One Last Night.

With full knowledge that no story with a happy ending ever began with “I woke up in a Red Roof Inn with a hangover and a girl who only vaguely reminded me of someone I went to bed with” I'm going to have to start there.

While everything was very hazy a few things stood out: it was morning. The clock read 8:16. The sun was bright but not yet hot. We had never drawn the curtains. We had blasted the air conditioning. We had made a trip to the liquor store and cleaned out their Johnny Walker shelf. The cottonmouth I was experiencing was certainly due to the smoking of illicit substances more than the dehydration of a night of strictly drinking. Oh, and we were both nude. Well, mostly. Blinking wildly allowed the chair across the room to come into focus. My shirt and pants were there. A bra was on the floor next to it. Three sandals trailed from the chair to the foot of the bed. Three? I hadn't worn sandals. I wiggled my toes under the blanket. As I assumed: I was still wearing one sock. So still unaccounted for was underwear, one sock, her clothing, and her name. What the hell was her name? Emily? No. Jackie? No (that was a different motel in Wisconsin). Sara? No. Sarah? YES! With an h. I winced. I almost certainly said “H as in hot?” the night before. How the hell did she still go to bed with me after that? Oh yeah. Johnny Walker.

I needed to get up. I knew that much but was at a loss as to how. Sarah was snoring but also just on my arm enough that any jostling could wake her. Normally I wouldn't think twice about waking someone sleeping next to me, especially one with whom I had a sum total of ten hours of history, but waking her would mean talking, awkward jokes about morning breath if I'm lucky and jokes about whisky dick if I wasn't. I did a quick glance around the room again and was relieved to see a small pile of condom wrappers near one of the sandals. Maybe that meant my performance had been so impressive that several were required! But what most likely happened was I was too drunk and high to put one on and it took a few tries before I was successful.

Sarah moved. She let out a slight moan, breathy and raspy. Sexy. I tried to recall her doing it last night but it physically hurt to think.

I waited for Sarah’s steady breath and light snore before clenching my eyes (ouch!) and rolling out of bed. Literally. I would extend one arm, feel for the floor, and roll out, catching myself as I flipped over to my stomach on the way down. It was a tried and true method of leaving a bed without shaking the mattress too much. Suffice to say I had perfected it by this morning. Well, almost. Halfway to the ground I realized my arm was asleep. Pins and needles stabbed at my hand as I tried in vain to will feeling back into my fingers. My face slammed into carpet that lacked padding but was ripe with thirty years of elicit dealings, spilled alcohol, puke, and countless other things I tried not to think about.

Sarah stirred as I stifled a grunt. My breath was completely knocked out of me and I could feel a small drop of blood dripping from my nostril. The chair was thankfully close to where I landed so I grabbed for my pants and shirt. I stifled another grunt; I had landed as much on my shoulder as my face. But the need to get out of there far outweighed my need for personal comfort. My shoes were a little further away, tucked under the chair. Sneakers. I knew I hadn't worn sandals! (To this day I still don't know where the hell that third sandal came from). I slipped into my pants, didn't bother lacing up my shoes, stood with minimal discomfort, and patting my pockets, located my keys. I looked back to the bed. Sarah was slightly drooling and her hair was matted to the pillow. She was...what's the word? Beguiling. That's it. A few shimmers of the previous night came back to me. Her hair was curly, freshly so. I called it dirty blond and she joked that it wasn't the only dirty thing she had. We both winced, her attempt at flirting accidentally calling herself unclean. I tried to help by saying it was okay because my mind was so dirty it had just assumed she meant she wanted to shower with me as soon as possible. She looked me straight in the eyes and whispered, “We'll both need one when I'm done with you.” The whole interaction still holds a unique place in my mind as the most awkward, yet successful, flirting I've ever been part of. We hadn't gotten around to the shower part but we seemed to have done everything else.

I lifted my shirt from the chair, feeling my bare chest as I pulled it over my head. I was sticky. Dipping my head I could smell the sour odor of Red Bull and what I assumed was the cheapest possible vodka in the bar well on my skin. The shirt had the same smell. No shimmer of recollection about that. But also no surprise.

I made my way to the door while silently thanking the brutalist architecture of 1960s and 70s hotel design. Concrete floors meant no creaking floorboards. I turned the handle and pulled the door toward me. I turned back back for one last look at Sarah. I smiled. She snored. I shrugged. Stepping out onto the balcony I slowly closed the door behind me, fished my keys from my pocket, and walked down the stairs to the parking lot.

