When I Woke in a Gutter for the Last Time…Part 1

Cardiff, Wales, March 1972 in the waning days of Late-Derelict Period

…Back at the house on Wyeverne Road almost everyone’s tripping. You’re tempted, but you’re afraid because two friends have had bad trips: one never returns and will be in a nursing home for life. The other burns down his parent’s house.

“Then how about a spliff?” You feel left out, but you promised your father you wouldn’t do drugs, so “No, thank you.” But you wonder how long does a promise have to last?

You hang out in the living room all day and you drink. And the next day you drink more, and the day after that you drink more of more, and you get drunk, and that’s how you want to stay, drunk. All day, every day, drunk. You slide into a deeper funk and deeper blitz and lose track of time and space. You become a black hole and you’re sucking yourself inside out. If Einstein were alive, he’d give you a freaking medal.

You don’t know what to do, where to go. So, Screw it! You accept the spliff when it’s offered to you. It’s been three years since you’ve toked, but you haven’t forgotten how to do it. You suck it in. Hold it. Let it stream out your mouth. You become the heart of the party. You dance to “Error of My Way” by Wishbone Ash. You dance to “Children of the Grave” by Black Sabbath. You dance to “White Bird” by It’s a Beautiful Day, which it ain’t, but it’s like you’re breaking out of your golden cage. Twiz laughs. Crazy Steve cheers you on. Trevor sits there, smiling. Gypsy stands up and jams his never-plugged-in electric guitar. Canadian Steve nods and passes out.

You remember leaving the house. You remember walking down the street to The Woodville Pub. You remember thinking you’re not high enough, not drunk enough drinking pisswarm beer after pisswarm beer, so you order whiskey, whiskey, whiskey, and you’re still not there. You are still feeling what you don’t want to feel. You drink whiskey with beer chasers and then…and then…

you’re drowning you kick your feet you move your arms but they have no pull on the water because there’s no water to pull on how can you be drowning if there’s no water but you’re in water not deep water you’re drowning in shallow water how silly shallow water you lift your head you can breathe you open your eyes you see rainwater rushing along cobblestones you see the curb the curb oh no you think oh no and the curb says yes oh yes

You put one hand on the curb and the other against a car fender and hoist yourself. You’re on Wyeverne Road in front of the house. That’s good. You look for the police car that’s been camped outside the house and thank God it’s not there. You stumble to the door, trying not to fall. You wait a moment before opening it. Inside the house there’s usually no such thing as time, but you suspect it’s morning, because it’s quiet, and the living room is sleeping.

You want to sleep. You walk up the flight of steps to the front room, but it’s too late. Three people are in the double bed. You try to remember something, but it’s hard to remember. You find your backpack and dig out your other pair of pants and a shirt. You go back down to the bathroom, which is empty, and you take a bath. You want to throw up. You fear you might be in Level 2 hangover or Yikes! Level 3!

Then you remember what’s impossible to remember. It’s Sunday, the day that Viv and Rita invited you to their Bahá’í meeting in Newport. You don’t want to go to their stupid meeting. You want to finish your bath and find space in a bed or lie down on the floor and go to sleep. But you promised Viv and Rita that you’d be there. You gave them your word, and your word is about the only thing you have left that means anything.

“But I hurt,” your head says.

“I’m going to throw up,” your stomach says.

“Don’t be a wuss,” your heart says taking charge. “Get yourself together, man. Get out of the tub, now!” 

“I need to sleep.”

“You can sleep on the bus. Put your clothes on.”

“I can’t. I’m dying.”

“Get going, you drunk. Get dressed and go out in the rain and get on the damn bus.”

And so you listen to your heart and get dressed and go back out in the rain, and in seconds you’re as soaking wet as you were when lying in the gutter. But at least it’s rainwater, not piss water. You walk to the bus stop and the bus says, “Welcome, lad!” and drives you to Newport. You try not to throw up. You nod off. You try not to throw up. You nod off. You get off the bus. You find the building where the meeting is in a shopping center. You try not to throw up.

Of course you’re late. You’re not far from the Windsor Castle Hotel where you lived as an infant. You’ll get a drink there when it opens. The hair of the dog…See if the hair will fix you. You doubt it. Nothing can fix you. You climb the steps to the second floor. You don’t care that you’re late. You promised Rita and Viv that you would be at their meeting, and you’re there. Promise kept. Now, say hello and get the hell out of there. Go to the Castle. Get a drink. Get drunk.

Tune in next time to learn what happens.

adapted from A Tipsy Fairy Tale: A Coming of Age Memoir of Alcohol and Redemption