BILL CADY
Post Office Box 567
San Luis Rey, California 92068-0567
bill@billcady.com
The Fully Recovered Alcoholic
By Bill Cady
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Bill Cady
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FOREWORD
"De Nile is not just de world's longest river somewhere in Africa."
If you've ever been to an AA meeting, you've heard someone say that.
As the reader, you have some decisions to make as you read this story. Since the concept used in the title is impossible, according to all the powers that be among AA and every social service person I've ever met, one is either still a recovering alcoholic all the remaining days of his/her life, or that person never was an alcoholic.
It's been etched in stone; once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. There's no turning back, as I was told repeatedly. Therefore, in the opinion of every person I ever met in connection with "problem drinking", I must be lying, one way or another. Either I never was an alcoholic, or I am now, and I'm telling a story for some reason. As we go through these pages, you'll hear about the life of Bill Cady. How he started drinking at age fourteen, then cut back to almost no drinking at fifty-one, but did not stop drinking.
You'll need to make a decision. If I wasn't an alcoholic, I have no credibility. If that's true, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. If I was an alcoholic, you need to determine if I still am, although even looking at it that way puts all their conclusions up in the air. The lore available to everyone insists you come up with only one conclusion: I am now what I always was; once and still an alcoholic, or never was and am not now so afflicted.
It'd be nice if this was a "how-to" book. Something to lay out the simple steps needed to slough off the alcoholism you may or may not suffer, or convince you the affliction isn't yours. It would also be nice if this was a "self-help" book. Something to show what you need to change in yourself to divest your life from alcoholism, assuming you have it.
Neither is fact, although the self-help concept is touched on in a way. Instead, this is the story of a man who finally came to believe he was an alcoholic. A man who got past that "denial" crap and faced it head-on. A man who admitted to himself he was an alcoholic, then made another decision. He didn't give a rat's ass about the label. "I'm an alcoholic," I finally told myself. In the next breath, I added, "So, who gives a damn?"
I did not have to fix a problem.
I had to fix me. Anything else would be treating symptoms.
That said, we'll go through the experiences of a man who had what many would call a rotten start in life. A man who started drinking in his teens and continued until, by his forties, he was averaging over one-hundred fifty beers per week. A man who, in one night, changed all that. Went from one-hundred fifty beers per week to eight beers in one year, 2001. Eight beers in 2002. Four beers in 2003. None in 2004. It's now the 5th day of July, 2010, the day after Independence Day. I suppose it's not out of line to say I have achieved my own independence by finally getting where I am today.
Starting with 2004, the year I finally caved in. Gave up and attempted suicide. The year I was then brought back from my latest adventure with death by an unemployed Jewish carpenter I call JC.
As you follow this long and winding road, I hope you're entertained. I hope you learn something. If you do, it will cut the ultimate costs of my many mistakes each time you avoid one of 'em. If I'm lucky … if you're lucky … something in these pages will be useful to you. Help you bring about a change in yourself. Not your life. Not your habits. Not the way you do things.
A change in you. Progressive evolution, if you will.
From that point and after, you'll be ready to enjoy the two greatest gifts JC can provide you. Peace and happiness.
THE INTRODUCTION
Part One: The Early Years. The story is in three parts dealing with someone who practiced as an alcoholic from age 15 to 50. Me. It begins at my birth. Part One covers the first 20 years, including an underprivileged childhood, troubles in school, teen drinking, fighting and crime, living as a pool hustler, along with two years as an undefeated semipro heavyweight boxer, all with a host of family conflict. The character development is incredibly amusing. The first steps to a lifetime of drinking are itemized.
Part two: The Marital Years is life with an alcoholic who functions well, makes a good living, but still can never get ahead. Four marriages, four divorces, fifteen DUI arrests, two bankruptcies, all with no serious jail time. Total estrangement from a family that grew to include six kids: three stepchildren, two adoptees, and a procreative son. Three boys, three girls, two of each; my oldest daughter and younger son are gay. The rise and fall, and fall, and fall of a man who couldn’t conceive of a day without drinking.
Part Three: Until he stopped cold turkey in the month of October, 2000, The Post Marital Years. A man who went on to have the best two years of a 34-year career, only to lose it all because his dog died. An alcoholic who progressed to eight drinks in 2001, eight in 2002, four in 2003, only noticed it had been a “dry year” in November of 2004, and decided to finish the year “sober”. A man who, when his dog died, went into depression for a year, 2004-2005. Lost his house and business. Became homeless for 52 months. Yes, 4⅓ years, living in his car, the man was homeless. Still, even while losing everything, then during 4+ years of homelessness, he didn't drink.
A man who believed in himself again and found a very small number of people who also believed in him. To the point he was able to work himself out of that nightmare world and become a human being again, with a "badge" to prove it. A man who can drink, but rarely does. Still, he can … and occasionally does … consume that one drink all experts say will send him right back into the hell of alcoholism.
But it doesn’t. It hasn't. It won't. Eleven years this October. So few drinks in all that time. They say alcoholics can’t drink at all, but he does. All the experts swore he was an alcoholic. He eventually accepted it and didn’t give a damn. Then he beat it. Thrashed that evil demon the experts say can’t be beaten, can only be avoided, but he pummeled the damned thing senseless.
Part Three tells how he did it.
