We were out late last night with other people doing what people often do on Friday nights: we were at the bar. Herself is not one for the sauce, and I practiced restraint. The rest of our party, maybe not so much.
Elsewhere on the internet I’ve read that if it wasn’t for cigarettes and alcohol, the hospitals would be empty. What drives people to chemical-induced debauchery and self-destruction? My standard answer is, of course, “we drink until the pain goes away.” As the modified version of the cliché goes, “we drink to remember, we drink to forget.” I think the real answer is simpler.
Booze wasn’t really associated with good times during my formative years. The only time that was different was one Thanksgiving night or post-X-mas dinner when my grandfather had a bunch of strays in (he was wont to do that around the holidays, try to find people that had nowhere else to go), and they were sitting around the folding table, playing poker. I’d bring them beers, and they’d give me quarters. No one was really fighting or getting their feelings hurt; it actually seemed like a good time was had by everyone except my mother and grandmother who were not used to so much traditional male obnoxiousness all at once.
That seemed like a fluke to me, though, until I started hanging around with other adults that drank. I was pretty young, 14 or 15, when some of my then-BBS friends had a party. I was invited and my mom didn’t even mind; she trusted some of the other adults that would be there. It was at the house of a woman well known for her boisterous nature, and her convivial side only came out when her practicing Mormon husband was out of town. I don’t think anyone offered me a drink and I didn’t ask.
They were drinking Southern Comfort and Blue Kool Aid. It looked horrible and smelled almost as bad. People were sneaking off to have secret conversations and stolen cigarettes. They were calling up the radio station to make requests, and then not paying attention when the song came on. I think a rather raunchy game of Pictionary was played. There were drunk dials to those that could not be present. Much junk food was consumed. While there was some drama, it was the typical caused-by-miscommunication variety; nothing truly hateful was said nor anything dangerous done.
In short, they were acting like kids. The booze was a lubricant and an excuse for letting the inner child out for a while. This was when I first realized that adults are just children that have to be on their best behavior most of the time. Quite a rude awakening for me; I was hoping something would magically change as I got older and I’d know what the right thing to do would be and that doing it would suddenly be easy.