I CAN'T BE AN ALCOHOLIC
BECAUSE
I DON'T DRINK BEFORE NOON.
RIGHT???
One night, after I had a great deal of bourbon to drink, I got into bed and woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I couldn't get back to sleep for a couple of hours and when I did, I only slept fitfully. When I finally had to get up, I was in a terrible stew.
Never in my life had I suffered so from the shakes. Every nerve in body was screaming. My stomach was jumping and my head throbbing. My knees felt wobbly and there was a dull ache in my back. Even though it was a brisk October morning, I was sweating profusely.
I never felt this way before. I'm sick.
I smoked half a dozen cigarettes before breakfast, then decided not to eat anything. Instead, I had a couple of cups of steaming black coffee and a few more cigarettes.
Neither did the slightest bit of good.
What's the matter with me? I's so jittery I can't keep my hands still. I keep rubbing my face as if I needed a shave.
I went over and studied myself in the mirror. Except for an occasional twitch and the fact that my eyes were slightly bloodshot, my face seemed perfectly normal. I stepped back and surveyed my body. Externally, everything appeared to be all right.
It's all inside.
I'm jumping like a kangaroo under the surface.
What's the matter with me?
I took a couple of aspirins, and lay down on the couch in the living room. I didn't stay there long. Instead of making me relax, it tensed my up more than ever.
I've got to have something stronger.
I fixed myself some more coffee, had a bromide and a cigarette, then went back and lay down again.
I still felt miserable.
I need a drink.
I walked into the kitchen, got out a tumbler and filled it half full of bourbon. I sat at the kitchen table and looked at it for several minutes, then turned and stared at the clock.
It was ten-thirty.
Too early for a drink.
I'll have to wait until noon.
I don't want to be an alcoholic.
I picked up the glass and put it on the kitchen cabinet underneath the clock. I could see them both at once that way. Then I went in the living room and lay down again.
An hour and a half. I can't have a drink for an hour and a half.
Otherwise, I'll be an alcoholic.
I lit a cigarette and took a few quick puffs. Then I put it out and went back into the kitchen to get myself a bromide. I fixed it with my back to the clock, only glancing at it as I walked out of the room.
Ten-forty.
This is terrible. I've got to stay out of the kitchen or I'll go crazy.
I managed to remain in the living room for quite a time. But I needed a bromide, and I went out to get one. Before I was through, I had two more bromides
It was three minutes before twelve by the kitchen clock when I took the last one.
Three minutes.
I went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer, which I opened on the spot. Then I poured some into a glass and put it beside the bourbon on top of the kitchen cabinet.
Two minutes.
I walked into the living room, lit a cigarette, sat down, got up, looked out the window, puffed twice on the cigarette, pressed it hard into an ashtray and moved back to the kitchen.
It was one minute to twelve.
My mouth was bone dry. My tongue felt like a raw leather and my throat was parched.
I took a quick look at the clock. It was exactly twelve.
Now!
I rushed to the cabinet, picked up the glass and drained it in three or four gulps, then took a quick shallow of beer. I stood still for a minute or so, turned and walked slowly into the living room and sat down on the couch.
My heart was pounding, but now my head was clearer, and my stomach had stopped jumping. And, in a few moments, I felt like my normal self. I was ready for a good day's work.
Now, I'm all right.
All I needed was that drink.
Wasn't it lucky I could wait until twelve o'clock for it?
Now, I know I'm not an alcoholic.