THE EARLY YEARS
CHAPTER ONE
It was a bloody mess. Truly the goriest thing I'd come upon in my entire life.
Although I didn't notice it at the time, I was covered in blood all over my body. I was naked, too, but that wasn't important to me at the moment. We were surrounded, and every attacker I saw wore a mask. A woman with a shiny blade in her hand came within inches of my stomach with a wicked slash. There was no pain or indication she'd stabbed or sliced me, so I kept fighting back. Undaunted, I resisted them in an uphill battle.
I still felt the effects of being hit by the big guy behind me. Tall and rangy with big, powerful hands, also in a mask, he acted like he was in charge. I suppose it hurt, being assaulted by the guy, but in the heat of battle there's no time to notice little things. When it's a matter of life or death, a guy does what he has to do to survive. I didn't have time to fool with him. Not with him, or any of the other idiots. A woman was waiting for me. A very special woman. I loved her more than I'd ever loved anyone. All I felt was an overpowering need to get to her. She was pretty. Very pretty. An average size woman with long blonde hair and happy green eyes. Only twenty-four, she hadn't had time to realize the pain and nastiness of life, so she always wore a smile, a welcome mat to her inner being. A neon sign attesting she was harmless to all, but helpful to anyone.
Her most prominent feature was the love in her eyes. All that burning love was directed at me, and I had a deep-seated need to return it. More, I had an incredible need to get to her breasts. Beyond anything else, I craved having her enticing breasts close to me. As close as I could possibly get them.
My arms swung in all directions, flailing, punching, doing everything I could to fight those bastards off. I absolutely had to get to her. I couldn't accept failure. Not now. Not this time. Funny, I didn't even know her name. We'd never met before, but I could still tell she loved me. Very much.
It was a safety net for me, her love. A promise, no matter who did what to whom for whatever reason, as long as she had a breath in her body, she'd defend me from everyone. It was a two-way street. I'd die for this woman, and she knew it. When two people have the kind of relationship we formed so instantaneously, talk is unnecessary. Things others need to say out loud are simply understood by two who bear such a deep and abiding love for each other.
Somehow, I broke free. One of the frenzied mob yet milling around us turned tail and joined our side. A woman, still masked but not my enemy any longer, helped me get to the beautiful blonde I so desperately clawed my way to reach. Victory was in sight! I was still very weak from my journey. Without this stranger's help, I'd've never made it. There was no time to thank her, but I don't think she expected it. Once I got to the blonde, the stranger let go and stepped away. In a sense, her work was done.
Now it was all up to me. Just me, and no one else. Success or failure would be mine, and I'd share the feeling of whatever it became with nobody. The prize, however, would be ours. Hers and mine.
Those beautiful breasts were so close. So very close. Temptation filled me to overflowing. I never tried to fight it, even a little. As if it was my destiny, I scrambled with every last ounce of strength to get to her.
This was my first time. I'd never once been with a woman before. I wasn't sure where I should put my hands, or even how to position my body. I had no experience, no one to instruct me. This would be a solo flight and the chips would fall where they may. No time wasted kissing her. No foreplay. No sweet words of love. No promises of a long road of happy tomorrows. I wasn't going to say it, and she didn't want to hear it. She knew without asking I couldn't say it even if I wanted to. It was irrelevant. She and I knew what we wanted, and it was the same thing. She made the offer, and I greedily accepted it. If any masked people who assailed me before tried to stop us now, she'd've gone into attack mode. Our bond, our kinship, was unstoppable.
Seconds later, I got to one of those full, lovely breasts. It was heavenly. More than I dared hope for. Far better than any dreams I might've ever had, although I'd never had a dream at that time. My mouth found the nipple and I sucked. Hard. Avariciously. As if my very existence depended on it. She wasn't even my girl. Even though she knew my name, but I didn't know hers, we both somehow knew she'd never be my girl. She already had a guy, and she'd stay with him. Later. For the moment, she was mine. All mine. Even if our tryst was temporary, even if it happened before a small mob, she was mine and I was hers. No one could stop us. No one dared try. This was our fifteen minutes of fame and the damned clock was ticking away. We desperately needed to wring all it had to give and enjoy it with all we could allow ourselves. The moment belonged to us. Inseparable, we had our flash in the sun and we damned sure intended to enjoy it. To milk it for all we could get, because this would never happen for us again.
Maybe with others. For her. For me. Even a probability. Still, for us, was a one-time adventure, and we didn't want anyone to intrude on it. Not when she and I worked so hard, for months on end, to bring about what was occurring. No, we busted our asses to get here, and this was our time. Everyone else could go to hell. We just wanted to be left alone. The crowd somehow sensed it.
Recognizing my needs, and there'd be no one else to attend to them, we made a silent vow. She'd "kinda be my girl", servicing my needs, until I found someone. We knew, even if Fate set us apart later, our bond would continue as long as one or both of us was alive. I was still vigorously enjoying that breast when she was approached by the guy in the mask. The tall one. The leader who smacked me without saying a word.
He said from behind his mask, "Mrs. Cady, you have a healthy son. Of course, he's premature by almost two months, but he should be just fine in only a few days. He's five pounds, two ounces. Do you know what you plan to name him?"
"Yes," she sighed. "We're going to call him William, after my dad, and Frederick, after my husband."
Thus, the world began for Bill Cady.
