Editor's Note: Across the world, millions struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs. These are the stories, as best as he can remember them, of one of those compulsive personalities.
"My name's Jack. I'm an alcoholic. It's been six years since my last drink."
The chorus "Hi Jack, Hi Jack," resonates from the folding chairs of the unused Presbyterian church hall.
For two months, I've been wasting time at the "Plug in the Jug."
Subjected to Jack's story, I take a long drag of my Marlboro Light and search for the Styrofoam cup that holds my fourth coffee in the last 30 minutes.
"If anyone thinks I don't belong here, let me tell you about my arrest," Jack says. "One night, I got drunk and robbed an appliance warehouse."
Jack stuffs a cookie into his mouth and pauses for dramatic impact while he chews.
He continues. "I had three TVs stacked in the alley outside the warehouse. By then I sobered up a bit and realized the robbery wasn't that well-planned. I was using a bicycle to make my getaway."
I turn to the weathered face next to me.
"That's it. I'm outta here. I can't be this screwed up. I don't belong here."
"You don't belong here?" he says.
"No way I'm as whacked out as these guys."
"Your dad a drunk?"
"Yeah."
"His dad a drunk?"
"Yeah."
"But you don't belong here?"
"No."
"You'll be back," his stone-face says. "I'll save you a seat."
***
The bartender pushes the pitcher of beer at Patsy while he snatches his fiver and says, "What's that funny smell?"
Turkish cigarettes," I yell. " I roll them myself."
"They smell like shit," Cliff says.
"Yeah, but they're cheap."
My pal Patsy places Cliff's fresh poured pitcher on the round table a safe distance away from where I've placed the mescaline.
The wax paper contains a pile of gelatin mixed with the hallucinogen.
When I need more rushes, laughter or energy ripples, I simply touch my index finger to my tongue and dip it into the pile of strawberry concentrate.My friend passes me a joint.
It's 1964, and I'm 16 years old in the Bronx. The other six customers don't have a clue. Few do in the early 1960s. Only jazz musicians and hipsters smoked pot.
The legal drinking age is 18, but this joint checks library cards. This dump would be empty without us. All but Bob, the ex-marine, are underage.
I date Bob's daughter. After Korea, he did five years in Dannemora for armed robbery. Last month, Bob turned me on to pot.
"No f****** way Bob. Not after you've been drinking, no way. I don't care how old you are. Can't be done, impossible."
Bob says, "I'll bet you $5. We'll do it right now. I have a sophisticated palate."
"You're telling me after getting loaded all night, you can taste three glasses of draught and tell the difference between Rheingold, Schaeffer or Budweiser? You got a bet."
We blindfold Bob, line up the three seven-ounce glasses, and he sips. "This one's Schaeffer."
I'm impressed.
"This one's Budweiser."
I'm astonished.
"Of course, the last one's Rheingold."
Remarkable. I hand him his pound and applaud.
Hours later, I'm whacked. Bob leaves and Cliff calls me to the bar.
"I didn't want to start any problems before, but all these taps plug into Schaeffer kegs. It's on sale this month, so that's all we got."
***
"Hey mom, you know who died?"
"No. Who?"
"Mike Fitzmaurice."
Her thick brogue registers surprise. "Mike Fitzmaurice? Dead? Is he? But sure, he didn't drink at all."
"Mom, there's other ways people die. Not everyone dies of drink."
***
I'm in the back of the city bus that takes me to the Catholic prep school where I'm a senior. Amid the confusion of cigarette smoke and chatter, I'm squinting for the third time at a letter my older brother sent me from France.
"Paris is getting a little boring," he says. "In August, I think I'll jump up to Belgium, maybe cross the channel and have a few laughs in England."
I refold the letter and replace it back within my blazer pocket.
Weaned on movies about exotic locals, such as "Macao" and "Casablanca," I'm seething.
I peer through the monotony of white shirts and blazers out at the gray streets.
I'm stuck in a five-flight walk-up with a lunatic for an old man, yet Tim finds the Air Force and Paris a little boring.
I loosen my tie: the Bronx in June. Why didn't I pick a seat by the window?
***
The streets, change. No one plays stickball anymore. Drugs pour in fast and furious. Everything places a distant second to getting high.
"Hey Billy man, you gotta cigarette?"
Kenny stops me as I walk up the street toward my apartment building.
I reach into my shirt pocket, and for the first time see clearly the deteriorating mess that only a year before had been the neighborhood quarterback. Kenny's nose runs, his eyes nod, his dirty fingernails scratch the undernourished arm that protrudes from his filthy T-shirt.
Kenny's not alone.
Paul sits on the stoop and always has his face enveloped in a No. 2 brown paper bag. I thought, "This guy's going nowhere fast."
I'm wrong. Two years later, Paul the glue-freak becomes Ace Frehley, the lead guitarist of Kiss.
Other friends joined the service. Vince and Charley already "bought the farm" in Vietnam.
Shit, the war's real. Guys are dying. If I join the service, maybe I'll die too.
Nonsense. I'm too "street smart" to die.
***
When heroin moves into the neighborhood, I decide it's time to ship out. If I leave my friends and the neighborhood, I'll stay sober.
I'm an immigrant. I owe my country. I'm off to defend the Vietnamese from themselves.
Who's more qualified to decide Southeast Asia's fate than a blue-eyed, blond-haired 19-year-old Irishman with a drinking problem?
Besides defending my country, I'll see the world and get clean and sober. What are the chances Southeast Asia has drugs?
This column will provide a hazy stumble down memory lane. Some will find the stories funny, others offensive; hopefully no one finds them boring. Another Irishman, Oscar Wilde, famously said, "Nothing succeeds like excess."
I spent a lifetime proving him wrong.
Bill O'Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. O'Connor is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The irreverent and acerbic O'Connor performs free standup around Gainesville.