I had most of the day to myself so I pointed my car toward home. Home was my parent's basement. I know it seems a little on the nose but it's the truth. I had gone through a break up  not long before and was trying, albeit half-heartedly, to find a new place to live with my daughter. But it was free, safe, and the fridge was always full of food. The only problem as I saw it was that the situation was BYOB. But that’s how it had been since I had my first drink at nine years old, which is a story for a different time.

For now I needed sleep. And probably more beer. For sure more beer. I had a DJ gig at six and only needed to shower. I saw a liquor store on the corner at the light ahead. The nap could wait. Plus another drink would help fend off my hangover.

I pulled into the lot and parked. It was early, probably too early, but I knew the hours by heart and tugged on the door anyway. A big brown Labrador and something mix greeted me, as he always did. Before me he had greeted my mom for so many years that I could pin my own momentous life events to the growth of the dog from puppy to full on miniature horse. I waved a hello to the owner, Richard, behind the counter. Yes. His name was Richard. And yes, we all joked that his store was called Dick Liquors. I grabbed a twelve pack of MGD from the cooler in the back and a six pack of Leinenkugel's Summer Shandy from the display on the way to the register. I tossed down the two twenties I found in my pocket (where did those come from?) and patted the dog goodbye. The bottles clinked hard on the way back to the car. I could have gotten cans but I was prepared for this. It was, for better or ill, not the first time I had to sneak in quietly, maybe a quarter in the bag, fending off the beginnings of a hangover. I popped my trunk and took out a backpack. Inside were two throw pillows and enough room for 12 bottles or 19 cans. Not my first rodeo obviously. All those hours of Tetris on my Game Boy in 1989 ended up paying off in unexpected ways. It even fit with my entire DJ rig strategically shoved in there. I jammed what I could in the pillow and placed the other bottles as securely as possible throughout the small empty spaces, hopped in, and went home.

Both my parent's cars were in their spots. Not ideal. My dad slept on the couch due to a mix of conflicting work schedules with my mom and vivid and terrifying nightmare flashbacks of Nam. He would almost certainly still be sleeping heavily enough to sneak past if I was empty handed. But I was not about to leave the booze behind. I parked and grabbed the pillow. I slid my key in the front door and turned the knob quickly. If there was going to be a noise it was best to just make it fast, count to five, and continue on. Long, drawn out noises always attract more attention no matter what The Tell-Tale Heart would have you believe. When I hit five I pushed the door open and slid inside. I could hear him snoring. I pushed the door closed without locking it and made small, deliberate steps toward the basement. He breathed like Sarah had. Perfect. I went to my bed, pulled out an MGD, twisted the cap, took a long pull, laid down, and promptly passed out.

I woke some house later to footsteps above me. My mother. She knew I was home and that I hadn't been all night. This stomping was her way of showing disapproval. It was warranted but the slight throbbing at the base of my skull was not a fan. I blinked awake for the second time that day. On my makeshift nightstand (an empty five gallon paint bucket I had stolen from my day job managing a Sherwin Williams) I saw two Advil and a large container of water. Even with all the stomping my mom could be relied on to take care of me. How did I know it was her? The cup was plastic. She thought ahead. No one with a hangover wanted the added weight and danger that came with trying to hold and raise a glass cup after a night of drinking and...other endeavors. I took the meds and gulped down the water like a man just rescued from the desert.

The red numbers on my alarm clock said it was 3:26. A little later than I expected. I smiled. Did this mean Sarah overslept too? Was the night as tiring for her as it apparently had been for me? (I would learn later that while she had overslept and ended up checking out late from the motel it was not, she swore, a result of my sexual prowess. Instead it was the Jager bombs and almost bottomless Red Stripe beers we had imbibed. I had to admit she was probably right.)

I got up and went to the bathroom upstairs. I heard both of my parents in the kitchen which, thankfully, was not visible from the basement stairs. I yelled a quick “Thanks for the meds, mom!” as I slipped to the second floor. She said something but to this day I don't know what.

After my shower I dressed quickly in my usual backyard shotgun wedding attire: khaki shorts, a polo with my company logo stitched on the chest, and white gym shoes that were a half size too big. I had bought them while wearing extremely thick socks and never bothered to buy a new pair. Now they gave me blisters every time I wore them, my heels rubbing on the sandpaper like lining of PayLess Shoe Source's best cheapest clearance shoes. I had done enough of these events to have an outfit but still couldn't justify spending money on new kicks. After all, that money could go toward more booze and pills. And toys my daughter didn't need and which I had no room for.

