The Vodka Reports: A Retrospective, and an ode to Alcohol, from a World Traveller
04-03-2019, 10:10 PM
Seattle—I wearily find my way off the plane, and into the airport. I have no baggage with me. It’s just my backpack on my back. I have around 10 dollars to my name at the moment. And a large backpack full of untaxed loose tobacco. My phone isn’t guaranteed to work, but somehow it does. I frantically call my connection here because I have nowhere to go at the moment, but the layover will be a short one, but just long enough to drink. I’m still hungover from partying in Europe (and that is another story). And I want to be welcomed back to my country properly. He shows up at arrivals, late of course, and I hop into his car. The aftermarket exhaust rumbles as we wind our way from Sea-Tac to Seattle, stuck in traffic. As hungover as I am, I am mindful of every wasted second—time that could be spent drinking. This particular friend of mine dropped off the grid while I was overseas, and I saw it as a warning sign. I knew it must have been a bad binge, because I was unable to talk to him in that time. Being the alcoholic that I am, I figure the binge has been too long. I call his sister on Whatsapp while I’m getting hammered, and she too realizes something is wrong. She gets to his apartment and he’s incomprehensible. He’s alive but this is a big setback for him. I don’t know what happened next.
Back on the freeway we’re speeding alone as the evergreens blur together while the drizzle hits the windshield. In the center console is a pipe. I do a double-take, and he says, “don’t worry man, it’s Washington.” He takes some drags while the traffic slows us down. We eventually park right near downtown but not before locking the doors because of the homeless horde that terrorizes the liberal city dwellers.
Alcoholics understand the code with drinking buddies. He’s buying. PBR, PBR, PBR. They’re finished. This succession of drinks is like a first cup of coffee for me. The reality that I’m in the US, something that had hit me like a brick wall when I got off the plane is now more bearable. And suddenly, the timeline shrinks: it is about now, and nothing else. That, I can handle. It is something to numb the pain; the stark realization that I’m back to square one again. The collected wisdom of all the travel blogs, forum posts, and trust fund friends is telling me once again I’ve failed at travelling. I should still be over there. I do my best to push the self-doubting to the back of my mind. A new bar presents itself in front of me; and thus new opportunities to occupy my brain’s reward system. The cheap vodka shot does it.
We’re headed back to the airport now. I haven’t seen my drinking buddy friend in a year. I think I saved his life. But it’s not something we talk about on the ride. It’s talk about where we want to go as people. It’s encouraging. Deep down, I know some part of him is thankful, but as an alcoholic, the first rule is to never admit that you are mortal, and you have a very premature due-date.
The pleasant buzz fades as I walk into the airport, not knowing when I’ll see my friend again. But I’m still impaired. Somehow I make it through the basics: check-in and security. I make my way towards my gate, I get there realizing I’m drunk and I’m in the wrong part of the airport. It’s one of those self-aware moments, where I say, yet again, “I have a problem.”
I arrive home later on the red-eye, my ex-girlfriend picking me up at the airport. There is too much to process right now. So I just start with “hi”.
Back on the freeway we’re speeding alone as the evergreens blur together while the drizzle hits the windshield. In the center console is a pipe. I do a double-take, and he says, “don’t worry man, it’s Washington.” He takes some drags while the traffic slows us down. We eventually park right near downtown but not before locking the doors because of the homeless horde that terrorizes the liberal city dwellers.
Alcoholics understand the code with drinking buddies. He’s buying. PBR, PBR, PBR. They’re finished. This succession of drinks is like a first cup of coffee for me. The reality that I’m in the US, something that had hit me like a brick wall when I got off the plane is now more bearable. And suddenly, the timeline shrinks: it is about now, and nothing else. That, I can handle. It is something to numb the pain; the stark realization that I’m back to square one again. The collected wisdom of all the travel blogs, forum posts, and trust fund friends is telling me once again I’ve failed at travelling. I should still be over there. I do my best to push the self-doubting to the back of my mind. A new bar presents itself in front of me; and thus new opportunities to occupy my brain’s reward system. The cheap vodka shot does it.
We’re headed back to the airport now. I haven’t seen my drinking buddy friend in a year. I think I saved his life. But it’s not something we talk about on the ride. It’s talk about where we want to go as people. It’s encouraging. Deep down, I know some part of him is thankful, but as an alcoholic, the first rule is to never admit that you are mortal, and you have a very premature due-date.
The pleasant buzz fades as I walk into the airport, not knowing when I’ll see my friend again. But I’m still impaired. Somehow I make it through the basics: check-in and security. I make my way towards my gate, I get there realizing I’m drunk and I’m in the wrong part of the airport. It’s one of those self-aware moments, where I say, yet again, “I have a problem.”
I arrive home later on the red-eye, my ex-girlfriend picking me up at the airport. There is too much to process right now. So I just start with “hi”.
