Take It Easy (Love Nothing) Pt. 1

I've begun an experiment of sorts. Okay, it's not an experiment, because that implies that it extends for a temporary space in time. This is not the case. Far from it, in fact.

I am not an alcoholic. That is a vague thing for many people. In the past, there have been times when drinking has interfered with my life, but that's happened to many people without problems. It hasn't been a problem on a consistent basis.

My first drink happened when I was ten years old. There was this party store in Port Huron owned by a man by the name of George Smith. He went to high school with my grandpa. In place of my absent father, my grandpa was my father figure. I spent a lot of time with him when I was younger. On Saturday afternoons, he liked to go visit George at the party store. They'd hang out, watch whatever game was on TV, eat things like pickled eggs, and maybe have a beer or two. While I'd hang out, I would stock the walk-in cooler, and George would throw me ten bucks for the effort.

I have no idea if they ever knew what I was really doing, but it was a lot of fun sneaking around. What I would do is go and grab a copy of Penthouse from the magazine rack conveniently located in a spot where they wouldn't see me. Then I'd go into the cooler, stock everything, crack open a bottle of whatever, and check out the magazine. Right away I figured out that I didn't like the taste of beer. I wanted to, because according to all the commercials and ads, men are supposed to like beer, right? Whatever. I tried the fortified wines like Thunderbird and Richard's Wild Irish Rose...those were nasty. Then I tried a wine cooler. I really liked those. These days, I can't touch that shit, way too much sugar. But back then it would give me a good buzz. This went on for maybe a year or so.

Flash forward to 1994. I was 18, working in a small record store in Marysville, and I was at a serious loss as to what to do for fun. The last thing I wanted was to 'cruise' that infinite circle around downtown Port Huron on Friday and Saturday nights. My friend Buddy knew this guy Kevin who was just barely 21. We'd go over to his house, pick him up, and take him to the nearest liquor store. There he would get us whatever high-sugar alcohol we decided on. Buddy liked it more than I did, so he usually decided. It was usually some sort of schnapps like Buttershots or Hot Damn in the plastic 'traveler's' bottle. We'd hit that a bit, then head to Deja Vu. Hey, we were 18, what else were we supposed to do in this town that had absolutely nothing going on in it?

Then I turned 19, and things changed a little. I would spend about three nights a week (usually with Buddy and sometimes with my friend Lori) at strip clubs in Sarnia (Ontario). We got to a point where we were such regulars at Cheri Champagne's, that the bartenders knew what we drank. We would never get too drunk because it was so expensive. But a fourth night out of the week was spent at the dance clubs in Sarnia. Thursday was usually college night. Those were the nights to get really drunk on Long Island Iced Tea specials in pitchers, or other similar enticements. It sure as hell wasn't the crappy music that kept us going there.

A man whose name ecapes me right now was one of the guidance counselors at the junior high I went to. He also worked as a customs agent on the American side of the Blue Water Bridge. That was always fun, seeing him when wasted and coming back from the club. He would just look at us and shake his head. No questions were asked of citizenship or declarations, he would just wave us through. He recognized us, knew we were citizens, and that we were at the clubs.

By the time I was 21, I was barely going to Sarnia anymore. Cheri Champagne's closed, a tear was shed, and we moved on. I was of legal drinking age in this state for a mere eight months before I moved to Detroit.

(continued...)