To be fair, I'd been drinking since noon.

It's not a regular occurrence for me. Under normal circumstances, I never start drinking before seven o'clock. It's an Iron Rule, the closest thing I have to a moral code. But every rule has exceptions, and this day was precisely that.

I'd stopped home for lunch in between classes, and I'd decided on pizza. Pizza and beer were made for each other, right? I mean, that's in the Constitution somewhere, or should be. One beer couldn't hurt, and I figured it'd make a fine midday pick-me-up. So I had a beer with my first slice, and I got to thinking, if one beer can't hurt, how much can two beers hurt? And so on.

It was somewhere around Beer Three when it occurred to me that, when mixed with Gatorade, the smell of vodka is very hard to detect. So, I grabbed a bottle of the stuff and mixed myself an afternoon's worth of cocktails. By two o'clock, I was staggering into my Statistics class, happy as a clam and drunk as a mick, with a sly, self-assured grin on my face. I plopped down in a desk at the back of the room, took a good slug of Vodka-ade, looked around the classroom, and thought, Suckers.

Once settled in, I found myself transfixed - awestruck, really - with the beauty of the young lady next to me. I'd been admiring this little philly all semester long, but now, with Brother Vodka pouring poison in my ear, I finally decided to make my move. Yes, at long last, I would make my stand and earn this fine woman's affection.

'Hey,'� I slurred. 'After class, you wanna grab a cup of coffee or something?'� She looked at my leering, drunken face with something between disgust and fear. Imagine how you might regard a naked mole-rat with rabies, and you're probably in the ballpark.

'Um'�'� Her eyes darted around nervously. 'No thanks.'�

'What?'� I snorted, perhaps a little louder than was
necessary. 'Why the devil not?'� It was then that a great,hulking mass of a man in the seat on the other side of her poked his head into the conversation. He had arms the size of howitzers, and a vaguely irritated look on his face.

'Alright, buddy,'� he said. 'You heard the lady. Back off.'�

'Who the hell are you?'� I snarled, irked at this ruffian coming between me and the apple of my bloodshot eye.

'I'm her boyfriend.'� The irritation in his face turned to stony determination.

Now, if I had been sober, I might have backed down at this point. Maybe. Regardless of my mental state, I sometimes get carried away with simple momentum. I don't really like people telling me what to do. And if they happen to have a very valid point, that's just going to piss me off more.

'So what, asshole?'� I hollered. 'You want a goddamn medal or something?'� And so began a string of my trademark slurred invective. Strangely, this failed to sway the man. By the time I got around to pointing out his undoubtedly simian ancestry and poor hygiene, his fist was already inbound.

For a man the size and shape of a Coke machine, that guy struck like a goddamn cobra. I don't know what his fitness regimen was, but really, I can't help but be impressed. He's doing something right, that's for damn sure.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground. My assailant stood over me with a look of concern - visions of lawsuits dancing in his head, no doubt.

'You okay, kid?'� he asked, obviously unsure what answer he'd prefer. The rest of the class murmured inaudibly among themselves. All eyes were transfixed on the gimp bleeding on the linoleum.

'Capital,'� I croaked out. With that, I turned over and crawled slowly out of the room. I had to leave before the professor showed up. All things considered, I wasn't real worried about missing the day's notes on hypothesis testing.

* * *

Once in the hall, I climbed to my feet. My nose was bleeding, but not broken; I ducked into the bathroom and sopped up the blood with a paper towel. Once I'd been restored to some kind of normalcy - besides the sizeable bruise in the middle of my face, of course - I stepped outside for a cigarette.

Maybe it was the adversity, or perhaps just the head trauma. But, while my motor skills were still drunker than God Himself, my mood was sobering up at an alarming pace. I was no longer having a swell time. The secret glee of mid-day intoxication was long gone. Now it was just me and my old pals, Shame and Self-Loathing.

Oh yes. We've met.

My hands shook as I proffered a faded Bic to the tip of my cigarette. Delirium tremens? No, I decided; probably just the adrenaline. Yeah.

As I methodically inhaled and exhaled, trying to get my bearings, I heard the tinny ring of my cell phone. I fished it out of my pocket and put it to my ear.