I went upstairs expecting my parents to ask questions regarding my whereabouts the night before. Even at twenty seven years old they worried about me. But I never failed to give them reason to not to, so I understood completely. They weren’t there. They had left a note on the kitchen table:

Went to the store. Hope you're feeling better. If you have bottles in your car take them out before you drive anywhere - don't want to get arrested for an open container! Haha (?) Good luck at your gig! Love, Mom and Dad

Always looking out for me even when they didn't agree with my actions. But also sad proof they saw something in me that I was actively ignoring. For eighteen years something had been hidden, to different degrees of success. I hadn't hidden a damn thing from them. My dad was almost certainly in denial. He had been an alcoholic and quit twenty-something years prior after wrapping my mom's car around a light pole on I-55 in the middle of the night. The police on scene radioed their dispatch, who called my mom. It was the early 80s and things were handled much differently then. My mom piled my older sister and me in our other car. When we got to the scene, I'm told, my dad was cuffed to the downed pole and in a very bad state. That afternoon when he awoke my mother gave him an ultimatum: the booze or his family. He never touched a drop of alcohol again.

My mom drank though. Not to excess or socially, but to take the edge off. She never let it get in the way of anything and knew when she had drank too much. Maybe this was why she was so willing to abide my obvious issues. I took after her in most every way, after all. I may look like my dad but I very much comport myself as my mother had since before I was born. She knew I drank. She knew I was smoking weed. She probably knew about the pills. But she knew from a distance and rarely referenced it. Perhaps she should have.

For now that note would have to suffice. It was 5:30 and I had to get moving. I ran back down to my room and chugged the beer I had started before my shower. It was mostly full and piss warm.  As the last bit drained from the bottle I got a head rush. I took this as a sign tonight was going to be one to remember. I wasn't even there performing (and drinking) yet and I already felt this good. I hasten to mention here that I am incredibly bad at reading signs.

The next few hours passed uneventfully. The happy couple exchanged their vows while I set up my equipment. They entered the backyard on a Harley, as one would expect from a shotgun wedding I suppose. I played a cocktail hour's worth of 70s and 80s rock, hair bands, and power ballads, which was not the most unconventional playlist I ever made for a wedding but it was close. Dancing was scheduled to run for five hours. In addition to my normal flat rate for a wedding I was given my own pony keg of Miller Lite as a sort of tip from the happy couple. They also allowed me to post my personal tip jar at my DJ station. As the night came to end and I pressed play on the last song I counted the cash in the jar. It didn't take long thanks to all the bills being larger than twenties. It also didn't take long because I realized quickly that I was in no condition to count money. I couldn't even count how many refills of beer I had to that point. All I knew was that I had yet to polish off the pony keg, which was odd. I vaguely remember thanking the couple and the guests over the mic. I started to pack up but was stopped by the groom who slid me five one hundred dollar bills and told me I should stay a while longer. I looked at the money, looked at him, and looked at my empty cup. Shrugging I pressed play on another song and the party continued. So did the beer.

Eleven turned to midnight. The pony keg was drained so I moved on to the bride's stash of Michelob. By the time I had peeled the label from my third, it was two in the morning. Most everyone still there was passed out on the lawn, in the living room, or, for some reason, fully clothed in the shower upstairs.

The time had come to pack up. This was something I had done thousands of times by then but I found myself entirely at a loss of how to do it. But I needed to leave so I started unplugging the nearest cords to me. An ear piercing screech was followed by a pop that I’m sure neighbors mistook for gunshots. Then a good deal of smoke emanated from the rear of my power supply and sound board. I would find out later that in less than five seconds I destroyed six thousand dollars worth of audio gear. But right then I was happy to have things unplugged. I shoved things into boxes and bags, giving no thought to where they actually went. Then I did them same after transporting them to my car. So long as I could still get in the driver's seat I would be fine, I thought. The groom floated over to my car as I was getting in and handed me more bills. All told, I had more than three thousand dollars in cash in my pocket. No wallet. No ID. Just cash. I thanked him again and drove off.

Within a block the mistake was obvious. I wasn't swerving but I couldn't focus. Everything was a blur and the streetlights glared like fireworks. I was only on the other side of my small town. Home was close. I would be fine so long as-

A car sped to get catch up to my bumper. There were only a few people I knew at the house. This was probably just one of them being a smartass. Who else would rush to catch up to my tail on a random suburban street at two in the morning? And with headlights so bright! I came to a stop sign and tried to discern the make of the car in my rear view as I turned the corner. My back tire bumped the curb, causing me to momentarily lose control and have to jerk the wheel. If I hadn't been showing signs of drunk driving before I certainly was now. I glanced back in my mirror. My heart leapt from my chest, slammed into my skull, then shot down to my guts. The red and blue lights, black and white panels, gold insignia; that was no friend of mine.

