1.
Drunk Me is completely misunderstood. He's killing Sober Me, people say, literally drowning me in Irish whiskey, German beer, and Italian wine. I hear the whispers: he's the reason things went bad with Stacey, why I can't finish the novel and haven't placed a story in a year and a half, why I'm on this bullshit "probation" thing at work.
But they don't understand. We have a symbiotic relationship. Yin and Yang. Chang and Eng. An action and an equal and opposite reaction. Me and Drunk Me are made for each other. We are soul mates.
2.
Holed up in my office, I can hear my colleagues coming in for the day. Chatter and scrape, giggle and drone. Unlike them, I'm used to the hangover. I know -- or, Drunk Me knows -- how to deal with it. Like a boy scout hopped up on meth, he is random, but super-prepared. My alarm went off at 5:30 and I was here by 7:00. I took the stairs, slid into my office without seeing a soul, and now I'm here, bunkered up and waiting.
3.
Drunk Me is like a magical leprechaun who leaves little presents at night. I might open my gym bag to find my razor and deodorant nesting in a tangle of gym shorts. Plop into the car in the morning, running late and soggy-headed, only to find a bottle of water, a travel-mug of ice-cold coffee, and a sausage-and-egg sandwich. Sure, the sandwich isn't really edible and the car will smell like Jimmy Dean for a week, but still.
4.
Even from inside my office, with the door closed, I can feel the tension outside. They are waiting. Waiting for Gruber to rap politely on my door. For him to come in and close it. For shouting, pleading, the giving and receiving of tough love. They are waiting for me to stagger out, look around for a box into which I'll place my pictures, business cards, socks, shoes, personal folders and coffee mugs. They are wondering what I'll do with the pints, the bottle of Jameson, the six of Heineken, whether I'll put it all in the box and walk out like Don't Judge Me or leave it in the desk as evidence, silent acceptance of my fate, recognition of my Problem.
5.
Drunk Me is creative. If anything, he's the one keeping any writer's spark alive, the only one still scratching out drawings on the dim cave walls of our mind. Just last week, I woke up to a note, scribbled across a frozen pizza box: "Sporks = Funny." Later on that day I found another one, written on an ATM receipt: "Story: No Knees + Basketball = Sad."
6.
Giggles and chatter outside my office until finally I hear Gruber clacking down the hall and everybody goes silent. The knock on the door. I put four Altoids in my mouth and shout Yep.
7.
Sometimes Drunk Me can be troublesome, like when he buys a thousand dollars worth of Soviet photography equipment, when he cuts up the credit cards or starts working the phones. The night at the beach when he shaved my head.
Like last night: company holiday party, a few drinks, more drinks, sneaking up to the roof to smoke with the mailroom guys, shots, more shots, fuzzy end of the party, gray area between work and home, bad sleep, waking up early, a bruise the size and color of a plum on my left shoulder, a scratch on my forehead, shoes missing, Santa hat stained with blood sitting atop a pile of stinky clothes. My handwriting in red Sharpie on the bathroom mirror: "you are fucked."
It’s not always easy picking up where he left off.
8.
Gruber comes in and shuts the door. I sit up in my seat. I'm blushing and my glasses start to fog.
"What you did last night..." Gruber says.
"The truth is," I cut him off. I put my head down, purse my lips, try to force some water into my eyes. "The truth is I have a drinking problem."
Gruber nods, places a liver-spotted hand on mine. I feel the weight of it all, like the time Stacey talked me into snowboarding and all of the sudden I was at the top of the hill looking down and thinking How the hell did I get here?
"I need help," I say.
"You have family here," he says.
9.
Drunk Me is smarter than me. Even as I sit at the desk and cry real tears, gurgling and coughing as Gruber shuts the door, Drunk Me is thinking, scheming, he is waiting and watching and I can hear him in the back of my head, murmuring in that calm voice. "Nice work,” he says. It’s silent for a moment. No chatter outside my door. I wipe my nose. “All this drama," he says. "I could use a drink."
