Buying liquor at ten o’clock in the morning

She never apologized. My grandmother once accused me of trying to kill her. I was only making a sandwich. I was ten years old. She was drunk. It was a late evening and I was still hungry. I decided to eat the last two pieces of ham with mustard and bread. I was slicing the sandwich in half with a butter knife when she came stumbling in the kitchen. I thought I’d get in trouble because my grandmother had a strict rule about kids being in her kitchen. She only saw the butter knife. She was so drunk. She screamed like I was about to attack her. I stood frozen. She ran to me and knocked the knife out of my hand. She beat me to the floor with her fists. I was so confused. I begged for her to stop. The next day when she awoke me for school she asked me where I got the bruises on my face. I wanted to slap her. One of my cousins told her she did it. She denied it. She told me if anyone asked I got into a fight with one of my older cousins. She never apologized. I never forgave her.

It was not the first time. Every time when I awoke, I’d feel shame. I’d look at the clock and determined that I had an hour before the liquor store opened. I wondered what I would do with the time. I always questioned if I had a problem. I figured the private torment kept me aware. I decided to cook breakfast and pretend I’m not counting down the seconds. I was on unemployment so I knew didn’t have worry about work. I felt anxious. I needed my medicine. I wished I gotten an extra bottle the night before. I wished I lived in a city where they sold liquor 24/7.

After breakfast I decided to get dress. I put on jeans and a hood shirt. I picked a baseball cap and the darkest sunshades I could find. The liquor store was seven blocks from my apartment. At 9:45 in the morning I stepped outside into the wet snowed streets. The wind was brutal but comforting, I liked the distraction. I felt exposed as if everyone was watching me. Like everyone knew my dirty little secret. I’d been trying so hard to keep it under control but there were times I fucked. My neighbor once found me passed out in front of my apartment door. I tried to make her laugh, telling her it was one hell of a party. It was a life of fear.

I arrived to the liquor store a couple of minutes before ten. They were not opened. I’m not alone. At least 15 other people were waiting outside the doors. I watched them carefully. I wonder if I looked anything like them. I tell myself I am nothing like them. They look broken and desperate. Half of them were homeless. The other half look as if they have given up on life. We all had that addict impatient look in our eyes like a racing heartbeat that needed to slow down. My clothes were different. I wore bright colors they wore dark. I looked like I was still trying to hide the fear of loneliness they looked as it they had gotten comfortable with abandonment. The addiction had taken everything. I once went to an AA meeting. It was after a really bad weekend of binge drinking. I woke up in alley on a pissed stained mattress and decided that I’d probably hit my rock bottom. I called the number I found in the phone book. They made me call back like five times and then put me on hold for like thirty minutes. I figured they were testing my commitment. They gave me an address of a meeting. I couldn’t think of anything worse to happen to my life than going to an AA meeting other than going to prison. Of course I needed a couple of drinks just to build up the courage. I was facing my failure and didn’t want to do it sober. I got to the meeting. I was horrified. It was nothing like I’d seen on television. It was nothing like the rehab memoirs I’d read. I thought it would be clean, maybe a couple of celebrities and welcoming. It was dark, filthy, the people looked so downtrodden. The stories were so pathetic like who drinks rubbing alcohol without thinking they may had gone crazy. I felt sane compared to their hopelessness. I was just at the first level of Dante’s inferno. I saw a guy throwing up in a corner. Another alcoholic who’d fallen off the wagon fashioned an obvious piss stain in front of his pants. Those people didn’t look salvable. I ran from that meeting. I never went back. I didn’t drink again for a month. It didn’t last.

As I waited a block away waiting for the liquor store to open because I needed enough distance from the crowd, I thought about my grandmother. I remember she drank from the time she woke up in the morning until she passed out at night. She didn’t drink the hard stuff just beer. I remember when the doctors demanded she give up the beer she started drinking non-alcoholic beer. She said she liked the taste. She went back to the real thing after the frustration. I never thought of my grandmother having a problem. I just thought she went crazy sometimes.

I always knew I might be predisposed to a substance abuse problem because addiction ran in my family. My mother was addicted to crack. My favorite aunt had a long battle with Heroin. All of my uncles on both sides either had crack or alcohol problems. I thought I was different. I graduated at the top of my class in high school. I was the first in my family to go and graduate from college. I was the first male in my family to not have a criminal record. I figured myself different. I was nothing like them.

