Unhappy Hour-a Story of Alcoholism and Survival
me politely. They could not have failed to notice the huge amounts of booze that I was buying.
As I made my way to the beer fridge the shop assistant appeared out of nowhere and greeted me. “Sawubona,” he said. He seemed to stare right into my very soul. I wondered what was he thinking. He sometimes helped me to the car and today would be no different. No doubt I was a shock to him as well. Maybe I was too paranoid. Sure I was gaunt, filthy and sickly-looking but then maybe there were plenty of people like me coming in and out of the bottle store every day. Maybe all that intrigued them was where the money was coming from. That must be a mystery as I looked like a typical down and out. Bugger it. Let them ponder.
The cold beer fridge revived me a little and I always stayed a couple of minutes longer than necessary. I found my beer and asked the assistant to help me carry the case to the till. There I fumbled for the money and handed it over to the guy. He remained silent and passed me the change which I gave to the assistant. He mumbled a quiet “Siyabonga,” and carried the case to the car.
The prospect of a cold beer had greatly lifted my spirits and the walk back to the car was no problem. Once there I ripped open a plastic cover from the beers and twisted off the top and drained it in one easy action. It felt good. I grabbed another and flopped into the driver’s seat. The trip towards Margate was uneventful, but I was gasping for a beer by the time I pulled into my driveway.
Running our business from home meant that there was always somebody in the office and this time was no exception. The trick now was to get my beers into the fridge without attracting too much attention, but the internal garage door led off the office. So I just went for it. Even now I still resented people questioning my actions. I felt no need to take other people’s feelings into account. I was totally self-absorbed in my own misery and my own personal struggle just to get through the days and nights.
I felt that I had no choice any more. The liquor consumed all my mental and physical energy. The people who came and went in my life saw me as a babbling wreck. I comforted myself with the thought that they should see me when I was deprived of my beers.
I stopped at the fridge long enough to sink a cold one and then walked into the office. My entrance went unnoticed and only Mary looked up and asked how I was feeling. Plonking myself down, I couldn’t fail to notice that it had turned into a lovely day.
I was oblivious to the chatter going on around me. By now it was common knowledge that I was ‘not well’ and most people who had regular dealings with me were polite and concerned in my company. They had seen me turn from a well-known and respected businessman into what I was now. My self-esteem and confidence was at its lowest ever.
I had not bathed or showered for God knows how long and a shower was something I had been planning for a couple of days. At least today I would almost smell like a normal human being. Peeling off the filthy rags that I had been wearing for the last few weeks, I cautiously stepped under the stream of water. I had placed a beer just outside the shower and for the time being was content to just stand there and sip it. But that apparently innocent action brought an immediate reaction from my beleaguered body and I vomited all over the shower floor. Even so, I began to laugh. It was a sight to behold, me, sitting on the shower floor, beer in hand, laughing like a crazy man as my vomit washed away. The laughter soon turned to tears and the joke was on me. What had turned me into this pitiful wreck? Why couldn’t I empty the beer down the drain and start over? At that moment I knew deep down I needed help.
I am not an openly religious man, but I believe in a God of love and mercy. I was broken and scared. Scared of what lay ahead and whether I’d have the strength to do the right thing.
The laughter turned to terrible sobbing.
For days I had promised myself that I would continue drinking until the very last possible moment. I felt that the only way I would walk into that hospital was if I was completely out of it.
The very thought that my last beer was now becoming a reality was not one that had any great appeal to me. It seemed impossible that after all this time I would pass even 10 minutes without something that had become so much part of my life.
Once back at my desk, my eyes never left the clock. I had half a beer left on my desk and I found myself staring at it. After all the tears, screaming and drama, I needed all the inner strength and resolve that I could possibly muster. Grabbing the bottle, I pressed it slowly to my lips and let the last liquid slide down my throat, and for the next few seconds mumbled a silent prayer to whoever was out there and