CHAPTER TWO
There's a secret I've never told anybody. You have to promise you won't tell. I don't want this to get out so everybody knows about it. Mom told me I had eighteen seizures when I was a kid. That's what they called 'em. Personally, I think they were lying. I don't remember any damned seizures. Anyway, if they really did happen, it was supposed to be some electrical malfunction in my brain.
Okay, sure. Hey, "malfunction this", huh?
If they really happened, that's not what it was. No, it was my "pal", Georgie, an alter ego I have, in his early stages. That's what happened, I think, as he morphed into the weird, totally insane creature he eventually became. You probably think it's weird to badmouth a guy who saved my ass quite a few times. Well, it's 'cause he's a strange duck. That's why I say what I do about George.
Oh, and he's mean. I'm not kidding. Junkyard dogs hide their tails and run when George shows up. That's advance info, so you'll understand George when you finally meet him. If you remember the slob who came see your Dad once in a while when you were a kid, the mean one who was always drinking, he's a lot nicer than George. Take my word for it.
There was another family on our block, a few houses away. Same side of the street, in a house about eleventy-six times bigger than our dinky little hovel. The Cann family. Their oldest child was a daughter named Cary, a year older than me. She was cute, I guess, but chubby and not "popular". For reasons I never understood, to be "cool", you had to be "popular". Yet, the only ones who could be "popular" were the kids who were "cool". I wanted so bad to be either one, but I didn't have a clue as to how I'd ever pull it off. Maybe it was the luck of the draw. I never figured it out, but years later I'd meet former classmates and be surprised by what they told me. They all admired me in school 'cause I was one of the "cool" kids, "popular" and all the rest of it.
Me? Bill Cady? Huh? It made me wonder if the other "cool" kids knew they were "popular", or if I was the only one left out in the cold.
Anyway, Cary's mother and Mom were good friends. Mom used to walk up there, cigarette in hand, still wearing her housekeeper's uniform when she got home from work. Mom cleaned a sorority with forty college girls. She and Cary's stay-at-home mom would have coffee and talk. One day, with no bigger scheme to hatch, they decided Bill and Cary would make a nice couple, so they set out to arrange it. One small detail they overlooked was asking me. I have no idea if they ever consulted Cary, but I never even got a hint. Suddenly, they had me coming up there when Mom and Cary's mother had coffee.
They even got us to walk to the store … together … to pick up little things. I caught on fast when they sent us for stuff I knew we had at home. Yet, when I tried telling Mom we already had some, she got that look in her eyes. The one that said I may have only minutes to live. Maybe not that long, depending on my mouth.
Gotcha, Mom. I'm on it. Mom would have me come down in the evening while she and Shirley, Cary's mother, talked. What's up with this crap? Mom, you never come down here after dinner. You've always got things to do at home. Uh-huh. Pretty soon, one thing led to three or four others and Cary was officially "Bill's girlfriend". A year older, she went to Otto. She was in the seventh grade, I was in the sixth. At a parochial school. Not a school with "cool kids", a parochial school. I wasn't sure Cary'd like the idea, since I was a year younger, a grade behind her, and going to a parochial school.
Like Mom used to say, That's where "thought" gets ya.
Cary liked the idea just fine. Well, ain't this just freakin' wonderful? I have a girlfriend now. Not one I would've picked, but I have one, all the same. Wondraneous. What'm I gonna do with a girlfriend? You've got me by the ass. I had no idea.
Cary was "too old", (her words), to associate with kids in our neighborhood. We had little in common, with different schools and none of the same friends, but I made a stab at it. I went every day to spend time with her, to be a good boyfriend. After a while, when it got old, I wasn't all that interested in a girlfriend. I wanted to waste time the way I did before, although I'm not sure what that might've been. So, Cary and I broke up. At least, I thought we did.
The next day, Mom went diddy-bopping to see Shirley, found out what a mean and nasty thing I did, and climbed on my ass like I had stirrups. Later that day, I had the same girlfriend again. This went on for a while, but I was always a rebellious little shit. It's changed now, since I'm a very rebellious big shit, but that's how it always was back then. After we broke up the seventh time, the mothers got us back together.
By then, Cary was gathering a hint. We went for a long walk, holding hands, and our hands got sweaty after a while. Yuck! We stopped a few blocks away at "the blind school", which is what all the locals called The Michigan School for the Blind, (where I met and played bongos with a kid named Stevie Wonder while he sang). We sat by the fence and I explained a few things to Cary. Yet, before I started my explanation, I did something suave. I kissed her.
It was her first kiss. With three or four girls already under my belt, I was an old hand. Unfortunately, I missed her mouth the first time and got her nose. So, I pretended that's what I meant to do, then kissed her mouth. She kissed me back. Suddenly, Cary wasn't chubby. She was more "popular" than I might've thought. She was popular with a guy I call "The Soldier", a nickname for my male organ. He liked her a lot!
Cary also had, at the tender age of twelve, what's technically known as "a nice rack". Her blouse was hard pressed to cover those puppies. I soon found my hands were equally hard pressed to leave 'em untouched. It was October 31st, 1960, Halloween Day, and I was horny! Man, was I horny! Therefore, I carefully explained to Cary the way it would have to be. If she wanted to be my girlfriend, I wanted sex. I wasn't positive what it was yet, or even what it might feel like. Didn't even have any idea how to do it. Only an instinct or two. Snatches of conversation I overheard at different times. That was it.
