The Pledge

I can remember my manager’s smug attitude as if it were yesterday, even though this took place ten years ago. “In the restaurant business, we employ a lot of drunks and druggies,” he told me during my first week on the wait staff. “I can always pick ‘em out by their sick time and number of late days. Now, this is a union gig, so I can’t just fire people for nothing. But I’m a patient man and I document every late shift and sick day. When they’ve gotten enough of those I’ve got good cause to fire ‘em. And there’s not a goddamned thing that Commie union can do about it.”
“With all due respect, sir,” I replied. “I find your attitude personally insulting.”
“Why? You’re not an alchey or a druggie. You’ve got nothing to worry about, do ya?”
“Actually, I’m both,” I said, inching my face closer to his. “I drink and get high every single day – only after work, of course,” I lied. “And I’m staying at this job as long as I want to.”
“I’m going to be watching you every step of the way,” he threatened before storming off.

And I knew he would. So at that moment I told myself I would never call in sick, and never be late for my shift. And it wasn't even about keeping my job; there was a more important message that was involved. Obviously, I knew that sooner of later I would inevitably be late. Busses broke down, traffic sometimes came to a standstill, life intervenes in ways that are simply not foreseeable. But I was going to do my damnedest to never give that prick the excuse…
Three days later I woke up with a truly momentous hangover which was, in actuality, more akin to alcohol poisoning. I had spent the previous night drinking double shots of Frenet and snorting lines of cocaine off the top of the toilet in the dank men’s room at one of my favorite downtown dives. Because the group I was with knew the bartender on duty, he let us stay until four in the morning while he cleaned up – a dubious favor, to say the least.
Within a few seconds of opening my eyes I leaped out of bed and ran to the toilet, where I began vomiting profusely. It was clear to me that this was an act that was to be repeated many times over the day. But I had made my pledge. And I wasn’t going to let that motherfucker win.
At work an hour and a half later, I could feel the cold sweat gathering on my pale, clammy face as I folded napkins for the afternoon shift. The nausea was rising steadily in the pit of my stomach, then made a great surge forward to the base of my throat. I ran into the kitchen bussing station and wretched into the nearest garbage can: nothing came out except a viscous, neon yellow-green fluid, the bile which coated the lining of my stomach. I could taste the residual flavor of cigarettes from the night before on the back of my tongue, their last remnants emanating from somewhere within me. When I was finished I got up and looked around: there was nobody to be seen. I had gotten away with it this time.
The shift was a circle of hell undiscovered by Dante. Twice, while taking lunch orders, I was certain I would upchuck that same yellow-green bile onto the face or suit of the haughty businessman below, only to hold it long enough to escape to the garbage bin outside the building for relief; the ripe stench of rotting food helped to bring forth the forbidden liquid with greater alacrity. Somehow, however, I was able to avoid detection by my coworkers and more importantly the management staff. Although each minute felt more like a quarter of an hour, slowly, inexorably, I was moving toward the end of the workday.
When I got home I fell into bed and a deep sleep that took me into the night. Awaking, I felt like a man reborn. I had achieved the goal and defeated my foe. I had momentum on my side.
I would need it. This pathetic act was to be repeated more than a dozen times over the next year. And these were only the most extreme cases, in addition to the more pedestrian hangovers which were by comparison merely unpleasant. Innumerable were the moments when I awoke and wished beyond all else to make that simple phone call which would liberate me from a day of wage slavery. But I never once gave in. And I was never – not even a single instance, not even one minute – late for work during that entire duration.
School was over and I was graduating, moving on to bigger and better things, I believed. My last day of work had arrived – I had given a months notice and had personally trained my replacement. I was once again folding napkins for my shift. My adversary entered the dining room and approached me.
“For a year I have watched you come in here, sometimes sick as a dog. And don’t think I didn’t smell the booze coming off of you more than once. Since your first week here, I never liked you. You’re cocky and you don’t respect authority. You’re an average server at best. But I’m not going to bullshit you and I’m not going to lie. I have never in my twenty years of experience in this business seen anybody with an attendance record as perfect as yours. It’s a goddamned phenomenon. Congratulations.”
The urge to put it in his face, to say something petulant overwhelmed me, but I knew that to indulge this urge would only lessen my victory. I held out my hand, shook his, and looked him right in the eyes.
“It’s been a pleasure, boss. Thanks for the opportunity.”

