You know, for a guy who effectively quit drinking for 12 years, I'm beginning to believe that I am once again spiraling into full-blown alcoholism these past three years. In fact, I'm drinking far more now than I was the last few of the drinking years, pre-1994. I slacked up a tad between 1986 and 1994--in fact, virtually quit from '86 until '91. Those two dates (1986 and 1994) coincide with drunken driving arrests and convictions, a thing that will make most folks--even dummies like me--take heed.
You got to jail for DUI in Tennessee. Always. Even the first offense has a mandatory 48-hour jail sentence and 11-months and 27-days suspended. Second, a mandatory 45 days minimum, third gets you 120 days minimum. After that, it becomes a felony and you go to the Big House.
And the fines, drunk driving school, counseling, restitution, probation fees and years of high risk auto insurance are financial killers. If you hire a lawyer (as I did the last time) that's more bucks out of the pocket. It can easily set you back $5,000 or more. And they take your license for at least a year.
But the absolute truth is, I quit for those 12 years not out of fear of the law but because I figured my mother deserved some peace of mind in her declining years. I was a pain in the ass unlike any of my siblings; never had she been called out in the middle of the night to bail any of them out of jail, as she had me several times. She had been mighty damned good about it and I thought she deserved something in return. I knew what she wanted and I did it, like it or not.
The strange thing is, I don't get that much enjoyment out of drinking anymore. I can pound down three beers in about 10 minutes and that's about as much of a "high" as I'm going to get, no matter if I go on and drink a case. Course, one can't drink a case at that rate, which would be in less than an hour and a half. Well, I might could, and no doubt it would waste me, but that kind of drinking becomes more work than manual labor.
I've had a drinking problem since I was a child. When I was 9 or 10 years old, I stole my daddy's whiskey and his cigarettes. I've written poems about it, and they're true. I started getting drunk real young and I always loved the taste of beer and whiskey. And I also loved the way it made me feel.
I was a certifiable sot by the time I went into the Navy at 17. And believe me, that experience didn't help the situation any, because I think I knew maybe two guys during my Navy stint who weren't stone drunks. Everybody else stayed drunk whenever possible, including most of the petty officers and several of the officers. At that time (I'm not sure about now) it was basically a tin can of sots.
It was against regulations to have alcohol aboard ship, but there were few times I didn't have a drink stashed somewhere when I wanted one. I used to sneak whiskey aboard--especially during the WESTPAC cruise--and stash it inside a fire hose mounted on the 01 deck right beside the twin gun mount. And we sometimes kept a stash of Akadama wine and sake in the laundry area, where an old black laundryman second-class with about 20 years service was a co-conspirator. He'd been screwed over by "the Man" all his military life and he liked to screw them back ever chance he got.
I recall once when I first went to Pearl Harbor and before I was assigned a ship, I was at ISCF (Inactive Service Craft Facility) at "Mosquito Junction," which was on the back side of Pearl Harbor, near Waipio. I think the real name was Waipio Point, but everybody called it Mosquito Junction. It was an area where old decommissioned ships were anchored in rows, or "mothballed." Those of us who tended the site lived in an APL, which is a big double-deck houseboat.
We had surprise inspections occasionally. I recall one day an inspection was called and we all lined up by our racks. The OD looked things over generally and selected various lockers to inspect. Mine was one selected and when he opened my seabag, he reached in and extracted a brand new fifth of vodka with the seal still intact.
"Who in hell owns this?" he growled.
"I do, sir," I replied, working hard to stay calm. He stuck the bottle out to me.
"Take it topside and drop it over and don't let me ever catch you again," he said. "It's your ass if I do."
"Aye aye, sir!" I did as ordered, almost crying as that fresh jug of joy juice plopped into the oil-stained water between the dock and our floating home. After that, I hid my booze where all the smart guys did--over on a tool barge tied up alongside the APL. If the brass found it over there, they didn't know who in hell it belonged to. Only problem was, some of the other swabs were apt to find and drink it before you did.
I've heard in recent years that young servicemen now have "stress cards" they carry. If some PO or officer is chewing their ass, they can whip out the stress card as an indication that they are becoming overly stressed and the chewer is obligated to stop.
My God, I'd like to see someone try that with the old Chief Boats on my ship. I wouldn't recommend it, unless you think getting a "stress card" kicked up your ass might provide some sort of special thrill unavailable otherwise.
I'll drink to that.
You got to jail for DUI in Tennessee. Always. Even the first offense has a mandatory 48-hour jail sentence and 11-months and 27-days suspended. Second, a mandatory 45 days minimum, third gets you 120 days minimum. After that, it becomes a felony and you go to the Big House.
And the fines, drunk driving school, counseling, restitution, probation fees and years of high risk auto insurance are financial killers. If you hire a lawyer (as I did the last time) that's more bucks out of the pocket. It can easily set you back $5,000 or more. And they take your license for at least a year.
But the absolute truth is, I quit for those 12 years not out of fear of the law but because I figured my mother deserved some peace of mind in her declining years. I was a pain in the ass unlike any of my siblings; never had she been called out in the middle of the night to bail any of them out of jail, as she had me several times. She had been mighty damned good about it and I thought she deserved something in return. I knew what she wanted and I did it, like it or not.
