to being the culprit, so I will hold them all accused and guilty by association.
It was the occasion of my former best friend’s 30th birthday, held in a local watering hole. And on a Wednesday night. A strange night to hold a birthday party.
Maybe it was cheaper?
Live Bait had been an alcoholic institution since I was in high school and as soon as my friends and I turned 21, or got fake IDs, whichever came first, it was the first stop.
The dank and dreariness that permeates Live Bait is hard to describe.
It's as if the ceiling and walls are painted with 30 years' worth of depressing barstool banter and hard-luck stories. Fluorescent lights enhance the effect, imparting cold, washed-out tones to everything and everyone they strike.
It was in this same setting, somewhere in the depths of the ’80s, that I met Nancy.
What I remember of her is slim and suspect, as we connected in a section of the bar so dark and depressing that even the fluorescent light refused to shine.
I do remember that she had long hair and smelled good, and, at first glance, had a nice figure, though encumbered by the era's billowy clothes I could not be sure.
Of course, I was terribly drunk at the time, which casts doubts on my accuracy in recalling these or any further details, but doesn't stop me from trying.
I know she was older and didn’t drink. And that she picked me off with the accuracy and instincts of a sniper.
I remember dancing briefly and kissing extensively. She was a good kisser. She kissed like she meant it, her lips warm and wet, giving no indication that I had any choice in the matter.
At some point, even a drunk dork gets a clue, so I asked her to leave with me.
I'm not sure exactly what I said, but it probably went something like, "Hey, you wanna leave with me?"
I doubt I made any indication of where we were going, or what we’d do when we got there, but sex must have been on both our minds because at her request I stopped at a 7-Eleven en route to my place to buy protection.
At the time, I shared a house with four friends. Nancy and I went up to my room, which was decorated with a Silver Surfer poster, several empty beer bottles, and a flannel sheet fashioned into a canopy over my single bed—the same bed I had slept on as a child and received as a parting gift when I moved out, or more accurately, was kicked out, of my parents' house.
What I’m saying is that she knew she was about to sleep with a winner.
I remember neither of us undressing fully, and vaguely, a pair of pantyhose, which she took off rather quickly, and I thought, quite skillfully.
The sex was surprisingly good; meaning I didn't finish too soon, and despite being such a casual encounter, it felt intimate.
But things ended on a slightly sour note as I discovered post-coitus that the Trojan had failed.
The sight of what was now basically a rubber band did not instill the fear in me that it might have had I been sober, but still, I knew it was not a good thing.
When I informed Nancy, she didn't seem particularly worried.
There were vague mumblings about "not being the right time of the month" and then we both fell asleep.
Or I imagine that's what happened because I honestly can't remember.
I must have driven her somewhere either that night or the next morning, but I can't be sure.
Nancy had told me she was from Arizona and was visiting her friend Amy, who worked at TGIFs.
About a week later I stopped by said TGIF, introduced myself to Amy, scribbled my name and number on a cocktail napkin and handed it to her with a half-hearted "tell her to call me if she ever comes back to town," which I'm sure she translated as "I'd like to have sex with her again if she ever comes back to town."
The note likely found its way into a colorfully painted trash bin, and I never saw Nancy again.
In the years that followed, I’ve often thought back on that night and Nancy.
Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can only see her in shadow, bathed in cold, washed-out fluorescent light.
Sometimes I wonder why she consented to leave with somebody she had just met, or to go somewhere unknown?
And of course, I wonder why she picked me?
But more than anything else, one thought has nagged me—financially for 18 years and 9 months—and emotionally ever since.
Was a child born of that night—and would they one day knock upon my door?
Sure, it’s a long shot.
Even if conception had occurred, and the resultant wanted to find me, how could they?
Did Nancy even know my name?
I think I told her my first, but probably not my last name. And there are a lot of guys named Brian in SoCal; many more with the bastardized, lazy offshoot of (b)Ryan.
But even if I’d told her my name, would she have remembered it?
Would she have wanted to remember it?
It's an interesting thought, though not a particularly original one.
Read more stories from The Anecdote.
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Your storytelling and descriptions are so compelling. This brings back similar memories from my younger days. I have filed many of my younger diversions in a folder loosely labeled "things I tried, and enjoyed before I changed and decided I should not keep doing them forever". Thanks so much for sharing your writing and memories with us.