Alcoholism in the Time of Corona

People say that we’re all in this together. I’m not so sure. And if I wasn’t an alcoholic before this whole mess began, now there can be no doubt.

Somewhere around mid-January, 2020, the Corona virus invaded the United States, first on the West Coast, then in Boston and New York City, and eventually closer to home. On March 19th, the Virginia State Health Department announced the first Covid-19 death in the Old Dominion. Things got tight real quick because nobody knew squat about this nebulous threat. Exactly how did it spread? And, more importantly, how lethal was it?

I, of course, assumed that I was squarely in the bull’s-eye. I’m a geezer, at the time one month shy of turning 70 and I’ve got what could be considered “underlying conditions.” My blood pressure can get a little out of whack and I have random and disturbing episodes of difficult breathing. Add to the mix the fact that I am already a chronic hand-washing germophobe and a paranoid of the first order, thus I was freaking out.

I didn’t know what the hell to do. So, suspecting global doom, I immediately went to the Food Lion and bought $400 worth of everything, the absolute most I’ve ever spent for food, cleaning products, and toilet paper.

Then I hunkered down. But I knew my stash wouldn’t last forever. I needed a plan. I went online and found nothing but frustration. The “automated” systems of Food Lion, Harris Teeter, Kroger, and Wegman’s were befuddling, byzantine, and basically worthless.

Then Fortuna smiled on me and I hooked up with Foods of All Nations, a venerable, locally owned Charlottesville specialty grocery where I had briefly worked long ago. The procedure is simple and basic. I call them on the phone. A human answers, usually a gal named Leslie, and she asks what she can get for me. I tell her. She writes it down and in about ten minutes she calls me back and informs me if there’s something they don’t have and asks if I want a substitute. Usually they have everything. Leslie refers to me as her “Bud Light guy.”

Wine was another matter. Foods of All Nations can be pricy by the bottle. I needed the box. Ted Norris, my numéro un breaux on numerous adventures in New Orleans over the years — and, by the way, the award-winning bartender at Maya, which is my “Cheers” bar — graciously volunteered to make vino-runs for me. I saw it as a big heart coupled with the force of habit. He’d get me six of those three-liter boxes of wine at a time, and before he handed back my credit card he would spray it with rubbing alcohol.

By July, I didn’t want to put Ted through this anymore, so I strapped on my mask and my big boy pants and went into the Fifth Street Food Lion, my first venture into a grocery store in four months. I felt both bold and stupid. Miraculously, I made it back to my car without being infected.

It would still be another month before I would brave the liquor store, but eventually I determined that it was cruel to let my tequila habit continue to suffer.

* * *

I should point out that circumstances had already gotten pretty weird for me even before the virus hit the fan. It began about three years ago. At that time I was well ensconced (ten years) in my job as a geologist, cartographer, and scientific editor working for the Virginia State Geological Survey. This gig was ideal: decent pay, medical and dental, 401k, a five-minute commute, etc., and moreover, I actually enjoyed going to work. A lot of that had to do with the fascinating projects, and a lot of that had to do with my colleagues who were intelligent, devoted, and decent folks — witty, conversational people who would rather laugh than cry. And we spoke the same language — a standard geological lexicon is fatter than a standard Spanish dictionary. With these fine folks I got to explore the backroads of Virginia doing what I love, banging on rocks and trying to unravel the past. And, as a bonus, I got to attend conventions with devotees of the same ilk, where I gave presentations of my work. After having spent numerous chunks of my life making ends meet — as a burger flipper, brick layer’s helper, janitor, truck driver, day-laborer tossing bald tires onto a freight train, night clerk at the Holliday Inn, front man for the circus (yup), State ABC liquor store clerk, waiter in various restaurants, cab driver, bar tender, substitute high school teacher, park ranger, convenience store clerk, and trim carpenter — I finally had established what I could call a profession.

However, and this is a sad however, much of my funding came from the Federal government through the US Geological Survey. Once the Trump administration got into high gear, I was prematurely “retired” — yet another collateral victim of the right-wing war on any scientist that could even be remotely connected with the concept of climate change. This was particularly galling for two reasons. 1) It would cost me about $500 a month for the rest of my life (however long that might be) in lost Social Security and Virginia State Pension. 2) One of my projects was exploration for domestic sources for phosphates — a strategic resource that is essential for fertilizer (read: food), and currently global production is dominated by China. I was mortified. Since then there has been a huge hole in my life. And I began drinking every day.

Then came the plague. During my days out in the Southwestern desert I had become accustomed to solitude, but this was off the charts. It’s been particularly grim for me because I don’t have any of the normal contacts that many people experience every day.