Faced with an ultimatum, Cary still said she wanted to be my girlfriend. If I wanted sex, she was willing. Well, crap! Now what? I never expected her to say yes. I thought she'd tell me to go to hell and break up with me. That way, I could waste my time like before. Now she told me I can do it to her, and I wasn't sure how. Damned if I was gonna tell her how stupid I was. I told her, "Let's go," and took her hand.
We were at the far end of the School for the Blind. I walked half a mile with a hard-on. Cary acted like she didn't see it, but she started giggling a lot, and I knew why. Since I was about to partake of "the forbidden fruit", she could do any damned thing she wanted, as long as she took her pants off when we got to my house.
When we arrived my kid brother, that David thing, and Cary's brother Tommy, age six, were playing with trucks in the dirt driveway. That David thing planned to come in the house. I quietly promised to kill him if he did, so he changed his mind.
Mom wouldn't be home for an hour, due to traffic. It was around three, she normally got home about four. I hoped I had enough time. It took ten minutes or more to get Cary's clothes off. She kept changing her mind and I had to talk her back into it. No way in hell was I gonna get this close and still have a dry dick when she left. Uh-uh!
Finally, she was naked. Eight seconds later, so was I, with enough composure to play with her breasts and suck 'em a while. I couldn't remember the other times, with Mom. Still, it felt so special with Cary. Okay, let's say that took three minutes. Five, even. If so, we only had forty-five minutes to screw and be done before Mom walked in the house. If so, it would be the proverbial "Dark Day at Black Rock". Always the hero, I made it with time to spare. Pressured, with a mere forty-five minutes leeway, I made it with forty-three and a half minutes left!
I was getting my clothes on again when Cary asked, "Is it over?" Her face was the expression of a disbeliever. I bet she couldn't believe she just lost her virginity and neither of us even worked up a sweat. I was eleven years old and had finally tasted "the forbidden fruit". No one told me the wonderful aftertaste. The desire it creates to go back for seconds. I had to learn that on my own. Well, with Cary, I mean. Not long after, for reasons I honestly can't remember, we broke up again. This time, it stuck. Well, almost. She'll visit our story again when you learn about the first, and only, time I ever went head to head with a Green Beret.
CHAPTER THREE
While I was in eighth grade one of the neighborhood kids, Richie Opdyke, got me involved in one of the most tragic events of my life to date. He didn't "do anything" to me, but he abetted the freakin' crime, all the same.
Richie's Dad smoked Chesterfields. Unfiltered. A nasty cigarette. He swiped a brand-new pack and got a bunch of us together so we could share in this ritual passage into manhood. We went to Mrs. Donelli's side yard. A big one where the neighborhood kids often played football. Richie had matches and away we went. There must've been at least ten of us, all ready and willing to go on to that next step in life. We each took a cigarette and lit up. I still remember it tasted just like shit. Burned my mouth and throat, not to mention my lungs. Even got in my eyes and made 'em water. A couple guys didn't make it. In only a minute or two, they were down on their knees, losing whatever they'd eaten for dinner.
Me? Hey, ain't no way I'm admitting I came within an inch of barfing up my guts, just like those guys. Piss on that stuff! No way. I went back and got another, just to show how smart and "cool" I could be. Bill Cady ain't no damned sissy, ya know?
Now, forty-seven years later, the pukers still don't smoke, but I'm addicted to the point my doctor says I'm the most nicotine addicted patient of his career. I kept smoking, since I didn't dare let the guys know I was faking it. Pretty soon, I was no longer faking it. Instead of smoking only when one of them could see me, I found I was smoking while all alone. If I hadn't "enjoyed it" so much and never started smoking, a habit harder to kick than using heroin, I'd own a much nicer house, and it'd be paid off. I guess it's not so bad, though, considering. I honestly wouldn't want to live anywhere other than Oceanside, California, where I am today.
CHAPTER FOUR
It's a Monday morning. I'm standing at Otto junior high school wondering what the hell to do next because I quit O'Rafferty, the Catholic High, school last week. I've registered, but it's gonna be a while before anything happens.
They assigned an "office assistant" to help me acclimate to the school. I have no idea what his name was, but memory tells me he looked like a Duane. He was fat, brown hair in a soup bowl cut, thick black glasses with lots of back tape wound onto the bridge. Pretty much what the kids now call a nerd. I believe we called 'em dweebs, but I'm not sure. After all, it was forty-five years ago.
Duane walked me around the school. If you've ever had a new school, you know what I mean. You can't even find your own ass with both hands. Top that off with the innate insecurities of being a teenager, you've got all the primary ingredients to build as much internal pressure as needed. I made my best attempt to swagger, hoping anyone who saw me knew it was a very bad thing to mess with Bill Cady. My thinking was, if they're as afraid of me as I am of them, they won't attack. That way, I won't get my ass kicked. An ass, by the way, I could no longer call scrawny or skinny. I was six-one, one-ninety-five, and in pretty decent shape. Although reluctant to press the issue, it was gonna take a pretty tough kid to whip my ass. I'd grown too big, with a few ass kickings to my credit, to remain what you'd call a pushover any longer.
With a general plan, I asked Duane, "Who's the baddest guy in this school?" I figured I'd start at the top. I'd meet the son-of-a-bitch. If he gave me any lip, I'd whale his ass in front of witnesses. That way, once I'd become the king of the hill, nobody would screw around with me.