Drunk Me is completely misunderstood. He's killing Sober Me, people say, literally drowning me in Irish whiskey, German beer, and Italian wine. I hear the whispers: he's the reason things went bad with Stacey, why I can't finish the novel and haven't placed a story in a year and a half, why I'm on this bullshit "probation" thing at work.
But they don't understand. We have a symbiotic relationship. Yin and Yang. Chang and Eng. An action and an equal and opposite reaction. Me and Drunk Me are made for each other. We are soul mates.
2.
Holed up in my office, I can hear my colleagues coming in for the day. Chatter and scrape, giggle and drone. Unlike them, I'm used to the hangover. I know -- or, Drunk Me knows -- how to deal with it. Like a boy scout hopped up on meth, he is random, but super-prepared. My alarm went off at 5:30 and I was here by 7:00. I took the stairs, slid into my office without seeing a soul, and now I'm here, bunkered up and waiting.
3.
Drunk Me is like a magical leprechaun who leaves little presents at night. I might open my gym bag to find my razor and deodorant nesting in a tangle of gym shorts. Plop into the car in the morning, running late and soggy-headed, only to find a bottle of water, a travel-mug of ice-cold coffee, and a sausage-and-egg sandwich. Sure, the sandwich isn't really edible and the car will smell like Jimmy Dean for a week, but still.
4.
Even from inside my office, with the door closed, I can feel the tension outside. They are waiting. Waiting for Gruber to rap politely on my door. For him to come in and close it. For shouting, pleading, the giving and receiving of tough love. They are waiting for me to stagger out, look around for a box into which I'll place my pictures, business cards, socks, shoes, personal folders and coffee mugs. They are wondering what I'll do with the pints, the bottle of Jameson, the six of Heineken, whether I'll put it all in the box and walk out like Don't Judge Me or leave it in the desk as evidence, silent acceptance of my fate, recognition of my Problem.
5.
Drunk Me is creative. If anything, he's the one keeping any writer's spark alive, the only one still scratching out drawings on the dim cave walls of our mind. Just last week, I woke up to a note, scribbled across a frozen pizza box: "Sporks = Funny." Later on that day I found another one, written on an ATM receipt: "Story: No Knees + Basketball = Sad."
6.
Giggles and chatter outside my office until finally I hear Gruber clacking down the hall and everybody goes silent. The knock on the door. I put four Altoids in my mouth and shout Yep.
7.
Sometimes Drunk Me can be troublesome, like when he buys a thousand dollars worth of Soviet photography equipment, when he cuts up the credit cards or starts working the phones. The night at the beach when he shaved my head.
Like last night: company holiday party, a few drinks, more drinks, sneaking up to the roof to smoke with the mailroom guys, shots, more shots, fuzzy end of the party, gray area between work and home, bad sleep, waking up early, a bruise the size and color of a plum on my left shoulder, a scratch on my forehead, shoes missing, Santa hat stained with blood sitting atop a pile of stinky clothes. My handwriting in red Sharpie on the bathroom mirror: "you are fucked."
It’s not always easy picking up where he left off.
8.
Gruber comes in and shuts the door. I sit up in my seat. I'm blushing and my glasses start to fog.
"What you did last night..." Gruber says.
"The truth is," I cut him off. I put my head down, purse my lips, try to force some water into my eyes. "The truth is I have a drinking problem."
Gruber nods, places a liver-spotted hand on mine. I feel the weight of it all, like the time Stacey talked me into snowboarding and all of the sudden I was at the top of the hill looking down and thinking How the hell did I get here?
"I need help," I say.
"You have family here," he says.
9.
Drunk Me is smarter than me. Even as I sit at the desk and cry real tears, gurgling and coughing as Gruber shuts the door, Drunk Me is thinking, scheming, he is waiting and watching and I can hear him in the back of my head, murmuring in that calm voice. "Nice work,” he says. It’s silent for a moment. No chatter outside my door. I wipe my nose. “All this drama," he says. "I could use a drink."
About the Author