It took the cop four blocks to run my plates and radio for backup. He flipped his lights on and I turned into a strip mall parking lot. Not just any strip mall: one where I could glance to my right and see my house. But all I could see at that moment were small flashes of red, blue, and white as panic overtook my ability to view any one thing. I blinked. Before I could open my eyes there was a tap on my window.

“Were you mad at that curb back there? That why you hit it?”

I didn't answer. I grabbed my license from my cup holder and stared straight ahead. I knew where this was going and wasn't about to help the cop get there.

“And insurance, son.”

Shit. I didn't have any. Never did. I feigned exasperation looking for it in the glove box, the center console, my wallet. I sold it well enough that the cop said to just forget it for now. For a split second I was relieved. I should have known better. Another squad pulled up next to his.

“We're gonna have you step out of the car, son. I smell alcohol and I need you to do me a favor and answer some questions.”

Why do cops always do that? Nothing they ask is ever a favor. Not for the person opposite the cop anyway. But I did what he asked, sobering up a little more in the process. But the new rush of adrenaline wasn't helping matters. I felt my feet shake inside my too-large shoes.

“So how much have we have to drink tonight, son?”

“We?" I asked. "I don't recall seeing you. You should have said hi.”

“Ah. We got one of those people." He was speaking to the other officer who had come to assist.

“Yup,” said the other guy. “Seems that way.”

Whoops. Open mouth, insert foot. Usually I was sober enough to know to shut the hell up. No such luck this night.

“So you were not at the wedding, then?” I said.

“Fraid not. Wedding? You were not the groom, I assume.” It was a statement, not a question.

“DJ.”

“DJ? Well, I hope you're good at line dances because I have a line I'm going to need you to walk.”

And with that horrible segue my life would never be the same.

I failed to walk a straight line. I failed to count backwards from one hundred. I failed to say my ABCs without singing them. I failed to touch my nose with my finger. I failed to follow a pen hovering before my eyes.

Then he asked if I would consent to a blow test. To this day I thank the non existent gods that I was too drunk to make the obvious sex joke. Instead I nodded. He presented the plastic nozzle to me. I blew.

“Holy shit!” He waved his partner over. “Double check me. I'm reading that right, right?”

His friend studied the readout, the mouthpiece, tapped on the device. When he was satisfied he nodded, “Yeah. Holy shit is right.”

I could barely take the suspense. “What?”

They both looked at me in amazement. “How drunk do you think you are, kid?”

I shrugged. “Well, I'm twenty-seven, so I'm not a kid but I don't think I'm too far gone. I can tell you don't agree though. So I should probably shut up now and wait for a lawyer.”

“You blew a 0.34. You should be in a hospital with alcohol poisoning. You should be passed out. You should be unable to speak. You didn't pass any of the field tests but you're more lucid than some people with half this BAC.”

I was impressed with myself. The cops seemed to be too. They conferred for a moment and the one who pulled me over said, “Okay. One more favor. I'm gonna need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

“Oh shit. Someone's been watching too much COPS.”

Now I'm not saying he was rougher with me because I said that but he certainly got a lot more insistent after I said that. I was shoved into the back of a squad while my car was towed. I was taken to the police station, searched, booked, fingerprinted, and shown to a cell. It was only three. Everything had only taken an hour. Thirty minutes later a different cop, more rotund and with only a stun gun on his hip, led me to a large machine that looked like a 1980s dot matrix printer. “You're gonna blow again.” Unfortunately I was no longer too drunk for the joke.

“Again? Okay. But you gotta buy me breakfast when I'm done.”

He did not laugh. “Me? You're the one with a few thou in cash in your pocket.”

I blew again. 0.32. “You can use some of that money to bail yourself out or you can call someone. What's it gonna be?”

I laid down $200 and was escorted to the exit door with three citation and a court date. I was still drunk but able to commit everything I saw, smelled, and touched to memory. It was not yet four AM. The sun was going to break the horizon soon which meant movement in the house. And worse: questions.

I got home. Dad was sleeping soundly and didn't react when I came in. Exhaustion was setting in fast. I tripped my way to my bedroom and collapsed into my bed. My eyes closed and the world disappeared.

My phone, a huge black slab of keyboard called a Blackberry, vibrated under my ass. I squinted at the screen as I tried to see what time it was while reading the message. It was 5:15 and the message read:

Dropping Zoe Jane off in 15. Better not be fucking drunk again!