"I think that'd probably be Bob Chouinard," Duane informed me.
Well, crap! I'd heard of him. Even met him a couple times over at the park. He wasn't all that big, but he was burly. He acted like you really ought not to screw around with him if you knew what was good for you. Damn, Bob Chouinard? Shit!
Okay, Plan B. "Yeah? Well, who's the second baddest?"
"Oh, I don't know. Bob Haywood, maybe, or Gilbert Puente."
I took that under advisement and we went on our tour. After school, all the kids went across the street to the McDonald's to get a Coke or something to eat. I followed, hoping to meet a few potential friends, and to scope out those three guys. I recognized Chouinard, but he was laughing and talking with a bunch of kids, so I didn't interrupt him. I asked around and found Bob Haywood. Remember how pissed off I was when I was born, in Chapter One? Well, Haywood was also born pissed off, but it looked to me like he never got over it. He'd be fourteen now, since I was older than all the other kids. That seemed like a helluva long time to stay mad, but he was. Inside. Down deep. At everyone, and most likely at himself, too. He was talking with a pretty blonde I later learned was Judy Schultz. Little did I know, she saw me, too. I guess she included me in her battle plan for later action.
Then I found Gilbert Puente, a short little Mexican guy. Uh, maybe we need to edit "little" out of what I just said. Short, burly Mexican guy works better. He was only about five-six, one-sixty, and damned near all of it was muscle. I was told he placed high in all the wrestling meets, and usually won.
Well, ain't this freakin' wonderful? I've got Chouinard, only five-eight or nine, burly as hell and tough as nails. I've got Bob Haywood, about my size and as mean as a junkyard dog. Practically looking for a fight, and we haven't even met each other. I've got Puente, and he looks like a lunch guy. If you've come to whip his ass, be sure to pack a lunch. You're gonna be at it all day long, if you can even get the job done.
Great. I can establish a "rep" at this school, which will keep me from getting my ass kicked regularly. All I need to do is take as many as three chances where I might not only get whipped, I might be stomped senseless. Mom! Damn it, Mom! Now what?
My "fresh start" went downhill soon afterward. There's a very good reason if anyone wanted a picture of me as a kid they should get it from anyplace but C. W. Otto junior high school. Oh, we had a class picture, but I wasn't in it. I wasn't unavailable, since I was in the nurse's station all day.
This was an adventure with a kid named Bobby Thompson. He wasn't my closest friend, but I liked the guy, all the same. His dad was the Dean of the Michigan School for the Blind, just a block up the street from our house. Bobby swiped some whiskey one night from his old man's stash, a quart of Old Grand Dad, 100 proof. Supposedly premier stuff. If the truth be known, I thought it tasted like something you'd use to get the grease off an auto repair room floor. However, reacting to it that way would totally not be cool, so I kept my opinion to myself.
I have no idea how our "misadventure" came about, but Bobby and I took the bottle down under the Logan Street bridge to "be cool". (It was renamed Martin Luther King Boulevard 20 years ago, in his honor, but now everyone calls it MLK). We were taking the long way heading to Otto for some dance, as I recall. When we got under the bridge, Bobby opened up this HUGE bottle of booze and took a long, healthy swig.
At least, I thought he did. I later came to realize Bobby stuck his tongue against the opening and held the bottle while pretending to drink from it. It was darker than the inside of a coal miner's ass below the bridge, so I couldn't see a thing. Each time Bobby took a slug, he handed me the bottle. Sort of an "I dare you". Never willing to look weird, or be the coward I actually was and still am, I took it with a smile.
My tongue didn't cover a damned thing. Each time I had that big bottle, I took a super-duty pull. I hope Bobby Thompson contacts me after he's read this, just to verify. Personally, I think I drank that entire quart by myself. No matter what your age, 100 proof booze will hit you pretty fast, and pretty damned hard, if not used in moderation.
My only experience at that time with any kind of booze at all was when Frankie Gadaleto swiped a bottle of Mogen-David wine from under the kitchen sink. We took it to the Grand River, maybe a quarter mile west of the Logan Street bridge, and got pretty shitfaced. Frankie barfed up the last three day's meals before it was gone, so I finished it and staggered the six blocks to my house, where I immediately crashed in my bed like a crippled puppy. That was it. All my drinking experience to date.
Little did I dare imagine how much I'd add to that experience, or how soon the additions would begin. I had a lot of drinking years in my future to get out of the way, as it developed. As Bobby faked it, I guzzled a quart of high octane booze. Well beyond shitfaced, I staggered along with him the two miles left to Otto. He pretended to be as drunk as I was. The dance was pretty much over when we got there, which was actually good. If I'd gone in and danced, the first set of circles, fast dance or slow, would've put me on my knees losing my lunch. I was reeling around, wearing a new black nylon ski jacket, when I heard someone holler my name.
"Cady, you motherfucker, your ass is mine!"
Okay, I had an objection, whoever said it. It was my ass, and I wasn't done using it, so I was hostile right away. I even managed to turn around, which was courteous of me. It put my chin right out there for Bob Haywood to whack it. He didn't even have to move to the side to knock me on my ass.
