Girl Walks Out of a Bar (11 page)

To accompany the weekday cocktails, my mom would pull out a heavy orange dinner plate with a dark brown ring around its rim. She would carefully arrange Triscuit crackers in a semicircle around a slab of perspiring, yellow Jarlsberg cheese, and she'd finish the arrangement with two cheese knives pointing at each other like fencing épées. I often volunteered to fill two heavy rocks glasses with ice for my parents. Still in my single-digit years, I wasn't allowed to pour the scotch or cut the lemon for the twist.

Once my dad reappeared downstairs in either belted dad jeans or sweatpants with a t-shirt tucked in, my parents would give each other a “welcome home” kiss and clink glasses with a “Good health!” toast that felt like a brief but serious prayer.
Their ritual complete, my parents would then sit at the kitchen table in their respective chairs and rehash the day over one drink, maybe two. Sometimes I would stick around and listen to them talk, but usually after the official toast I was back in front of the TV watching reruns of
The Monkees
. The entire family was together at that time of day and I felt safe.

There was nothing ritualistic or comforting about the private cocktail hours in my New York apartment. The most they had in common with my parents' was that they were nightly. I struggled to stick to no more than two glasses of wine because that sounded like what a reasonable person might drink. But soon the “have another glass” devil on one shoulder began brawling with the “stop after two” angel on the other. That little angel never stood a chance. After three glasses, there wasn't much left in the bottle, so why not finish it? After that, there was another bottle waiting to be opened.

I hit different liquor stores in the neighborhood so that no single proprietor would recognize me as a nightly visitor. One Monday evening I was in a liquor store on First Avenue, considering the display on a shelf of cheap cabernets and hesitating, as if I knew a difference among the vineyards. It would have been tacky to stroll in, grab the first bottle of red wine under $10, and head for the register, so I lingered, acting as if I hadn't been obsessing about drinking all day. I was thinking there should be wine stores for drunks—no bother with labeling anything about vintages or varietals—just list the alcohol percentage. “Wine–12.5%” or “Wine–14%,” that's all we need. Eventually, I stopped buying by the bottle, stopped going to liquor stores altogether, and started having cases delivered to my apartment. So I'm an alcoholic, I admitted to myself. But so are a lot of
people; our culture practically encourages it. So maybe I could figure out how to just be a really good alcoholic and not end up in the gutter. It's not as if I were a drug addict.

“Coming out” clean to myself—and definitely only to myself—gave me a kind of relief. My condition had a name, and saying it out loud meant that I understood what was going on with me. And I knew that alcoholism would probably mean an early death, but that was a hell of a lot better than life without booze.
That
would be an early death.

No one close to me could learn my secret or they'd try to force me to change. So the secret helped me to develop even more skills. I became so good at sneaking and lying that it should have scared me, but I reminded myself that I was just doing what had to be done. One of the things that had to be done was to navigate the daily internal dialogues that began the second I woke up every day. Six o'clock, the alarm blasts.

Fuck! I don't want to get up. I want to call in sick.
You called in sick the other day. Get up.

My head hurts. I'm tired. I don't want to go to the gym.
Go to the gym. You're gaining weight. You're fat.

I hate this. I hate my job. I hate my life.
People would kill for your job and your life. Shut up and go to work.

I can't.
Yes, you can. Then you can come home to a nice bottle of wine and make it all go away.

OK. But why do I have to think about drinking just to get out of bed?
You're a High-Functioning Alcoholic. Emphasis on the “High.”

Maybe I'd be happier if I quit drinking.
That's hilarious.

The dialogues continued and so did I. I worked hard and got great performance reviews. I went to the gym regularly and
stayed in terrific shape. I took fancy vacations with my friends to places like Paris and the Caribbean where I danced and drank in the best clubs and sunbathed and drank on the best beaches. I dated other lawyers, investment bankers, and even a couple of artsy types, and almost every date involved getting nicely drunk. On weekends, I partied with my friends and made lots of happy faces for my family.

I was a vision of young adult success and joy. If I were the topic of a biopic, my friends and colleagues would tell the interviewer: “She's living the dream!” “That girl has it all!”

But I was starting to spend more and more nights home alone, drinking and then crying myself unconscious.

7

It is 2:00 a.m. on a Saturday night in
August 1994. Devon, Jessica, and I are on the dance floor at the Kismet Inn, our favorite bar on Fire Island. We've gone in on a summer rental, an A-frame beach house just steps from the ocean. With all of us working big city jobs, the house stands empty all week and overflows by Friday when we're ready to shoot the lights out.

Tonight the band is the Blue Scoobies, a local rock group we love. We're in top summer form, deeply tanned in baby doll dresses and Keds, loaded up on Lemon Drop shots and Absolut vodka with a splash of club soda. We dance like crazy as the Scoobies play “Kodachrome.” The bar is packed with raucous people who have been drinking since noon. With no cars on Fire Island, the worst accident usually involves somebody riding a bicycle shitfaced and veering off into a bush. Our house is close enough to the bar to walk.

I have a serious crush on the lead singer, and I'm trying to get his attention, as usual. He calls me “Carly Simon” and makes friendly small talk, but otherwise he doesn't bite. I hear he has
a girlfriend, which makes me want him even more. Dammit—I want the rock star boyfriend who stays loyal even though girls try to paw him! Our housemate Danny knows the Scoobies and hops onstage to sing “The Breeze.” Everybody knows Danny and the crowd goes wild.

