July 8th. 2.30am.
A man comes to the bar and orders a Monkey Shoulder whiskey, large, two rocks. I put the rocks in the glass, set it on the back bar, open the bottle and pour it into the jigger. I pour it over the ice, slowly. It smells incredible. I set the whisky in front of him and finish off pouring his round. Three beers on top of the scotch. Whilst I pour we talk whisky; how to drink it, how to enjoy it, what to do whilst you’re enjoying it and what it’s like to like it too much. I like it too much, I tell him, which is why I always say no when he offers to buy me a drink.
In the UK, working a bar isn’t really a tipping job, but a few customers (mainly the weekenders) will offer you a drink on top of their round. I either say no, or add on a Red Bull to help me through the shift. I never say yes and take the money instead. When I politely decline I usually feel the need to follow it up with an ‘I don’t drink’, which is always a surprise to the customer. A barman who doesn’t drink? Well no actually, a barman who drinks too much a few months of the year and kids himself into believing he’s recovered for the remainder. Up until the thirtieth of June 2019, I had drunk twenty measures plus every day of every week for two solid years. That’s when the blood came, and the liver damage and the hospital stay and the eight months of kidding myself. When we shut up shop on March twenty-second, just over three months ago, I stopped kidding myself and started enjoying myself again. I have now been sober for a week and a half, and back behind the bar for four days.
A man comes to the bar and orders a Monkey Shoulder whiskey, large, two rocks. I put the rocks in the glass, set it on the back bar, open the bottle and pour it into the jigger. I pour it over the ice, slowly. It smells incredible. This is my first smell of the poison in nearly two weeks, and I can almost taste the warmth on the back of my throat. We aren’t very busy and I have it in my head that I should take a drink, just one, and satisfy the thirst. But I don’t. “Which is why I always so no when you offer to buy me a drink.” I’ve spent the last four days engaging in the same conversation over and over again with countless nameless faces. What did you do during lock-down? Loads. How does it feel to be back at work? Great. Aren’t you worried about the virus? No. These are all lies I tell to make the customers feel better. I wear the metaphorical mask and make sure not to bother them with my petty pains and self indulgent diatribes about the government and the world on fire and the injustices I find thrust upon me at this tender and tumultuous turning point in my personal and professional life . What do I really mean? Nothing, Terrible and very. What do you want to hear from me? Fuck the government fuck the virus, damned be the bat eating maniac who begat this madness- and to hell with the job I’m going to hide in the woods where the snot nosed bastards can’t sneeze on me? I cannot say these things. But I can write them down and post them on the internet because that’s what my Grandfather fought for, right? My right to moan to bitch and cry, on a website I’ve set up just to make myself feel like I’m actually doing something about my hopes and dreams. Kidding myself. Always kidding myself.
It is now almost three AM and I should be asleep. I have blood tests at two in the afternoon -before my five o’clock shift- and I can’t eat or drink anything that isn’t straight up unadulterated water until the needles out. Blood tests, to make sure I haven’t fucked myself up too terribly over the last three months. Valium, weed, codeine, whisky, beer and (just a little) cocaine. A wonderful cocktail for the man who has everything but a sense of humor. I spent the entirety of lock-down eating shit food, sitting on my arse reading books and drinking/taking whatever I could get my hands on to make me feel a little better about the miserable state of the world I was living in. I re-read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time in years, and started reading Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. I read the first two (Interview With the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat) over the course of five days, then took a break to enjoy some Stephen King and Bukowski. I read Hemingway and Hunter S Thompson. I read Go Set a Watchman and was bitterly disappointed and confused. I started to read Queen of The Damned (Third of the chronicles) and after eating up the first three-hundred and fifty pages in two short sittings, the fear started to creep in as the opening date loomed large. I am yet to finish the book. I have not read a word in two weeks and I am always more depressed when I am not reading. I got lazy as I started to contemplate sobriety, and turned to Netflix and second rate Jason Statham films instead of literature. I have worked the last four days and will work tomorrow (or later today) until about ten O’clock. Then I’ll clock off, walk home, drink several non-alcoholic beers and then sleep until four in the afternoon. I have two days off, and whilst I know that I need to call my Father and see about helping in any way I can with the arrangements that need to be made to bury my Grandmother and clear out her home, I’m not sure I have it in me. I am tired. I am more tired than I have been in months; perhaps even in a year. I have been running on pure chaotic adrenaline since my Birthday and I’m due a comedown. I’m due a lay-in. I’m due an emotional crack. The mask is coming off and I need time to lay in the dark and cry. I haven’t cried yet, since the news. I don’t know if I will, until the funeral or even then. But I’m pretty sure I need to. It’s healthy isn’t it? To cry when things go wrong. To feel weak when the phone rings with bad news and heartache. I have been running on pure chaotic adrenaline whilst everything around me has gone wrong, and I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I wake up when the alarm rings and I put on my shirt and blacks. I put on my comfortable Converse sneakers and I put on my metaphorical mask. That happy face you have to wear when you work in hospitality and your job depends on your ability to make strangers feel better about their shitty little lives. I can’t tell them that I’m tired because I just got sober after a three month relapse, or that my Grandmother died on Sunday and I have no idea how to deal with it. That I’m worried about my Father, my family, my career and my health. I cannot bother these people with my petty pain and narcissistic pondering because it’s my job to be happy and healthy and full of shit. But I can tell you, can’t I? The internet. Imaginary reader. I can tell you, my fan base that doesn’t exist. To feel better, for a while. To kid myself some more.
So this guy comes up to the bar and orders a whisky and I pour it and I want it and I say ‘no, I don’t drink’ but that’s bullshit isn't it? I just don’t drink right now.
Walter Laurence, on Sobriety and lies.
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