I always try to do right by the other guy. The old, "Do unto others …", ya know? Of course, when Bob smashed his fist into my chin, it didn't even hurt a bit. Hell, they could've taken my tonsils out with no damned ether at that point. I was truly feeling no pain. However, shitfaced or not, I take exception to people crashing a punch into my jaw. After all, it's the only one I have, and I use it pretty much every day.
I knew he was a hothead, but figured even Bob Haywood would need a good reason to hit me. Something more than the fact I was at least twice as good looking. I managed to make it to my feet, somehow. I think even Bob could see it wouldn't require a punch to put me down again. He could blow real hard in my face and I'd probably hit the dirt with a loud thud.
Of course, if I blew in his face, he'd either pass out cold or barf up everything he'd eaten that day. As I swayed side to side and back and forth, I stammered a request to find out why he cold cocked me. As I burbled out my message, I saw Judy Schultz behind him with a big smile on her face. I figured it out in a hurry, drunk or not. Judy stopped me in the hallway, I think it was even that day, and talked with me a few minutes. While she wasn't my kind of girl, she was still pretty. She was also popular. Of course I talked with her. Who wouldn't? I didn't know I shouldn't talk like that with Judy, right out there standing in an open hallway, but I soon learned guys who want to stay healthy shouldn't do that.
Umm, folks? Judy already knew it. Really, she did. She was setting it up so I'd get the living crap smacked out of me by Bob. Hell, he'd kill the Virgin Mary on a whim. Judy set it up because it made her look good to the other girls to have guys fighting over her, don't ya know?
I'll admit I was afraid of Bob Haywood, but that's nothing special. I was also afraid of Bobby Thompson, and I could've kicked his ass all over the parking lot, even as drunk as I was that night. Hell, I'm afraid of everyone. I just forget about it when I'm attacked and go at my opponent hard enough to make sure he can't hurt me. Those are the times George comes to the fore.
It wasn't fear of Bob that promoted the conversation we had next. It was more being pissed at Judy for setting it up. Of course, she could've pointed at a kid she'd never seen before and said, "Bad kid, Bob!" He would've torn the bastard apart. Bob liked kicking ass, and he was good at it. No, Bob and I settled things when I said I knew Judy was his girl, and she was too tall for me, anyhow.
I was "skunker than a drunk" that night, and apparently got mad at myself because of what happened. It was a combination of me letting myself get so shitfaced, and the total embarrassment of having everyone who mattered see Bob knock me flat on my ass. Oh, and I was a little pissed at Judy, too. I took out my frustration on some trees over by McDonald's. I don't know what the trees told their Moms, but I told mine I fell and scraped my hands. Every knuckle on both hands. I don't think she believed me.
Hold on, it gets worse. I had a ridiculous nine o'clock curfew. Nothing any kid ever wanted to go to was going to be over early enough to be done and get home by nine. Since it was a school dance, they extended it to eleven that night. Believe it or not, when I staggered onto the porch somewhere after two in the morning, they were both still up. Don't you old people ever get tired and go to bed, for Christ's sake? I mean, damn, it's late! You guys should be in Shut what? Oh, my mouth. Gotcha.
There was puke all over the front of my jacket and pants. Probably on my face and in my hair, too. I know I stunk terribly from all that booze. They more than likely smelled me when I was still out on the sidewalk and the door was closed. I had the dry heaves after I got home, but there was nothing left in my gut to puke up. It was empty.
That night, my old man made one of the few wise parenting decisions of his life, as far as I knew. Our school pictures were being taken the next morning. Actually, I guess it was that morning. It was now after three. We had to be up at seven in order to be on time for school. He insisted I was going to school and he'd get me up in four more hours. He did, the son-of-a-bitch. Made me go to school, as if I wasn't dying, although I was. If my folks had tried to make me eat, all it would've accomplished was a new series of dry heaves, so they didn't. They let the school nurse do it for them. I never went to my homeroom class. I went straight to the nurse's station, where she wanted me to eat something. When I finished dry heaving and crawled back to the cot, I laid and moaned like I really should've been at death's door.
Later, in sparing doses, I was able to take down some chocolate milk. She ended up giving me four, altogether. It would take half an hour to drink a half pint, another half hour of nausea working hard to keep it down. Half an hour later, I'd want another, and the cycle would start anew.
My folks made it worse that day. On purpose. Mom wasn't there to pick me up. I had to walk home, all the damned way. I checked MapQuest, and the distance is 1.96 miles. Well, the day I walked it with a hangover that would knock a Missouri mule on its ass, it was 19.6 miles, maybe more! All I could figure was someone moved the house that night.
I dry heaved a dozen times, at least, then made it home and literally crawled into my bed. I never wanted to drink alcohol again as long as I lived. Damn, how I wish that resolve had stayed with me. It would've saved me a lot of money, even more trouble in my life, and a great deal of pain to so many who loved me at one time or another.
CHAPTER FIVE
Because of something I'll explain soon, I eventually became an HSDO. High School Drop-Out. You'll see why when we get to it, although you may not agree with what I did, or why I did it. Something else I considered major in my life was connected to the Catholic Church. At least, the dissolution was, if nothing else.
As is customary for almost every young man, straight or gay, I fell in love. We get all those hormones moving, testosterone running amok in our bodies, and it happens. There's soon one special girl. It can be almost rote from then on. I met a girl. A very pretty girl. Oh, an extremely unusual girl, as well. Her name was Jackie. I was eighteen, she was seventeen. She hung around with kids from Everett, not Sexton, because she lived closer to them, although she was a Sexton student. That's how we met, at school.
