This is more like it. I’ve written the last several posts
from the comfort of my home, and right away I noticed the differences in the
atmosphere here at Nina’s Coffee Café. There’s music, there’re people whirling
around and chattering incoherently—or at least that’s my perception by the time
their united racket hits my ears—and there’s proper light, now that I’ve moved
to a better spot. There are things on the wall to look at when I hit a rut, and
people to look at for the same reason. I sat down at my computer and my fingers
got to typing without hesitation. I feel as if this is a more conducive writing
environment for me. Of course, this paragraph has been just a waste of time for
the reader, but I like it.
I’ve made it through the first three days back to work
without incident, aside from a minor burn on my wrist. Two days of laminating,
and a day in the kitchen today, followed by an interview at Amazon tomorrow
morning, a Wild game at night, and a day of laminating to finish off the week.
After a weekend without work, I really start to hit it hard again with seven
straight days in the kitchen at the Xcel Center. Now you know my schedule.
When I was just a boy, not yet a man according to the Jewish
faith, I took my first few sips of alcohol at the party after the Shabbat
service called the oneg. Now, Microsoft Word absolutely despises that word, and
quite frankly, I didn’t even like typing it, but it is a word according to Wikipedia.
The overused internet site defines oneg as, “A software service located in
Nungambakkam, or a ritual associated with Shabbat.” For the purpose of this
post, I will refer to the latter when describing the events heretofore, and
heretoafter.
I must have been 11 or 12 when I first got drunk at one of
these shindigs. I don’t mean just a sip or two, I had done that when I was in
single digits, but I didn’t like the taste. At some point, probably after
watching adults react, I must have realized that the wine had an active
ingredient that made people funny, or laugh, or who knows. I just know that
after I took a few gulps of the bitter Manischewitz, I felt lighter, faster,
smarter, and everything was funnier. Can you imagine me being any funnier? No,
you cannot.
I had a few friends that went to the same temple, and we all
caught on to the same thing, at the same time, and we would sneak off together
unbeknownst to the adults who were doing their own thing, probably happy that
their kids weren’t bothering them.
I don’t remember how often, for how long, or even if it was
more than a few times that this happened before the age of 13, but I knew then
that I liked how I felt, and for that reason, I looked forward to going to synagogue
every week. I mean, what other reason would any child have to look forward to
religious services?
I don’t think it lasted long, and I don’t remember going to
services after my Bar Mitzvah, and I didn’t much care for alcohol for many
years after that. But later in life, even in the worst of times, alcohol made
me feel better, even when I had no control over my drinking. Of course, it was
a sham, and I was just using it to mask my real problems, but the illusion
fooled me, and I loved drinking. I
probably still do, I’m just not willing to take a sip to test that notion. I am
an alcoholic.
I’m not sure how I had never written a complete story on my
first experiences with alcohol, but I’m glad I did.