A Moment of Clarity at the Track

I was at the track and losing my ass. I hadn’t seen a winner all day. There is nothing worse – statistically speaking – in the gambling world than the horse track, save keno and the lottery. Between the State and the operators fee the juice is close to eighteen percent. I sucked down beer after beer to try to numb my pain, but was hardly succeeding.
I put twenty bucks on an eight to one shot to win, which would get me close to even if it came in. My nag lost in a photo finish to a thirty to one long shot. The exacta paid over two hundred dollars. I could hear someone near me shouting in joy at his triumphant win while I pondered my mounting losses. The desperation was welling up within me. I began walking toward the bar.
At this moment I became consciously aware of my surroundings in a way that I had not been all day. Time slowed down as it does sometimes, and I felt contained in the moment. All around me the detritus of humanity: the black guy with the clam chowder dribbled down the front of his shirt, greedily slurping up the last of the liquid from the bottom of the bowl. The motley group of Asian men sitting at a round table chattering incoherently at one another with an unknown excitement seemingly unrelated to the horses. The two forty-something white guys with the unshaved faces, broken teeth and anachronistic 1980’s era clothing talking quietly, secretively: abject burn outs whose glory days were far behind them. The Hispanic father instructing his young son on the intricacies of the racing sheet. The bum picking up tickets off the ground to see if any winners had been accidentally thrown away. Gamblers in general are a species, with their own common and easily identifiable traits. Horseplayers are a breed, among the lowest of their kind, their hopes and dreams dashed with indefatigable regularity. It can be generally stated that losers play the track. The proof was right there in front of my eyes.
But not only my eyes, oh no. My sense of smell also told me of the veracity of my belief. The odor of wet turf. The aroma of tobacco and hot dogs. That faint whiff of cheap gin on the breath of the man standing next to me. These were the smells of the horseplayer, the fragrance of defeat.
And I was proud to be counted in their number, to share in some small way their struggle. God help me, but I felt more genuine brotherhood, more sympathy, more affection for these people than all the Salvation Army do-gooders and Hospice volunteers the world could belch forth. And I know it’s illogical to feel this way; I know that on some level it’s wrong. For all their weakness, their hatreds, their vice, sin and degradation, I choose their company. They had hope in the face of utter despair, a belief they could win in a game where we all lose in the end.

Introduction and Mission Statement

The title says it all: I’m a functioning addict and these are my memoirs. What’s my poison? Take your choice. Alcohol, I can’t imagine life without it. Drugs, they go great with alcohol. Gambling, it has been and continues to have the potential to be a problem ten times greater than the first two combined. But I’d be lying to you – and what is infinitely worse, to myself – if I told you that these three vices, the holy trinity of my addiction, embodied the essence of my plight. Because I could give up all three and I’d find something else to replace them with; for the struggle of my life is not only with the aforementioned vices, but with the process and love of addiction itself.
This is being written for all the functioning addicts out there that spend their lives controlling, resisting, indulging and negotiating with the beast within. I don’t care if your thing is overeating, hoarding, sex, television, prescription pills, shopping, adrenaline, smoking, overwork or bee stings. If you are addicted, yet you are surviving in society, contributing to something outside of yourself, if you are struggling to maintain your existence as you see it, even in the face of everything everyone else tells you, even if you are defying logic, you are my sibling. I embrace your struggle and your dilemma. I offer you something greater than hope. I offer you my understanding and my fascination with and love of your condition. I sing the body addicted.
What is this experiment? Where will it lead? There is really no way to be completely certain. Sometimes entries to this forum will take on the structure of personal remembrances, thoughts, ideas and experiences. Sometimes fiction will also be indulged. I guess if anybody writes to me or wants to add something to the forum I may feel obliged to publish their thoughts as well. It is important that the medium be flexible and amorphous so that it shall remain inclusive, non-judgmental and open to all.
There are a few unifying tenants that I have compiled, however, to give the forum some semblance of structure and direction, and to remind myself why I am writing this. These tenants can be increased or eliminated as time goes on and further truths reveal themselves. I only apply these tenants to myself, so you may take them or leave them as you wish. It would be unfair if I did not thank the good people at Alcoholics/Narcotics/Gamblers Anonymous for a part of the inspiration which lead to them.
1. I am an addict. I remind myself of this regularly and never deny this essential truth.
2. Despite this first truth, I submit that there is no power outside of myself that is responsible for my behavior. I own the mistakes I make.
3. I function in society, albeit with great difficulty at times. I want to contribute something to the lives of others.
4. I have decided that my will alone has to be enough. Hopefully it shall be supplemented by the help and understanding of others like me.
5. I embrace my shortcomings and my character flaws so that I may successfully live with them.
6. I seek to know, understand and help others like me.