The Inner Bean

don’t drink much. Mostly because I come from long lines of alcoholism on both sides of my the family and the first time I felt out of control, I realized I didn’t want to give up the social aspect of drinking by giving into the demons.

When I was twenty-one I got a job working in a bar. My friend at the time and I had begun frequenting the place on our occasional night away from the kids and husbands. While chatting with one of my future bosses, we jokingly asked him what we had to do to get a job working in such a cool place. It was called the Classic Rock Cafe, and while in retrospect I can’t for life of me figure out what we thought was so cool about it, it was as if I’d walked into the place my very firstt ime and known a part of my future would be dedicated to that world.

Half-drunk, I met my real future boss and had an interview with him. He thought we were hilarious because we had been drinking. He asked why he should give me a job and I said, “Because I’m one of the most awesome people you will ever have the pleasure of meeting.” That must have been enough because the next afternoon the kitchen manager called me and asked when I could start working. She was the real reason I was sent there by the universe, as she would become one of my bestest friends in the whole world. Her name was Rita and she was like iron, but the two of us hit it off right away. We soon became an unstoppable force in the establishment, and many a late night after work was spent on the other side of the bar nursing our sorrows away.

I can’t say that those weren’t some of the most incredibly hilarious days of my life. At the time I was thinner than I am now, and I had a host of guys who came in there to flirt with me whenever I’d tend bar. After about a year there was a group of us that had grown so close we gathered weekly and poisoned ourself after work in a corner booth. We’d down our flaming doctor pepper shots, slam down Alabama Slammers and kamakazis, but nothing could get started until Rita and I had our nightly shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks. After that, the serious drinking started, and fortunately we were lucky enough to have a designated driver to cart us all home at the end of the night. Rita’s husband Rob, who worked the door as a bouncer, rarely had more than a beer just so the rest of us could slosh ourselves.

It’s been a few years now since the whole bar was shut down, and many of us lost a place that still manages to haunt our dreams. About 8% of my nightly wanderings take me back to that place, and those days. Out of all of the people I once knew there, the only one I still speak to is Rita, but neither of us has much desire to drink like we used to. It was that out of control feeling that did me in. That wake up with your tongue stuck to the carpeted roof of your mouth with your skull cracking opened feeling was not something I wanted to spend an eternity nursing away. I actually have an incredibly low tolerance for alcohol, and a few drinks are enough to poison my blood.

However, tonight, as I nurse the last few shots in a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Creme before bed, I can’t help but remember the laughter we shared with fondness. Sure, we still laugh, and most of it is done without the aid of tequila and Jack. I don’t mind that we don’t drink, but I do miss the camaraderie we shared.

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