'This is Frank,'� I sighed, vaguely depressed at the fact.

'Frank? It's Milo,'� came the voice on the other line. 'You done with class for the day?'�

'You could certainly say that,'� I muttered. He'd get the full story soon enough; no point in wasting precious minutes now.

'Cool,'� he said, and I could almost hear him smile. 'Wanna go get a beer?'� I thought about it. By any standard imaginable, this had been a pretty crummy day. Why not call it quits and head out for some much-needed frivolity?

'No,'� I said, with new-found purpose. 'Let's go get several beers.'�

* * *

The Sports Column is a true Iowa City landmark to some crowds, including mine. Ever since our first days at the University of Iowa, Milo and I knew that we'd found the Promised Land. Legal identification was more or less optional, so long as we were tipping. This, combined with the staff's charming habit of letting us know when a police cruiser pulled up out front, made the Sports Column a local oasis for we beleaguered nineteen-year-old drinkers.

Inside, I saw Milo already seated at our usual table, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a pint of beer. I made a beeline for him, lighting one up on the way.

'How goes it, m'friend?'� I asked, with a slight bow. Milo grabbed an empty glass and poured me a pint from the pitcher sitting on the table. I took a seat and grabbed it up hungrily, taking a long draught.

'Splendid,'� Milo chirped, then motioned towards the bar.

'But I'd be better if Nikki would give me the time of day.'�

Leaning against the bar was our local goddess and part-time barmaid, Nikki. I sometimes suspected that Nikki wasn't born, but rather, was carved from stone by Pygmalion himself. Her hair was the color of pure sunlight; her makeup must've taken thousands of man-hours to be applied with such perfection. Every single feature, every luscious curve, was in perfect proportion.

People that perfect make me nervous. I mean, I'm no saint. Hell, I'm a swine with a few saving graces. Most folks are, really, although I try to at least be honest with myself about it. But Nikki'� her and her sort were an uncomfortable glimpse of the divine. A ray of hope through the clouds that bracket my perspective on the world, if you will. If people really can be that perfect, it raises uncomfortable questions about how much of my behavior is human nature and how much is personal failing.

But of course, I forgave Nikki for her insidious perfection. I could never stay mad at her. She got me drunk, after all. I called to her as she strutted by, and she turned and walked over to our table.

'What can I get you, hon?'� She called everybody 'hon.'�

'Well, Nikki,'� I said jovially, 'I'm going to need you to do me a little favor.'�

'What's that?'� she asked cautiously. Me asking for a favor was usually a prelude to some attempt to get her to bring us dark, foreign beers at domestic prices.

'I'm going to need you to bring me the worst bourbon in the house,'� I said, with an absolutely straight face. Stay with me, folks. It's a hustle. Watch and learn.

'You mean, like, something from the well?'� she asked, knotting her face up in the most graceful look of disgust I've ever personally witnessed. We'd already pulled this one at Q-Bar, One-Eyed Jake's, the Dublin Underground, and the Kitty Hawk Pub, but this was our first attempt at the Sports Column. Milo and I wanted to run The Gambit in a few test markets before trying it out on our home turf.

'No,'� I said forcefully. 'I'm gonna need something from the rack. Kentucky Beau, something of that sort. Worst shit ya got.'�

'You're crazy, man,'� Milo said, just loud enough for the other kids in the bar to hear him. He was in on the scam, too. Nikki shrugged and walked off towards the bar, adding a good six inches of wholly unnecessary ass-shaking.

'She's getting an extra dollar for that,'� Milo grinned.
Just then, Milo and I were carrying out the now-infamous Rotgut Man Gambit. First developed by Modern Drunkard Magazine contributor John 'Rotgut Man'� Flanagan, it's ideal for skimming tabs in a crowded college bar.

The concept is deceptively simple. Basically, you ask for, specifically, the worst bourbon in the house. I suppose you could try it with other liquors, but I find that bourbon, traditionally a cheap, nasty, and uniquely American drink, works best. When the barmaid brings you your shot, pick it up, pour it down your throat, and before the empty glass even hits the table, ask for another one. But for the second round - and this is crucial, people! - ask for a bigger glass.