Fuck. It was my ex. She was dropping off our daughter and there was no way I could pretend I wasn't drunk. The power nap I just woke from helped a bit but not enough. I felt drunker than before. The room was spinning and it felt like I was on a waterbed. A horrible thought flashed in my head and jumped up to examine my mattress. Safe. No urine or vomit. But now that I was up it was best to stay vertical. I went to the slop sink next to the washing machine and turned the knob next to the dusty spigot. I put my head down in the fall of water and splashed my face, taking in a little past my lips to rehydrate my mouth. I went back to my room and searched for anything to eat. Peanut butter was my go-to for instances like this. The smell of peanuts will mask most every alcohol. Usually. Probably not so much when you just blew a 0.34. My phone vibrated and beeped, indicating a call. My ex. No time for food. I hit the answer button and before I could put the phone to my ear she yelled, “I know you had a show last night so I'm guessing you're not exactly ready but we're here. Bye!” She was not happy, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. I took several deep breaths and steadied myself as I walked up the stairs. I saw her silhouette through the kitchen curtains as the sun was beginning to rise behind her. I grabbed an apple from the kitchen table and took a few quick bits. A full mouth meant I wouldn't be able to respond to her and she wouldn't smell my breath. I took one more bite of the apple and turned the knob. Before the door was fully opened she had put my daughter down and was turning around to leave. She yelled something about having a nice day (sarcastically I’m sure) and was gone. I scooped up my daughter and brought her inside.

Zoe Jane was born two and a half years earlier. I had my life planned out and was almost through college, ready to start my student teaching at a local elementary school when I found out she was on the way. I knew her mom wouldn't be up to the task of parenthood (as she had proven with her other children) so I had a choice to make: Stay in school and limp through parenthood trying to fix her mom’s missteps or drop out and become the father and dad I wanted to be since I was a kid. It wasn't really a choice. I knew without contemplation that I wouldn't be going back to school and I regretted nothing. I went to work, saving money when I could. Eventually her mom and I split, which is how I ended up living in a basement.

“Well, Jellybean. It's too early for breakfast. Let's go downstairs and lay down.” My head was pounding, the room still spinning wildly behind my eyes. I swallowed a rising lump in my throat. “Go grab your sippy cup from the fridge and we'll go to our room, okay kiddo?”

I closed my eyes again to regain some kind of composure. I heard the fridge door open and some clinking as she shoved her tiny hands into the bottom shelf. I swallowed again. The fridge closed. I opened my eyes and Zoe Jane was standing in front of me. In one hand was her pink and purple sippy cup. In the other was a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft. She shoved it at me proudly and said, “Dada's juice!”

I stared at her. I was instantly more sober than I had been in twenty four hours. The room stopped spinning but I couldn't feel my legs. I groped for a kitchen chair and pulled it under me in the nick of time. My breath caught in my throat as I willed myself not to cry. Zoe Jane stared, still smiling big, proud that she was taking care of her daddy.

It was Sunday, July 22, 2007 and my only child equated my well being with my consumption of alcohol.

A montage of snapshots flickered through my mind. Two and a half years went by in moments, but each was nauseatingly clear: I was drunk when she was born. I was drunk the first time I held her. The first time I bathed her, the first time I changed her, the first time I fed her: drunk, drunk, drunk. I tried desperately to think of one solitary day since January 3, 2005 when I went to sleep instead of passing out.

I couldn't.

I couldn't.

I took the bottle from her and pulled her in close. I hugged her like I would never hug her again. I hugged her as an apology. I hugged her as a promise she would never have to take care of me again. I was the parent and it was my job to keep her safe. I couldn't do that if I woke up buzzed and passed out drunk. Something needed to change. Everything needed to change. I needed to change.

At 7:50 p.m. I pulled into the parking lot of a dimly lit church I'd passed a thousand times but barely noticed. My head was still pounding and I was shaking. I hadn't drank since I left the wedding that morning at 2 a.m. That seventeen hour block was the longest I had gone without alcohol in a decade. I stared at the door. I had to go in but I knew that when I did there would be no turning back. I wanted things to change but I was afraid to start. I was afraid to fail. I was afraid of letting my daughter down.

I was afraid.

I swallowed hard and tried to catch my breath. I killed the engine. People were smoking and milling about around the doors. One went in and disappeared down some stairs to the right. When the last one entered, I went in. I was hit with the smell of incense and burnt coffee. I walked down the stairs, more solidly than I had expected. I took a seat. Someone introduced themselves with a soft smile. Others followed. Eventually they turned their attention to me. My heart jumped.

“Um. Hi. My name is Bob. And I'm an alcoholic.”