I never wanted to grow up and become any of my relatives. My uncle once got drunk and decided that I was too uppity, so he decided to hold me down at thirteen years old and pour bottle after bottle of beer in my mouth. He thought it was funny. I was sick for two days. I never drank beer again. Every holiday someone got drunk and became belligerent pulling out their guns or beating up on their wives. As a child, I never thought much of it. I just knew I wasn’t supposed to give three of my uncles money because they liked the crack. I just knew my grandmother usually passed out around nine o’clock at night. I never thought of it as a problem just an annoyance. I thought it was normal. How was I to know what’s normal growing up in a family addicts?

I looked at my watch and noticed that the liquor store was ten minutes late opening. It angered me. I thought about walking another three blocks to the next liquor store but decided to wait it out.

I didn’t have my first drink until I was twenty two years old. I never did drugs before. I was a good boy and fucking tired of it. I craved excitement. My first drink was a whisky sour. I remember it was bitter but it wasn’t beer, so I felt safe. I had ten. I remember that feeling of being drunk. I liked it. I was suddenly social, smart and attractive. I was a bad boy. I flirted with strangers. I danced on top of tables. I was aggressive and didn’t care about reputation. I wasn’t so repressed anymore. I didn’t think it would be a problem to just have some fun. I remember when I used to say I’d never drink alone. I’d never drink depressed or angry. When I got drunk, I started doing a lot of things I never thought I do.

The liquor store finally opened. I felt relived but decided to wait five more minutes. I didn’t want to look desperate. I didn’t want to be part of the crowd. I was always amazed how many people showed up so early in the morning. Some had taken breaks from work. It made me feel not so alone, almost normal, but not safe.

I thought of my grandmother again. She was always self-imprisoned in her room watching her soaps or whatever was on television getting drunk. She had a green Kool’s cigarette cup the size of a gallon of milk and every hour she would yelled at one of us kids to go fill it up with cheap beer. She was always alone in her fire hazard room. In the winter a portable heater sat atop of blankets kept her brittle feet warm. In the summer, in the same spot, a portable fan circulated the cool air from the air-conditioning. My grandmother didn’t need anyone as long as her Kool’s cigarette cup was filled with her favorite cheap intoxicant. She didn’t need anyone for a conversation because she had them with herself or at the television. She didn’t need anyone for entertainment because she was always laughing at something in her head, or on the television or crying about something she would never explain. She died in that room, alone, clinging to her Kool’s cigarette cup. It seemed to be her only happiness.

I finally decided that I waited long enough. I try to give a polite smile. The liquor store owner always recognized. Actually, all the liquor stores in a mile radius knew me. I’ve tried them all. I like the Asian liquor store the best. The prices were cheaper and they seemed a little less judgmental. It was just business. I didn’t even have to tell him what I wanted. He grabbed the bottle of rum. There was no talking. I handed him my money. It was simple. It was guilt free. With the other liquor stores they wanted to talk. They wanted to ask questions. I felt I had nothing to explain to nobody.

As I walked the seven blocks back home, I knew there was a liquor store at the corner of my block. I didn’t like them. They changed management at least three times a year. The first owner was a black man, his brother and his wife. They were a shady looking group of people. I think they sold liquor and crack. One thanksgiving I had a party at my place and we ran out of Vodka, it was just my luck the liquor store was opened. After my purchase, I made one small joke that it was great for him to be opened for the alcoholics. He didn’t laugh. The next time he saw me, he handed me an AA pamphlet and refused to sell to me. I was pissed. I hardly ever went into his liquor store, he never seen me drunk, I was always sober, but one tasteless joke, he made me walk the three blocks to the next liquor store. The great thing about my neighborhood there was a liquor store and church almost on every corner. A couple of months later, a new group of owners arrived, they were Indian. The guy was really cool, very friendly. I spent at least seventy dollars a week at his liquor store. The only problem, when he saw me out, be it the grocery store or bus stop he would always try to sell me liquor. I couldn’t walk by that store; it was as if he had a tracking bug on me, he run out his store and try to sell me liquor. He acted like he was my dope dealer. The third group of people I hated the most. They never put their prices up. It was as if they could charge you whatever they felt at the moment. They made me nervous. They never looked happy to see me.