Russell, Jerry, and a bunch of other guys we know aren't into dancing, so they hang around the long wooden bar. They wear jeans or long shorts and polos or t-shirts. Some sit on stools and some just lean, all with their backs to the bar so they can watch the revved up girls who shake their hips on the dance floor. The band takes a break, and we join the guys, some of us still dancing as we make our way to the bar. “Lisa! Shots!” my friend James calls out. We order a long line of tequila shots for the crew, lick salt off our hands, clink shot glasses, throw back the booze, and then suck limes and wince. Some of us let out a screech and slam the shot glass down on the bar. My eyes burn and I gag a little, but I feel great. We light cigarettes and laugh.

This is what I live for.

During the next five years at the firm, I worked my way into a subgroup of the Corporate Finance team, working for one counsel, a senior lawyer named Charles. He represented international investment banks starting up their U.S. affiliates. It was still Corporate Finance, but at least I was no longer dissecting technical clauses in underwriting agreements.

Charles had a wicked sense of humor and a head-back, cackling laugh. And after twenty years with the firm, he knew the intense pressures of our office. Like many of us, he had a reverence for the firm's prestige and enjoyed being part of the huge deals that crossed our threshold. But despite the heady environment, Charles was warm and humble.

Every night when Charles left to go home to his family in New Jersey, he'd stand in my office doorway, button up his trench coat, adjust his wireframe glasses, and say, “I've had enough of this chicken-shit operation for one day. See you in the morning.” Then with a laugh, he would give me a salute and walk out.

I think that what kept Charles going was the challenge and importance of the work. What kept me going was Charles. For years, he was the reason I showed up and threw every perfectionist impulse I had into the job. By the time I entered my fifth year of practice, my starting class of ninety junior associates firm-wide had dwindled to ten. Without Charles, it would have been nine. Still, as closely as we worked together, he had no idea of the wine soaked truths I hid. If he had seen me on a stumbling Saturday night, I would have collapsed with shame.

As much as I adored Charles, I knew I couldn't keep up the pace in his department given the amount that I was drinking. I was always on the lookout for a possible change. Then in 1996, opportunity knocked. The firm wanted an associate to switch out of practice and into its newly formed Marketing Department. I jumped. The job promised better hours and less demanding work, so just like that, I stopped practicing law. But I rationalized the move by telling myself that with less stress, I might even slow down my drinking.

Devon called during my first week in the new department. “Hey! How's it going over there?”

“Good!” I said. “It's low key and damned easy on the brain. And check it out: the other lawyers in the department insist that I leave at 5:30 p.m. like them. Isn't it still light at five thirty in the evening?!”

Fewer hours at work meant more hours to drink. I loved leaving the office and heading straight into the city's happy
hour crowd. After a couple hours of energetic drinking in a bar, I'd sometimes meet a pal in a restaurant for dinner and more drinks. Then, on many nights, I'd go home and drink. So as it went, the post-work schedule included bar drinks followed by dinner with drinks followed by drinks at home. Or just bar drinks followed by drinks at home. My routine was nicely simple. It wasn't the effect I had hoped the job change would have on me, but it was workable.

One night, a little over a year into my new job, I had dinner plans with some of my old friends from the legal side. With people having babies and commuting to the suburbs, these dinners were rare. The emails had bubbled around all day: “Is it still looking OK?” “Is your daughter feeling better?” “Only three more hours until seven. I'm so excited to see you guys!” Everyone seemed to want to reinforce the likelihood that the date would actually happen.

I left the office at 5:30 p.m. and met Jerry for a drink before dinner. We met at the original Rosa Mexicano on First Avenue, home of the famous frozen pomegranate margarita.

“Fernando! How are you?” I asked the bartender as I stretched across the Mexican-tiled bar to kiss him.

“Hey!” Jerry said. “I ordered guacamole.” I hopped on a stool next to him, and within minutes a waiter showed up carrying a bowl made to look like an avocado skin. It was full of chunks of fresh avocado, and the waiter put on a show of adding lime, onions, and crushed tomatoes, and then he sprinkled in mysterious Mexican seasonings and mashed it all up with a pestle. Fernando presented two frothy, pink margaritas that looked more like icy kids' treats than ridiculously potent alcoholic concoctions.

“Chin, chin!” Jerry said, raising his glass.

“Salud!” I answered.

Our second round came with a tequila sidecar, courtesy of Fernando. When we were about to order our third round, I looked at my watch. It was almost seven o'clock. I had a stomach full of tequila and guacamole, and I no longer felt like having dinner with my girlfriends. Jerry was more than happy to have me stick around.

“You're full. Catch them for dinner some other time.”

“I can't,” I told him. “I have to go. I can't blow this off.”

“Okay, so stay for one more and then I'll cross town with you. Just tell them you'll be a little late.”

I left a couple of voicemails for the girls and ordered the third round, which again came with shots on the side.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still in my clothes, and my mouth tasted like the bottom of an ashtray in a Mexican saloon.
When did I come home? Oh shit, did I not make it to dinner
?

My friend Wendy had left multiple messages, each one more pissed off than the one before:

“Hey, Lisa, got your message that you're running late, but it's almost seven-thirty. We need to order.”
Beep.

“Hey, it's eight. We ordered. Are you coming? Should we be worried?”
Beep.

“Alright, last message. No idea what happened to you. Not cool that you blew us off.”
Beep.

I climbed back into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and called in sick. Physically I was a wreck. Mentally I was worse. Depressed and ashamed, I was the loser who trades a table of girlfriends for a pink margarita. Shorter workdays and less stress didn't lead me anywhere near a life of diminished drinking. All they did was make it easier to start drinking early.