Then and now.

In one of my few memories from childhood I remember the parties my parents used to throw. We would be allowed to stay up to greet their guests, most of whom we knew well. There would be much laughter and a sense of anticipation of the party ahead. Dad was renowned for throwing the best parties. After the guests had arrived we'd go to bed and as I lay in bed the soothing sound of conversation and laughter percolating up from downstairs would soon send me to sleep, happy in the knowledge that I, too, would one day be able to join in the partying.
The next morning I would get up early and creep quietly down the stairs, the same ones i'd run up as fast as possible at night to avoid being jumped on by whatever it was that lurked in the shadows of the landing. I'd go straight to our large living room - we lived in a huge boarding house at the school where Dad was a teacher, and all the rooms were large, or so they seemed to me - and stand in the doorway. It would be quite dark, the curtains still drawn shut, and there would be many, many glasses of all description on the tables and floor, some empty, many half empty. Ashtrays filled to overflowing with extinguished cigarettes and cigars nestled between the glasses. The air would be musty and stale, at once both acrid and aromatic, with lingering traces of perfume. I'd walk carefully around the room, stopping to pick up glasses, sometimes taking a sip of their half empty contents. They all tasted quite disgusting but i knew that one day I'd discover the reason that adults so clearly enjoyed drinking these drinks.
Soon enough Mum would come down to clear up and, after drawing the curtains open, I'd help carry the glasses out to the kitchen for washing and i'd empty the ashtrays. I'd draw the curtains, rearrange the furniture while Mum vacuumed and the living room would be back to its usual self, clean and bright.

I woke up and tried to focus through the gray blur. I could see the hard, gray floor I was lying on and, by moving my eyes, the lighter gray wall opposite. I moved my head slightly up and down and saw, on one side, a toilet bowl in front of another gray wall and, on the other, black metal bars. It was hot, very hot, and the stench of urine filled the still air. I tried to sit up and winced as pain swept through most of my upper torso. Slowly I pulled myself into a sitting position and the pain started to ease until it was a dull soreness around my ribs and stomach. I pulled up my shirt and lokked for bruises. None. I figured I should stop feeling sorry for myself, it couldn't be that bad if there were no bruises.
I drifted in and out of half-sleep until I heard the lock being turned. I looked up and a cop was standing at the door pointing to his right. He didn't say anything, he just pointed. I slowly got to my feet and the pain returned. I stumbled towards the barred door and followed the direction of his finger. I didn't expect him to help, didn't want him to, and he didn't. At the main desk the duty sergeant pointed to the door. I walked out. The sun was bright, blinding. When i was able to see again I inched down to the steps and started the long walk home.
As I walked up Broadway I tried to piece together the strands of memory of the previous day and night. I had been at an afternoon lab party, that much i remembered. Playing with the kids, talking, laughing and drinking, and drinking. After I got home I must have hit the gin pretty hard. i remembered standing outside B.'s door yelling at him to come out drinking with me. He'd tried to calm me down, that much i remembered, but must have given up after a while. The cops arrived and bundled me into the cop car. One of our neighbors must have called them. I would find out who it was and go and thank them. The cell was full when they threw me in. Any cash and cigarettes I'd had were soon gone. My cellmates scared the hell out of me, drunk as i was, and i needed out. I vaguely remembered banging on the bars, shouting for them to let me out. Their warnings to shut the fuck up went unheeded - what did they expect?
I bummed a cigarette off a homeless guy and for the first time noticed the dried blood on my hands. As i walked past the medical center i started to question whether it was indeed the Nashville Police Department that were responsible for the pain still emanating from my upper body. I decided to let it go. Better them than my cellmates.
Eventually I got home. I walked into my apartment, the carpet was strewn with broken glass - so that's where the blood came from. I headed for the fridge and opened it. Beer. Thank God. I grabbed a six pack, headed for the couch and switched on the TV. I was going to have to go out for gin and cigarettes but it could wait. For a while.

"This is a life-changing event for you!" insisted M. from behind her reception desk. I was skeptical and more focussed on what lay behind the closed doors of the detox unit to my right. S. and I said our farewells and I walked in. Less than three hours later, sitting in my room, it started to rain. It doesn't rain in San Diego in September. I found it hard not to wonder whether this was an omen of some sort. Washing away a dusty film of false protection or just a sign of the approaching storm? Sure enough, that night the thunderstorm arrived. We don't get thunderstorms in September. Another portent? Or just confirmation that we've fucked up our atmosphere beyond saving. Probably.
Though my old friend was, of course, not allowed to be there with me, my new, transient, chemical friend helped me through the next four days. I was introduced to "groups", sharing and, of course, The Big Book. We've yet to become friends, and maybe never will, but at least I no longer demonize it. My fellow in-patients and i killed the time exchanging our stories, our secrets, deceits and hiding places. For the first time, whether it was booze, crack, H or vicodin, i realized the undeniable, unbreakable bond we shared, whether we liked it or not.
One morning we were sitting outside in the designated smoking area, smoking, when three elderly folk walked by. They were clearly lost, pointing this way and that, no doubt trying to find a particular building or unit within the huge hospital complex. One of them started to walk towards us, apparently to ask for directions. Before reaching us one of the ladies shouted after him, "Don't asked them, they probably don't even know where they are!" We cracked up. She was right.

And now? Well, now is really just exactly what its all about. When i was drinking the past offered little consolation and less to learn from. Yet i insisted to myself that my blurred, hazy memories of what had gone would serve to guide me through the future, to change its inevitable course. For more than twenty years i labored under this delusion. Characteristic of the alcoholic #27; we do the same thing over and over and over again, expecting different results. So now the past is past, like a mountain stream its still there but its not the same, and though i can guess where its going, i can neither predict its course nor change it. So its down to "now". AA and Leah have written about this recently - it ain't easy but i'm gettin there. And though I won't dwell on it, i'll occasionally look back, not in anger, just look back at the times spent with my estranged friend. Just now and then.