The strange thing is, I don't get that much enjoyment out of drinking anymore. I can pound down three beers in about 10 minutes and that's about as much of a "high" as I'm going to get, no matter if I go on and drink a case. Course, one can't drink a case at that rate, which would be in less than an hour and a half. Well, I might could, and no doubt it would waste me, but that kind of drinking becomes more work than manual labor.
I've had a drinking problem since I was a child. When I was 9 or 10 years old, I stole my daddy's whiskey and his cigarettes. I've written poems about it, and they're true. I started getting drunk real young and I always loved the taste of beer and whiskey. And I also loved the way it made me feel.
I was a certifiable sot by the time I went into the Navy at 17. And believe me, that experience didn't help the situation any, because I think I knew maybe two guys during my Navy stint who weren't stone drunks. Everybody else stayed drunk whenever possible, including most of the petty officers and several of the officers. At that time (I'm not sure about now) it was basically a tin can of sots.
It was against regulations to have alcohol aboard ship, but there were few times I didn't have a drink stashed somewhere when I wanted one. I used to sneak whiskey aboard--especially during the WESTPAC cruise--and stash it inside a fire hose mounted on the 01 deck right beside the twin gun mount. And we sometimes kept a stash of Akadama wine and sake in the laundry area, where an old black laundryman second-class with about 20 years service was a co-conspirator. He'd been screwed over by "the Man" all his military life and he liked to screw them back ever chance he got.
I recall once when I first went to Pearl Harbor and before I was assigned a ship, I was at ISCF (Inactive Service Craft Facility) at "Mosquito Junction," which was on the back side of Pearl Harbor, near Waipio. I think the real name was Waipio Point, but everybody called it Mosquito Junction. It was an area where old decommissioned ships were anchored in rows, or "mothballed." Those of us who tended the site lived in an APL, which is a big double-deck houseboat.
We had surprise inspections occasionally. I recall one day an inspection was called and we all lined up by our racks. The OD looked things over generally and selected various lockers to inspect. Mine was one selected and when he opened my seabag, he reached in and extracted a brand new fifth of vodka with the seal still intact.
"Who in hell owns this?" he growled.
"I do, sir," I replied, working hard to stay calm. He stuck the bottle out to me.
"Take it topside and drop it over and don't let me ever catch you again," he said. "It's your ass if I do."
"Aye aye, sir!" I did as ordered, almost crying as that fresh jug of joy juice plopped into the oil-stained water between the dock and our floating home. After that, I hid my booze where all the smart guys did--over on a tool barge tied up alongside the APL. If the brass found it over there, they didn't know who in hell it belonged to. Only problem was, some of the other swabs were apt to find and drink it before you did.
I've heard in recent years that young servicemen now have "stress cards" they carry. If some PO or officer is chewing their ass, they can whip out the stress card as an indication that they are becoming overly stressed and the chewer is obligated to stop.
My God, I'd like to see someone try that with the old Chief Boats on my ship. I wouldn't recommend it, unless you think getting a "stress card" kicked up your ass might provide some sort of special thrill unavailable otherwise.
I'll drink to that.
2 comments:
Stress cards, heh. Imagine handing the enemy, maybe the Taliban, one of those stress cards.
Jeez, how fey. This is what happens when the feminine takes over the military and other masculine areas of society.
I think what saved me from being an alcoholic, a fate which befell much of the men and even women of my family, is two things. 1. There were so many drunks in my family. 2. I am a natural contrarian.
I decided very early I was not going to be a drinker like the drunks in my family, and even when I fooled around with it some as a teen and then into my years in the army, I never felt drinking was my thing.
There might be a third reason too. It takes a lot of stamina to be a drunk. I've had a couple of killer hangovers in my time and there's just no way I could deal with that on a regular casis. I'm too wimpy. And not just that, but my constitution simply isn't very strong. If I was a drunk, I'd very likely be dead by now.
I have a lot of compassion for drinkers because I spent a good portion of my youth running to AA meetings with my dad. I heard all their horror stories and know the shame a lot fo them live with on a regular basis.
(Not to mention many of my favorite writers were drinkers. Hem, Buk, Carver, Crews, you.)
The only thing I don't like is the Bukowski-esque glorification of drink. There's nothing noble about sticking a bottle in your mouth. Any baby can do it.
But most drunks I've known-- real drunks-- never do this. At least not when they're sober. It's always the four-beers and a puke types who brag.
Anyway, time to take the kid to the pool. Good entry, Jazz. Like always.
But don't let this venture stop you from finishing the novel.
--Jim V
Thanks, Jim. I damned sure wouldn't recommend drinking or smoking to anybody. It's a losing proposition all the way around.
I'm kind of stuck on the novel right now, until I figure out how to wind it up. It's not that I don't have a way to do that--I have too many ways, gotta try to find the best one. I needed a few days off to do some serious housecleaning chores anyway, so the time won't be wasted and I'll have some time to think about it. I expect to get back into it next week with a solution, one way or the other. I want the draft wrapped up next week.
Have fun at the pool. I'm sitting here waiting for this flash flood watch to become a reality. According to radar, I don't have long to wait.
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