Immoderation
The CHP finally got tired of seeing my face at the registration desk. When I was informed that unless I went to six months of AA meetings I'd lose my driver's license, I was confused. I didn't want to lose my freedom to drive, but I imagined that AA was one of those sermon-and-a-free-meal Christian deals where they try to convert the penniless.
I told the judge, “You don't understand, I can pay for my dinner. How about community service?”
“No, you don't understand,” she said. “Alcoholics Anonymous isn't a charity. It's an organization of people who help each other stay sober.”
Oh.
I began attending daily AA meetings, and to my surprise, I immediately loved the concept. There were no overseers with funny outfits, no cultural, racial, or gender exclusions, no Bible, Talmud, or Koran thumping, and no “You're going to hell unless you …” threats. It was just a simple premise based on spiritual progress. While I went to the meetings and stayed “sober” for as long as it took to quiet the authorities and placate my family, I learned to listen and appreciate the affecting personal stories of people from dissimilar backgrounds. I also learned to burn “this too shall pass” into my repertoire of clichés. And I made new friends.
But the idea of never again using chemicals didn't register as a lifelong pursuit. Since I was fascinated by collective self-examination and the power of group energy, I continued to go to meetings long after the CHP had lost interest in my behavior or my whereabouts. But as far as drugging was concerned, I made up my own rules. I figured it was a good idea to stay out of the driver's seat while chemicals were still altering my motor skills, but for me, that didn't necessarily mean sobriety.
In the meantime, there was some turmoil erupting between Skip and me. With my preference for liquor and Skip's affinity for opiates, we'd begun to exist on different planets of altered lack of consciousness. But because my loaded behavior was usually acted out publicly, while Skip's was private, I was the one who obviously needed restraining. People like my father and Skip, who spent most of their time quietly ripped, managed to enjoy their excesses without bringing down the wrath of the community.
It was decided that I should go to Duffy's, a rehab unit that was located smack in the middle of California's wine country.
Ironic.
Someone dragged me, the offending drunk, up to the facility in the middle of the night, and I woke up in heaven—nothing but grapes bulging with potential every-where I looked. Some of the other guests apparently had convulsions and died before they could appreciate the satire, but the humor of the situation and the location of this particular “Fidget Farm” were not lost on Gene Duffy, the sarcastic bullhorn of a man who owned the place. The first words I ever heard him say were, “Good morning, assholes!” With that opening comment, I liked him right away. He was correct, of course. No one got to Duffy's by exemplary conduct.
I wasn't there for long before I noticed some fellow drunks who were a bit further along in the game than I was. One man was shaking so badly he had to grab a towel, wrap it around his neck, and hold it steady with one hand like a pulley, in order to bring his orange juice up to his mouth without spilling it in his lap. Others just sat in chairs, reviewing their lives with a kind of unearthly stare. Those of us under the age of forty who were still able to sweat out the hangover took solace in the delusion of immortality that buttresses young souls.
After a couple of weeks at the Fidget Farm, if you seemed to be making “progress,” they allowed you to go on a walk by yourself to the center of the town, which happened to be Calistoga. I took advantage of the freedom by visiting the various wine-tasting concessions that dotted the area, and, when I returned, no one seemed to notice my infraction of the rules. At that time Duffy's did no drug testing, so at the end of the required three-week residency, I was permitted to leave with the customary reminder to continue going to AA meetings.
My story is and has always been that I enjoy being sober and I enjoy being drunk. I just wish it didn't unhinge my family and friends as much as it does.
Some reasons (not excuses) for my incurable immoderation concerning food and drugs:
At five feet, seven inches, 140 pounds, I consider myself about three inches too short and about ten pounds overweight. I maintain that slightly hefty appearance because about once a week I like to stuff myself on foods that I love. If I don't like the added weight, I take it off. If someone else doesn't like the extra ten pounds, they can go right ahead and not like the remaining 130 pounds right along with it—that's their problem. The main reason for dieting is that I'm lazy and I don't like lugging the blubber around. But, ah, the taste of a fine meal.
Concerning my intermittent drug use, people have asked me, “Aren't you happy in your natural state?”
Yes. I like the “natural state” (Montana?). I also like spaghetti, but not three meals a day, every day, all year. I like variations, both for my taste buds and for my forty-odd neural/chemical receptors. During my life, I've used drugs for a number of different reasons: to experience other levels of consciousness, to remain wakeful, to try to induce hallucinations (which I've never really had), to quiet my nerves, to lower my cholesterol levels, to shut up the committee in my head, to get silly, to reduce inflammation, and on and on.
The list of pharmaceuticals and street drugs I've availed myself of is endless, but the worst drug reaction I've had was caused by a prescription pill called Zomax. It was touted as a minor anti-inflammatory chemical mix that worked fine on rats—but unfortunately didn't agree very well with humans. I took Zomax to relieve a pulled back muscle. But when I swallowed one of these harmless-looking little cylinders that a doctor had prescribed for Skip, within a half hour, I was on my way to the hospital—cramping, throwing up, emitting diarrhea, and breaking out in a head-to-toe rash. The paramedics were forced to shove wet towels down my throat so I could breathe (my throat was so dry, it stuck together, blocking the air passages). When I told my doctor what I'd taken, he said, “Oh, they took that off the market—it was killing people.”
What a waste—it didn't even get me high.