There was another reason I wanted to meet Jackie. The same reason almost all the guys wanted to get together with her. No, it wasn't a slutty reputation. No, this was better. Jackie had big tits. Ask any high school boy, what does it take to make a woman someone you might want to spend the rest of your life with? Big tits is the number one answer you're gonna get. As if it makes any real difference? The silly assed kid won't ever stop to think, even if he does stay all those years with Sally Bigtits, those puppies will one day be bruised all over the bottom from banging against her knees as she walks.
Well, it sure as hell captured my attention. That's all you need to get something started, as we all know. Actually, Jackie was a pretty special person. She was smart as could be, clever, innovative, well read and well spoken. She had a heart of gold, and was very talented in many areas. She lived on the far side of town from me, about three miles away, near Logan and Mt. Hope Streets.
Her father was a foreman at Oldsmobile, so he made good money. Her Mom was a housewife. She had a brother, Dwayne, a few years younger, but I never got to know the boy. Didn't need to, and didn't want to. I disliked kids, even when I was one. Still, their home was in a rather nice area, neat and clean, and she had a pleasant, happy family. She even smoked, which I saw as a tremendous plus, although it wasn't the big deal back then it is today. We had a lot of things in common with each other, and our relationship was pretty good for a year or so. With one big exception, which I'll get to in a moment.
Jackie had something else I thought was remarkable about her. I doubt anyone will see it as spectacular, but I was just a kid when I was a kid, so I liked it a lot. The first time she ever showed me her special trick was a hot Saturday morning. We were driving to Grand Rapids, fifty-two miles away, for her cousin's wedding. Jackie's folks wanted her to ride with them, but we were already full swing into the rote system.
I'd gone to Zale's Jewelers and established an account. With that I bought her a diamond ring, the first of seven such purchases in my life. That's not really too bad when you think of it. I bought seven, but was only stupid enough to carry out four. If a major league baseball player did it, he'd bat .430, getting more money than anyone in the game. So, as my fiancée, she told her folks she'd ride with me. We were be-bopping along on I-96 to Grand Rapids, drinking beer, as usual. When I drank beer, I had a funny reaction. It earned me a nickname, "Dime Bladder". I could usually stow away the first six with no problem. After that, once I'd taken a leak, it was at least two times per beer. That's another reason I was damned glad I had a car. I almost always drove so I wouldn't be forced to beg some a-hole to stop before I pissed my pants. We did a lot of drinking and driving on remote country roads.
In this case, Jackie and I were cruising in my 1958 white two-door Olds at the speed limit. I'd taken a fast leak the sneaky way. Held an empty can in place with a dexterity acquired by a great deal of repetition, peed in the can, then tossed it out. (I was an ecological pig. I never toss anything from my car anymore, even cigarette butts).
Jackie had to pee, too. It wasn't just normal girl stuff, since they pee just to pass the time, or to annoy the guy they're with. It was a legitimate request from a girl who drank beer. That trait set her a notch above the others. Most girls wanted wine or sloe gin. Very few would drink beer with a guy.
We'd been talking about our timing. She was worried we'd be late. Her concerns weren't out of line, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna speed with beer in the car, and both of us minors. Jackie came up with an answer I'd never dare suggest. She pulled down her panties, scooted forward on the seat, held out a can with only the tab top removed, and filled the damned thing to the top! Never spilled a drop! I was absotively, posilutely amazed! So proud of my girl I couldn't believe it!
We made it to the church on time and everything came out fine.
The exception I mentioned had to do with one part of a relationship many feel is frivolous. It's called "the sex part". I've never felt that part of a boy/girl relationship was frivolous. Sex definitely can't "make" a relationship, but it can damned sure kill one. I speak from experience on that idea. Vast experience.
I was nineteen, she was eighteen. I've loved sex ever since Cary's sample when I was eleven. I don't anticipate ever being the kind of guy who doesn't love it. Granted, my values are vastly superior now, in comparison to what they used to be, but I'm still a big fan of sexuality. Jackie understood. Kinda. However, she had Catholic girl phobias to worry about. That, and a fear she never expressed to me. She was horrified of getting pregnant.
You male readers are gonna think I'm making this part up. Either that, or you're gonna figure I'm the weirdest guy you ever heard of, but this is the truth. Jackie honestly understood a guy wants sex. Had no argument with my "needs", if you will. She was willing to satisfy me just about any time I wanted it. You might wonder, What the hell's your problem, Bill? We all know some people would bitch about it even if you hung 'em with a brand-new rope, but what's Bill's problem? The woman's good looking, they're in love, she has big tits, and he can have sex any damned time he wants it. Where's the beef, damn it?
Okay, but this sounds hard to believe, even for me. Jackie would happily give me all the sex I wanted, as long as it was a blowjob. Only that.
Yeah, I'll wait until you guys quit laughing. Go ahead. Great. Ya finished? Oral sex only. That's how she wanted it. She didn't care it meant she got nothing out of it. She was adamant about not letting me be inside her the way I wanted. That only happened about once per month. Maybe. If that much. Oddly enough, it was a one-eighty from Nancy, the mother of my children. Nancy would "submit to sex", (there's a lot of definition in that phrase, none good), but oral sex was very near and dear. Damned near impossible unless she wanted something. Oh, it also worked if one of our kids had done something wrong. Gotta have the old man in a good mood when he hears about it.