The Rotgut Man Gambit will get you free drinks. Oh, yes it will. Try it in a barroom full of drunk college students, and you'll fulfill all their dreams of grit and chutzpah. Consciously, they see a guy who's partying and doesn't give a damn, a guy who can handle his liquor. There he is, they all think, the hard-drinking, free-wheeling rebel. Every douche-bag frat boy thinks of himself as such - he's not buying you a drink so much as he's buying himself one by proxy.

Subconsciously, they immediately recognize that your problem drinking is much worse than theirs. And what self-destroyer doesn't love an example of someone worse? Someone they can point to and say, 'Hey, look at him! That guy is the real boozehound.'� They'll buy you drinks and tell you to party on, and they'll barely even realize why.

Nikki came back soon, clenching between her thumb and forefinger a shot glass that she seemed to take great displeasure in even looking at. Before she could put it on the table, I snatched it from her and poured it down my throat. It smelled and tasted like gasoline, but I fought down the gagging sensation. The Gambit should only be attempted by professionals - amatuers and dilettantes will only hurt themselves.

'Keep 'em coming,'� I growled, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes. 'And could I get a double this time?'�

Nikki's face was a mask of concern, but we were tipping, so she did as we asked. Maybe ten minutes later, just after I'd sunk the second round, some drunk frat-boy in an Abercrombie shirt and a backwards Cubs hat staggered up to our table.

'Woo!'� he bellowed, plopping a pitcher of beer down on our table. 'Party on, you crazy fuckers!'� I threw up the horns and shot Milo a wink.

I looked around the barroom. There, I was at peace. Nobody called me an alcoholic or told me how I was wasting my 'overwhelming potential.'� Nobody warned me in condescending tones that I was wasting my life. There was no such thing as wasted potential or alcoholics or anything like that at the Sports Column. Just pumping music and dancing girls, a great blur of color and sound. And they all thought I was hero, because I could drink shitty whiskey and look like I loved it.

Like I said, a Garden of Otherworldly Delights.

* * *

When I woke up the next day, a very angry howler monkey had taken up residence inside of my skull. My lips were cracked and dry, and at some point, my mouth had apparently been stuffed with cotton balls. More to the point, I noticed that a blanket over my head was blocking my vision.

Even while hungover, I immediately noticed that this was not, in fact, one of my blankets. It followed logically that I was not safely ensconced in my apartment. This begged the question - where the hell was I? The last thing I remembered was discussing the nefariously socialistic implications of Kwik Trip's take-a-penny-leave-a-penny tray with Milo. That couldn't have been any later than ten o'clock. It seemed unlikely that we would have left the bar before last call, around one-thirty. What happened in the intervening period?

Now, anyone who's ever had one of those hangovers - the ones where you just want to lie down in the dirt and beg God for a rapid and painless death - will back me up. Remorse hits first. All I could think of was how I'd wasted another night in a dingy barroom, chugging away towards an early and pointless death. Nobody wants to wake up to the realization that you're killing yourself on the installment plan. So I lay there under the blanket, crushing my eyelids together, trying to quiet my headache long enough for the empty darkness of sleep to return.

The mysterious blanket was a possible source of hope, though. I did recall chatting up some cute brunette at some point before we hopped the last train for Blackoutsville. Had I run into her again at last call, perhaps? Were these her blankets? Why, Frank, you sly old fox. Perhaps, while I lay there pondering, she was in the kitchen, preparing eggs and bacon for her charming gentleman caller. I mean, stranger things have certainly happened. None are actually springing to mind just now, but still.

It was then that I heard a series of clinking noises, followed by the sound of liquid being poured over ice. I pulled back the blanket and looked around. Huh. I was briefly disappointed to realize that I was in Milo's dorm room. Not as good as the brunette's place, but on the other hand, it was vastly superior to prison, the hospital, or rehab. The fact that I had escaped the accumulated karma of years of problem drinking for one more night did buoy my mood a touch.

'Oh, good. You're up,'� Milo said, peering out at me from under heavy eyelids. 'Mind if I run the blender?'�

'Sure,'� I grumbled. 'What's for breakfast?'� I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Sure enough, I had three bucks left over of the twenty bucks I'd set out with, just enough to score a pack of cigarettes on the way home. I had gotten completely legless on seventeen bucks - behold, the fruit of The Gambit. Unfortunately, a thorough investigation of the wallet's folds failed to turn up that brunette's number - in some small measure, the gods continued to mock me.