I don’t have a spouse or “significant other.”
I have no children that I know of.
My parents are both dead.
I have neither coworkers nor clients.
No pets. Not since Bob the Cat.
My friends seem to have lost the ability to use the telephone.

Furthermore, making matters downright insufferable, Maya, my favorite watering hole, had to close due to the pandemic. It’s not altogether unusual for me to go a week or two without talking to another human being. Other than myself. And Leslie at the grocery store. True fact.

The isolation eats at me night and day. And as collateral damage the pandemic has revealed exactly how unimportant I am. No one is depending on me for anything. I could disappear tomorrow and it could be weeks before anyone noticed.

* * *

So here is my standard routine. I wake up, stumble downstairs, sit at my computer and begin the day. First it is e-mails. Mostly crap. Then I turn to the internet: the weather forecast, baseball websites, and then facebook. I usually eat something while sitting at the computer — often ramen noodles with a big glass of milk. Occasionally I have some homemade chicken stew or split pea soup leftover from a cooking binge. Sometimes, if I’m feeling committed to the day, I might fry up bacon and eggs and hash browns, which I eat at the kitchen table while listening to right wing radio (opposition research).

Once properly sated, I find my way to my comfy chair in my little living room. There I read from my pile of books while listening to WTJU, the ultra groovy college radio station. (This is how I know what day of the week it is; by the different radio programs.) They play some fantastic music, and while listening to this fantastic music I’ve read some truly extraordinary books. Here’s what I have absorbed in the last year and a half.

Some diaries:

The Journals of Captain John Smith. Holy moly! This guy was one brazen mo-fo in an age of brazen mo-fos. And he bragged about it.
The Voyage of the Beagle. Charles Darwin’s account of his five-year trip around the world from 1831 to 1836, a voyage that rearranged man’s place in the universe.
Down the Great Unknown. John Wesley Powell was also a bona-fide bold mo-fo. This is his account of rafting down the Colorado River into the Grand Canyon in 1869. More than a century later I spent a week plunging down this savage river and at times I was absolutely terrified. We had modern equipment, while Powell, who had been seriously wounded in the Civil War leaving him with only one arm, was in a primitive wooden boat and had no idea what lay ahead.

Some histories:

1491 and 1493. Both by Charles C. Mann, these two masterpieces dive deeply into the Columbian exchange — before and after. Highly researched and HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. If I had to narrow down this list to just two books, these would be the ones.
Empire of the Summer Moon, by S. C. Gwynne. A beautiful yet brutal portrayal of history’s greatest horse cavalry — the Comanches. Thanks, Randy, for giving me this book.

Some science:

Life, by Richard Fortey. The jacket cover describes this as “A natural history of the first four billion years of life on Earth.” And it is.
The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History, by Elizabeth Kolbert. Humans getting into the act. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
The Story of the Earth in 25 Rocks, by Donald Prothero. This guy is an icon of Western geology and I just couldn’t help myself.

Some journalism:

The Lost Continent – Travels in Small Town America, by Bill Bryson. Fly-over country from the eyes of a witty Brit. Good yuks.
The World in a Grain, by Vince Beiser. A truly astounding investigation into something as seemingly mundane as sand. I’ll bet you wouldn’t have guessed that the Saudis have to import sand. Why, you ask? Read the book.

I usually steer clear of biographies, but I did read Bob Dylan’s Chronicles. Just what you’d expect. Among the books listed here, his is the closest that comes to fiction.

So, all of this digesting words while digesting food ultimately results in a nap.

* * *

After emerging from the nap, a little fragmented, I crack open a beer and get down to business. I write and I drink. I get another beer. I edit and drink. I pour some wine. I go onto the Internet to investigate the various forks in the road. And I drink. I do that until I’m too toasted to be productive. Usually three or four hours. Every day. Every damn day. But it is never enough. Too many projects, and my window is closing soon.

However, I do take solace that during the pandemic I have managed to make some headway. For instance, I substantially revised the first half of an experimental novel from thirty years ago. This was my second attempt at “The Big Book,” masquerading as four stories vastly separated in time and space, yet inexplicably related. The settings:

Ancient Mesopotamia at the dawn of civilization
The Swiss Alps after the fall of Rome
The mouth of the Amazon River in the prelude to the Age of Exploration
The corner bar down the street, tomorrow

This is as deep as I have ever plunged into no-holds-barred imaginative fiction. But for now, these stories are orphans.