Still, in almost anything we find in life, what's the thing we want the most?
Whatever we can't have. We all know that's true.
Therefore, the minute she placed conventional sex on the "no-no" list, it was what I wanted most. During our year and a half as a couple, Jackie claimed I got her pregnant twice. Told me she miscarried both times, meaning she flushed my kid down the toilet. I have no idea if what she said was true, but that's what she told me.
With that kind of problem looming big on the horizon, what the hell can a young engaged couple do to find an answer? Where can they go? Who can they ask?
We discussed the idea. Since she's a Catholic, maybe her priest can help? Very good idea. So, that's the solution we came up with. Jackie made an appointment at the rectory to speak with her priest. I was worried. Quite concerned, actually, but willing to try almost anything. She was my girl, damn it. We planned to make her my wife and have a great life together. She had magnificent tits, she smoked, and she drank beer. Don't you guys see the makings of a perfect woman in all those details? I sure as hell did.
I picked her up a few minutes before her appointment. The church was less than a mile away, so we got there a bit early. Jackie said it wouldn't be helpful if I came along. At least, not this first time. I agreed. We kissed, swapped "I love you" promises, I felt her up, (hey, she was my girl and had those great tits; get over it, already), and she went inside. Per our agreement, I drove around the neighborhood drinking beer for a while. There was no such thing as a cell phone back then. Not in 1968. I was to come by every ten minutes. I made my first pass ten minutes after I dropped her off.
She wasn't there.
I went through an entire six-pack. Still no Jackie, so I went and bought more beer and continued driving. After two hours, I started to get a little shitfaced, so I pulled into the rectory parking lot and waited. When another ten minutes went by, I was frustrated and afraid for my girl. We hadn't discussed this possibility. Finally, wanting to know what the hell was going on, I went inside. I figured if there was a reasonable answer, I'd drive around a while longer. When I heard unidentifiable sounds in the back, I went to see what they might be. The closer I got, the more identifiable those noises became, but it was something I had to see for myself. I couldn't leave it to my imagination. Not with what it sounded like. I pushed open the doors and, sadly, my ears weren't deceiving me. She was on the couch, naked. So was the priest. He was between her legs fucking the hell out of my girl.
It's part of a priest's job, one way or another, to help his parishioners "remove the evil" from themselves. I simply disagreed with his methodology. I didn't think he should "screw the hell out of her". I could've bought into it if he'd "prayed the hell out of her", but the way they were going at it didn't sit right with me. I went outside and waited in my car.
Jackie knew I'd seen them. I have no idea what she and her new "tryst partner" decided to tell me. She got in the car and neither of us said a word.
I drove her home and stopped out in front of her house, still in the middle of the street. I didn't get her door. Didn't walk her to the house. Didn't kiss her. Didn't even say good-bye. Just waited until she got out and drove off without any squeal of the tires, a common reaction among young guys when hurt or angry. I felt both, but was more stunned than anything else. I stayed drunk a week. Every day, every night. Whenever anyone asked about Jackie, I only said skip it. Wouldn't talk about it. About her. At the end of the week, drunk as hell at one in the morning, I called and woke her up. Her dad was swearing and wanted her to hang up, but she stood her ground.
I drove to her house and waited. She came out in her pj's and robe, then got in my car. All I could ask was, "Why, Baby? Why?"
She said nothing. Had no reply.
We looked at each other a few minutes. It was a very long time. A good five minutes, maybe more, of complete silence. Finally, I said, "Give me back the ring."
Jackie had beautiful dark brown eyes. There'd been times I honestly got lost in them. There'd also been times they shimmered, indicating something very deep within her in terrible torment. Telling me something was very seriously wrong with Jackie. Her crazy look. It filled her eyes and face at that moment.
Wordlessly, she removed my ring and gave it back. I never saw the girl again until one day in '71, after I married Donna Turpin. It was in the ER at Sparrow Hospital. My brother staged yet another phony suicide attempt with a drug overdose. My folks begged me to come to the hospital. Jackie and I exchanged pleasantries, but there really wasn't anything to be said. Anything that might've been died the night I caught her. She later moved to Arizona. I later heard she was married and really hoped she was finally happy, but I don't think it happened. Jackie died in '73. Her mother had the body flown home and arranged a closed casket service. She "leaked" it to a few of Jackie's former close friends it was a kidney problem. Word on the street said it was drugs. I had no idea what really happened, although I had an interest. However, my biggest "why" was about her and that priest.
That question still rolls around in my head, unanswered.
CHAPTER SIX
The favorite beers in our group, starting when I was fifteen, were Stroh's, #1, Pabst, (PBR), #2, with Bud holding on at #3. Later, Coor's made a showing, but it was a very brief fad. Stroh's was tauntingly referred to by people as "Dee-troit river water". It was my favorite, but only for a short period of time. They sold out later and changed the beer quite a bit, to the point I didn't like the taste. So, while I started out being a loyal Stroh's fan, to the point I have six years of Christmas cards from Kathy Hatfield in Stroh customer service, I eventually had to make the switch. When I was fifty-one, I changed to Pabst Genuine Draft beer.