'Hair of the dog,'� Milo said simply, with just a hint of remorse. He ran around and got loaded with me, yeah, but Milo wasn't the sort of hard-core drunk I was. He still had hope and aspirations and stuff. Sometimes I wondered if I might be a bad influence on the boy. Other times, I knew.

'I'll take his liver,'� I croaked. 'The ripe bastard ate mine.'�

Milo passed me a glass of medicine and bummed me a cigarette, and we sat there for a little while, smoking and sipping and watching CNN. I wasn't actually following the stories, per se, but the moving colors in front of my eyes helped distract me from the pounding in my head.

After a while, I decided to move out. Inaction is the hangover's greatest ally. If I didn't get in motion and stay in motion, I'd lose myself in the pain and self-loathing, and the whole day would be shot.

'I gotta get outta here, man,'� I said, climbing painfully to my feet. 'Thanks for the drink.'�

'No problem,'� Milo replied, rubbing his temples.

'Gimme a call if you're up to anything tonight,'� I called over my shoulder on the way out.

'Hell, no,'� he chuckled. 'I need a night off.'�

My only response was a defiant sort of silence. Me, I don't take 'nights off.'� Too much sobriety allows reality to creep in, with all its slings and arrows. Already wondering who I could gather for the festivities that evening, I stepped out of the dorm room, walked down the hall, and burst into the harsh, judgemental glare of the sun.

* * *

Out in the parking lot behind the dorm, I checked out my reflection in the windshield of a car. Appalling. My hair was a wild, greasy, unkempt mess. My five o'clock shadow had stretched on to eleven-thirty. My shirt had some stain on it, of indeterminate origin. I looked like a recent parolee from Bedlam, and there were six long blocks between the dorm and my apartment. Oh well. Nothing to do but hoof it.

The long, hungover Walk of Shame had become something of a ritual for me. While I had no intention of altering my behavior, I did realize, on some basic and visceral level, that it was wrong. Not in any moral sense, but socially and spiritually - somehow, the more I drank, the harsher the whispers behind my back got, and the less I viewed life as an enjoyable experience. The pounding headache, the shaky hands, the disgusted stares as I walked by - that was just karma. Nothing is free in this world. So I made my peace with it. I let myself live free and happy at night, and I did my penance during the day. When darkness fell, the Wheel turned.

It was Saturday, and normal, work-a-day folks were enjoying a lovely morning. They mowed their lawns, tended their flowers, washed their cars. And then I staggered by, a walking mass of sin - not quite a leper, but close enough that the distinction was unimportant. The middle-aged and elderly threw baleful stares at me; the teens and twenty-somethings simply snickered. A mother even pulled her children away from the sidewalk as I passed. Not great for a guy's self esteem, you know? Like none of them had ever had a bad hair day before.

And despite it all, somehow, my mood improved. Some people think that waking up every day with a railroad spike through the head and a mouth like a desert would be hellish. It really wasn't. It gave me some semblance of focus, actually - here, at least, was an obstacle to overcome. Most folks wake up in the morning, and that's the best they're going to feel all day. Not me. From there, my day had nowhere to go but up. You probably freak out when you get caught in traffic, or your boss yells at you, or some other minor crisis comes your way.

Me, I sigh and think, "Well, at least my head doesn't hurt anymore."

* * *

After a quick and embarrassing stop at the gas station for a pack of cigarettes, I arrived at my apartment. Once inside, I immediately set to the business of recovery.

First, I needed to get some water in me. Other than the acetylaldehyde in your brain and the fact that you're basically in a miniature version of alcoholic withdrawal, a lot of the pain from a hangover is dehydration.

Some folks - the Friday/Saturday dilettantes, mostly - will pour themselves a glass of water and sip at it. Not me. I stuck my head under the faucet and sucked it down, one gulp right after another, as cold as possible. The actual hydration was helpful, but more importantly, cold water on my parched throat helped shock my system and get my head out of the clouds.