Four blocks on the way home, I pass my old stomping ground liquor store. I thought about stopping in and saying hi but I knew it was ridiculous, they didn’t care. I remember the cashier was mother of the owner. She was at least eighty years old, could barely stand up straight, her hands shook like a withdrawing addict and her neck wobbled like a wild turkey. She had a look in her eyes of too many bad decisions in her life. Shemanically puffed those long thin women cigarettes. I liked her. She reminded me of my grandmother. She always appeared drunk. Maybe she was just old. I had a weird relationship with her. It was as if I was seeking her approval. I remember in the morning she baby-sat her great granddaughter. I found it old for an infant child in her Walt Disney playing pen at a liqour store. She seemed peaceful. I never heard her cry. It was a mom and pop store, one of the best in my gentrified neighborhood. The other liquor stores didn’t display their liquor out front, instead it was hidden behind bullet proof glass along with the store owners and you have to yell through a hole in the bullet proof glass for what you wanted. They always heard you wrong and you have to yell again, then go point, and play the “you’re getting warmer” game. It was annoying. I like the mom and pop store because I got to peruse my liquor and not feel like a criminal.

As I passed the store, I remembered even at ten o’clock in the morning at the “Mom and Pop” liquor store I always purchase the largest bottle because it was usually on sale and saved me money in the long run. I also figured by purchasing the large bottle the store owner wouldn’t think I was some drunk. I wanted her to think that my purchase was maybe for an important party I was to attend later that evening. I remember I always dressed my best. I made sure my fingernails were clean and my teeth sparkling white. I wanted her to know that I was different. I didn’t know why. I always made conversation. I knew that her grandson wanted to be a singer, she handed me his demo one day for no particular reason. It was awful. I told her I loved it and couldn’t wait for his album to come out because it was going to be huge. I knew that the liquor store had been in her family since she was a child. I knew that her great-granddaughter loved Snow-white. I bought her some exclusive DVD and told the old lady I had gotten it free from a friend who worked for Disney. It was a lie, it cost me twenty bucks. I didn’t know why I was trying to impress that old woman. She just made me feel guilty. I stopped going to that liquor store because I couldn’t handle the pressure.

Two blocks away from my house, I passed the church and have to wait at the corner for the light to change. I see the church people and I hug my brown paper bag. It’s obvious what’s in it. I pretend they don’t care. I had nothing to prove. I was the good kid growing up and it really pissed off a lot of my relatives. I was the kid who always had his hand in the air with the answer at school. I was polite and well groomed. I respected my elders. I took shiny apples to school for my teachers. I got straight A's. I was in the boys scout. I helped old ladies and the blind cross the street. I cut the church’s grass for free. I never cursed. It was no fun growing up the good kid in a family of degenerates. They treated me like I was an angel sent down to hell to make them feel bad about their lives, therefore the desperately needed to corrupt me. They would always play cruel jokes on me. My cousins tricked me into asking my grandmother questions like what is a “clitoris” or if she liked “golden showers.” Of course my drunken grandmother would go ballistic. They jokes never stopped. They would stick pictures of nude girls on my back at school. They try to get me to smoke weed. I stopped waiting to be good. I started waiting to be liked.

When I got inside my apartment, I felt relieved. I went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and got some ice for my big plastic cup that I got from one of those themed restaurants. It was my favorite. I filled it up with ice, some rum and coke. I went to my bed, turned on the TV. The View was so much funnier with a big plastic cup of rum and coke. As I sipped my freedom and the rum ran rampant, I felt alone. I wasn’t doing anything productive with my life. I felt like I was stuck in quicksand and running out of time to be rescued.

I rushed the liquor. I finished the first cup so I could enjoy the second cup slower. I just needed to feel that first buzz. I thought about my grandmother again and how I never forgave her for some of her evils. I never thought she had a problem. I just assumed her flip personality was normal. I thought about some friends I’d lost because of my drinking. I never felt I had a problem. I just felt bad shit just happened sometimes. I didn’t think I had a problem. I thought I was normal. It didn’t help that I grew up in a family plagued with addiction. It turned out I wasn’t so different.

Maybe that was the shame I was feeling, that I thought my grandmother had wasted her life sitting up in her room getting drunk everyday. She no longer wanted to see the world or control her anger. I suddenly felt as if I never really knew my grandmother. I only knew the craziness of her addiction. I knew I didn’t like that person. So what did that say about me? I fixed myself a third rum and coke and decided I was nothing like her. How was I supposed to know normal growing up in a family of addicts?