Then I spent a couple of months tweaking my third novel, Flame and Steel. This is straight-up traditional historical fiction. Set twenty years after the Civil War, this tale is introduced from the perspective of a Negro butler employed at a reunion of veterans from both the North and the South, men who formerly had been adversaries at the Battle of Hampton Roads, the world’s first clash of iron warships — steam-powered, propeller driven, iron-walled juggernauts bearing huge artillery and representing the greatest technological revolution in Naval history — doomsday machines that render all of the world’s navies instantly obsolete while the fate of the American Nation hung in the balance. As each character reminisces in their separate ways, their recollections drift into flashbacks of the twists of fate that brought them front-and-center to this incredible event, all tightly interlaced with a sad and awkward love story between two children — an abandoned slave boy and the neglected daughter of an Irish dockyard whore. I am totally enamored with this story; I put my heart into it and devoted years in research and writing, but I fear it will never find an audience and will die along with me.

So it goes.

Nonetheless, there are indeed some coins to toss into the fountain. I recently composed two brief memoirs that I’m quite happy with — Thanksgiving With Boyer in L.A., which is a madcap romp through D-List Hollywood, and The Summer of Love, a reverie of misspent youth having run away to the beach. Currently I’m in the final stages of a much more substantial memoir — one that recounts my days working as a geologist for the National Park Service at El Morro, New Mexico, possibly the most extraordinary experience of my time on this planet.

However, there have been moments when I’ve gotten bored from writing about myself and tired of inventing fiction, so I pivot to pure research. When this happens, my mind turns to baseball. Numbers here folks, no bullshitting. This has spawned a multipart essay called Chin Music: A Detailed History of the Beanball, which revealed some startling facts about racism in the years following integration of the National Pastime.

But there is so much more to be done.

I desperately want to find a market for My Geochemistry Dream, a fantasia that describes the nuts and bolts of our planet. I think of all the imagination that I invested in this project. Till the day that I die, I am convinced that this is a revolutionary and exceptional way to teach Earth Science to just about anyone, and I mean anyone, and not just because it involves parties and sex. But what do I know? And I certainly need to put the finishing touches on my Dad’s astounding war story. Holy crap, what that man went through! But my greatest challenge will be completely reworking Human Beings, my initial novel, a roman à clef about Federal Street. It’s like a first love. I fucked it up.

So much to do, so little time left.

Anyway, once I’m too buzzed to do any good, then I go upstairs to the kitchen and rustle up some dinner. Usually nothing complicated. I put the plate (or the pot) onto a wooden tray and then carry it back downstairs, plop it on the coffee table, and turn on the TV.

I’ve cut the cable and graduated to streaming TV, and can now enjoy all sorts of shows about prehistoric animals. I love shows about prehistoric animals. Such are the things that are steering me away from the tar-pits of despair.

* * *

SIGNS OF ALCOHOLISM

✓ Drinking alone.

✓ Blackouts.

✓ Neglect of personal appearance.

* * *

So the winter of 2020-2021 was pretty friggin’ bleak. Awful thoughts. My pressure valves were jammed up. Previously, if I got frustrated or angry I could go to the gym and take it out on the machines. If I was overcome with the blues I could head down to Maya and talk to Ted. But these outlets were unavailable. All I could do was drink and write, like I’m doing now.

Truth be told, I’m a mess.

Let’s start with nighttime. Nighttime is quite simply an ordeal. I have persistent insomnia that is acerbated by a deviated septum resulting from an automobile accident, a condition that impacts my breathing when I lay down. Take it from me; the last thing anyone wants is something that impacts their breathing. I’ve been to ENTs and they have been only marginally helpful. Then there is the constant tossing and turning — “Restless Leg Syndrome” — to go along with a pinched nerve in my left shoulder. In the wee hours I lie in bed staring into darkness, and all-too-often my thoughts drift to such dreary subjects as Death and Hell. Eventually I nod off, and dream. The dreams are confusing, often disturbing, occasionally violent, and sometimes terrifying. Last night I dreamed that a relentless, super-intelligent tiger was stalking me through a wasteland of bombed-out buildings. I have dreamed about being buried alive. I often wake up in a cold sweat, along with what can only be described as vague emotional hangovers, as if the bizarre events had actually happened. Throughout the day I am a zombie. Until I start drinking.

Then, of course, there are usual mundane complaints associated with aging, such as elevated blood pressure and nasty cholesterol, along with general grumpiness. These things, although minor, are certainly not to be discounted, but there are also some serious maladies that have elbowed their way to the forefront. For instance, somehow a piece of the retina in my right eye has become detached, and to further complicate matters the vision in my left eye is getting faint and blurry from cataracts. I have trouble driving, especially at night. And then there’s this piece of bad news. Just before the plague descended, while I was in the hospital getting my right hand examined (Dupuytrens contracture) I succumbed to the white coat syndrome and despite my woozy protestations I was hustled off to the emergency room. From there I was gurneyed away for a CAT scan, which, much to my surprise and dismay, revealed that I have a thoracic aortic aneurism that needs to be regularly monitored and probably will require open heart surgery at some point. The Sword of Damocles. And, by the way, the hand surgery was only marginally successful. (This is what an old person does. Complain. Yada, yada, yada….)