Next, I grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer and put it over my eyes. Anybody who saw my red, swollen eyeballs would know instantly that I'd spent the night waging a concerted and determined assault on my liver. The eyes are the blinking "Check Engine" light of the soul, and so it behooved me to plaster some masking tape over them, so to speak.

Next came the shower and a quick shave. I always took extra care in my grooming when hungover. People just naturally assume that boozehounds are a uniquely slovenly group of people, and so this was an effective form of camouflage. Next came breakfast. I wasn't terribly hungry, but I needed to put something in my stomach to calm it down. I chugged a cup of coffee to put some spring in my step. At last, I grabbed my keys and my backpack and headed for the door.

Once outside, I locked the door and then leaned against the wall, lighting up a cigarette. It really was a lovely day, once the clouds in my head had begun to clear. I decided to go down to the coffee shop and read for a while. I liked to read, and it was one of the few habits I shared with normal people. Besides, when you're at a bar, mentioning a fine piece of literature that you recently read is a good way to get yourself upgraded from Random Drunk Guy to Intellectual Who Likes To Party.

Suddenly, my heart started pumping with undisguised dread, as I watched a familiar Ford Taurus pull up into the parking lot of my apartment. It rolled to a stop, and the driver cut the engine and climbed out.

'Hi, buddy,'� he said, smiling broadly. It was none other than Franklin Charles O'Connor, Sr. My father, that is.
My dad and I look a lot alike. We have the same eyes, the same bone structure, even the same neatly-trimmed goatee. The similarities are only skin-deep, though. Me and my dad aren't all that much alike where it counts.

Fifteen years ago, after he and my mom had both divorced and remarried, he started hitting the bottle hard. He'd always liked to drink, but now his alcoholism had been stripped of all pretenses. He started pouring down whiskey like it was water.

My step-mom, Catherine, confronted him about it. I don't know the whole story. But after a long chat, he checked himself into a twenty-eight day rehab center in Cedar Rapids. He went, did his time, and was released.

And he hasn't had a drink since. Doesn't smoke anymore, either. He gets up every day at dawn and runs two miles before work. For fun. After that, he drives in to the office and stays there for twelve solid hours, pausing only for a light lunch. He avoids all intoxicants and sticks to an extremely strict diet. He walks tall, speaks firmly and thoughtfully, and commands the respect of his peers.

My father, despite the slight disadvantage of a genetic predisposition to alcohol, is in utter, tyrannical control of his impulses. He is the Protestant Work Ethic, hard work and temperance given terrible flesh.

Me, on the other hand'� well, shit. Look at me.

As a result, since the day I first picked up a shot glass at the tender age of fifteen, all of the respect and reverence that I had for Frank Sr. was mixed with a healthy dose of creeping, existential fear. Not a fear of him, per se. It's not like I thought he was going to haul off and punch me if he caught me with a bottle. It was what he represented that scared me. He was the poster boy for temperance, dedication, and what Sean Hannity would probably call 'good, old-fashioned, American can-do.'� He was a nagging hint that maybe people weren't just beasts with pretensions; as if maybe 'life'� and 'purpose'� weren't just the collective defense mechanisms of the only animals unlucky enough to be born sentient.

Dad made me uncomfortable the same way Nikki made me uncomfortable. They both suggested, merely by existing, that there was something better out there, and that I was somehow inferior for not searching it out.

'You ready to go?'� dad asked. He strolled towards me, hands in his pockets, head inclined towards the ground.

'Go?'� I asked, completely lost. He stopped and looked up at me.

'The game,'� he prompted. 'We were going to go see the Hawkeyes play. Remember?'�

'Oh,'� I said, snuffing my cigarette with my boot heel. I immediately lit up another. Nicotine helped sooth my nerves. Dad just kept looking at me.

'You forgot,'� he said. Not a question, a statement.

'I'� sorry,'� I stammered. 'I can't go. I've gotta go down to the library and write a paper. I'll go to the next one with you, I promise.'� No way in hell was I going to spend two hours with my dad. That'd be two hours of ugly, existential pondering that I didn't need. Fuck that.

