Thirsty Work
It was recently brought to my attention
that in certain quarters drunkards are considered
lazy and shiftless loafers. Let me be the first to
say that nothing could be further from the truth.
It’s damn hard work being a drunkard. First,
there’s the whole getting up thing. While I
imagine hangover-free teetotalers spring out of bed
at the crack of dawn for their morning herbal tea,
the drunkard has a much heavier burden to bear. If
the night before was worth remembering, if it can
be remembered at all, he must carry the terrible
weight of the mighty hangover. Based on an exhaustive
series of experiments, I estimate a proper hangover
to be the equivalent of a heated twenty-pound lead
weight attached to the back of the head. With such
a handicap it’s no wonder the act of merely
rising from the bed (or floor) is a Herculean task
in itself, an ordeal that would crush the very soul
of lesser, non-drinking men.
Next the drunkard has to face the heart-rending
task that non-drinkers are spared—the ejecting
of unexpected guests. Sometimes they’re so
unexpected they wake up right next to you. This job
is akin to herding oversized, nasty-tempered sloths
into an open furnace. It can take hours and makes
the Jerry Springer Show seem like a Mormon choir
practice.
Then he’s got to think about breakfast. Now,
when I say breakfast, I do not mean to insinuate
the drunkard has arisen at some ridiculous pre-noon
hour. The drunkard’s day usually starts at
around 2pm and continues unabated until five or so
in the morning, so it’s perfectly natural to
eat breakfast after most people have already digested
lunch. Arranging breakfast is no easy chore, as nothing
seems particularly good. Soon the thought of food
fades into the background and a truly gargantuan
struggle begins, a fearsome inner brawl that probably
burns more calories than digging a granite ditch:
should the drunkard have a little hair of the dog?
A little eye-opener? To take the edge off? If you’re
like me, the struggle is heroic, but brief.
Then there’s the walk to the liquor store
because there is no hair of the dog in the house
because the dog was devoured whole the night before.
Though the liquor store may be a mere two blocks
away, the trek can resemble a Dantean death march
into the Eighth Circle of Hell (the Ninth Circle
is reserved for AA meetings).
Once he’s had a good stiff patch of hair,
he’ll naturally think: Hey, if the hide of
the dog is so good, the rest of the mutt must be
downright delicious. Now the drunkard bears down
on his real work: getting drunk. Plumbers must plumb,
former dot.com presidents must bus tables and drunkards
must drink. It’s not as easy as it sounds.
There is no magical pill he can simply pop, then
start staggering around telling lies. No, he must
hunker down and work at it, hard. For hours and hours
on end. Wading courageously through endless beers,
shots and mind-boggling liquor combinations. He must
endure psyche-flaying conversations with loathsome
bar dwellers, desperate struggles for control of
the jukebox, not to mention those sudden fits of
groveling to undeserving ladies who may or may not
become unexpected guests in the morning. Then, well
into overtime, he must suffer the cruel whipsong
of last call, then toil mightily to discover who
has liquor at their house and how he will get his
hands on it. And, if successful, he must bear the
brunt of even more drinking, sometimes in the company
of those he despises.
So the next time you teetotalers
prance past a bar and glance in, don’t look
at the men hunkered at the bar as bums, layabouts
or ne’er-do-wells.
Look upon them as magnificent men working toward
a terrible but necessary goal, toiling mightily so
you may rest assured that no brewery or distillery
shall ever have to lay off their workers and shut
their lovely doors. Alrighty?
Frank Kelly Rich