My doctor has diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder, as well as something called Anhedonia (look it up). The drugs (Lexapro, Venlafaxine, etc.) have only made things worse and the talk therapy has been total BS. Each of the half-dozen therapists/charlatans who I have paid to hear my confessions and absolve my conundrums immediately grabbed at the lowest hanging fruit — drinking was making me depressed, and because I was depressed I drank. One therapist asked about my “emotional support group,” and when I told her that I had no idea what she was talking about she suggested that I “get new friends.” What a racket.

In general, people regard physical ailments and mental ailments very differently. If you get a cold, someone might bring you chicken soup. If you break your leg in an automobile accident, or are diagnosed with cancer, friends will show up with sympathy and support, complete with get-well cards, flowers and balloons, and pharmacy runs. But when someone is in the grips of depression, it’s a different story. People become scarce.

Perhaps the most insidious thing about depression is the downward spiral. Folks aren’t inclined to hang out with someone with a black cloud looming over their head, and the depressed person can sadly understand why, so they don’t push it. And this is an inflection point. If people don’t reach out, this confirms the depressed person’s unhappy assessment. They get gloomier. And the results are predictable.

There are those who say, “Get on with life.” “Take it like a man.” “Gird up your loins.” “Put on your big boy pants.” Etc. But you can’t just flick a switch. Depression can be overpowering. It can consume your life. It can cause people to kill themselves. Consider Anthony Bourdain.

My doctor asked me about suicidal thoughts, and I had to admit that over the winter the concept had reared its miserable head. And why not? Among the people that I’ve known who have prematurely exited for the undiscovered country, the major cause is suicide. Not cancer. Not automobile accidents. Suicide.

When I was in high school I had this overwhelming crush on Linn McDaniel. She was the captain of the cheerleaders and although she was a goodie-two-shoes and I was a reprobate, we found ourselves in the perfect adolescent version of The Lady and The Outlaw. One Thanksgiving she invited me over for dinner with her folks. Little did I know at the time that I would be the only person seated at that table who would not take their own life.

Then there was Bob Bergaust, the tormented genius whose fate was to be expected, yet it was reprehensible that he would do it in his girlfriend’s bathroom. She was a real sweetheart. Then there was Norman Jefferson. Absolutely no one saw this coming — such a gentle and gracious soul. Sadly, this list doesn’t stop here, although for some of these humans I’ve never gotten the details. Scott Steffey. Jeff Havard. Greg Aucott. And there was Nathan who I worked with at the Jewish Mother, who stepped in front of a train. And, of course, there was Terry Robinson. I remember the Secret Service agents walking into the restaurant where I was waiting tables, men in black, and they asked me what I knew about Terry, a former Navy Seal with a high security clearance. I later learned that he had been found hanging in a jail cell in Mexico. Or at least that was the story.

Most recently, Barry Lambert, as mild-mannered and affable person as you might meet, turned his own cold hand. He left a note for his roommate along with a bottle of whisky on the coffee table. Then he went into the backyard and climbed into a sleeping bag, so he wouldn’t leave a mess, and blew his brains out.

* * *

I try to keep a stiff upper lip. But I can’t help noticing that I’ve stopped making my bed in the morning. The simplest tasks are increasingly difficult. Brushing my teeth is a chore. Preparing a meal is an effort. Even eating it is an accomplishment. The trash is piling up. Sadly, I must face the facts. I’m no longer good at anything other than making sure that I have enough beer and wine.

Oh, yes! There is one other thing I’m good at! Worrying! I worry about everything. I worry about little things like toenail fungus, and that goddamn groundhog that decimates my pitiful garden. I also worry about big things such as inflation gobbling up my savings, the collapse of Social Security, the collapse of the whole damn economy, food shortages, rioting in the streets, starvation, etc. I worry about terrorists getting their hands on a nuclear bomb and laying waste to Washington.

And, on top of all of this, I’ve got ants. It seems like every good plague needs to be accompanied by a pestilence, and ants are the perfect candidates. They are relentless. At this moment they have scouts in my kitchen, my bathroom, and who knows where else. When they find what they want they suddenly appear in hordes. They are lawless, and they've got me vastly outnumbered.

I think that I’ll pour myself a drink.

- Finis -