'I see,'� he said. And he did. He saw it all; he'd lived through this stage himself. I wondered, briefly, if he'd avoided his father while he was drinking up a storm. I loved my dad, but he made me hate myself.

'Well,'� he said, chipping up a bit. 'How about I give you a ride down to the library? It's on the way to the stadium anyway.'�

'Sure,'� I relented. I wasn't crazy about the idea, but he was suspicious enough as it was. No point in further raising his hackles. So I climbed into the passenger side, and we sped off down Dodge Street.

We drove along in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, we arrived at the library, and he pulled to a stop at the curb.

'Lotsa luck,'� he said, as I turned to open the door.

'Thanks.'�

'Hey, son?'� he called, just as I was about to make good my escape. 'Mind if I ask you a question?'�

'Sure,'� I said uneasily. 'Shoot.'�

'Are you familiar with Einstein's definition of insanity?'� Suddenly, my father's easy-going style was gone, and he was staring straight into my eyes. Searching them. Testing me.

'What?'� I demanded, confused. What the hell was this? It had to be a trap.

'Einstein's definition of insanity. It's a famous quote of his. Ever hear it?'�

'No,'� I said, as my forehead began to dampen. This is definitely a trap, I thought. 'Lay it on me.'�

'The definition of insanity,'� he said, softly and thoughtfully, 'is to do the same thing over and over, and expect the results to change.'� He stared straight at me - through me - still searching my eyes for some response. I gulped hard.

'Thanks for the ride, dad,'� I said. I knew damn well what he was talking about. He wouldn't come out and say it - he respected my legal adulthood too much to lecture me - but it was perfectly clear.

'No problem, buddy,'� he said, finally turning away. 'I'll give you a call next week.'� And with that, he pulled into traffic and drove away. I lit yet another cigarette and watched him go. When he was out of sight, I turned on my heel and started down the street. Two blocks later, I was walking through the door of the Sports Column.

I don't normally drink during the day. I don't. But every rule has an exception, and this was one such instance. The exchange with my dad had filled me with guilt and self-loathing. I just needed to turn it off. Just for a little while.

The bar was moderately crowded. Lots of people came down to watch the Hawkeyes on the big-screen TV and have a couple of beers. Still, our usual table was open. I went over and sat down, and Nikki strolled up only moments later.

'What'll it be, hon?'� she asked, with crippling perfection.

'Just get me a beer,'� I said, rubbing my eyes. 'Whatever's cold and cheap.'�

'It's all cold, hon,'� she smiled.

'Cheap it is, then,'� I replied, and she sped off towards the bar. When she returned a couple of minutes later, she had a Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a shot glass full of amber liquid in the other.

'Here's your cheap beer,'� she said, setting the PBR on the table. 'And here's a shot of the worst bourbon in the house. It's on me.'� Then, with a smile and a wink, she left me in peace.

I held the shot in my hand, studying it. Maybe this isn't much of a life. At least it's mine, though. Out there, we all hustle and bustle, trying to fulfill ourselves. Work hard, and you'll be content. Pray and tithe, and you'll find happiness. Get together with the right girl, or the right shrink, or the right combination of spoiled, needy children, and you'll be Joy Itself.

I don't buy it, I thought. None of the people out there seemed happy. They seemed tired, overworked, frustrated. Like they were just passing time, waiting for an inevitable and merciful death. Why was that any better than my life? All I wanted was the rush of the party, the freewheeling joy of drunkenness. I wanted to be happy. How was it moral to sacrifice your enjoyment of life on the altar of good health and temperance? How was it that normal folks could look at their own lives, and then turn around, point a finger in my direction, and inform me that I was fucked up?

I looked around the bar, scanning the crowd of people hoisting pints and cheering the Iowa Hawkeyes. None of them seemed frustrated. None of them seemed like they hated their mindless jobs or loathed their suffocating families. In the Sports Column, it was all sunshine. Just a bunch of smiling folks, having fun and watching the Hawks clobber Minnesota. Good times.

I'm not an idiot. I knew it was just an illusion. But it was a comforting illusion, infinitely superior to reality. So I poured the shot down my throat and motioned to Nikki as she walked by.

'Need something, hon?'�

'Yeah,'� I said softly, holding up the shot glass. 'Keep 'em coming.'�

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