Daniel and I like to go to the movies, get bottled water and buttered popcorn to enjoy in the dark, and watch something interesting on the big screen. There's a small, older theater downtown that shows older movies, and the ticket price is (now) $3.50. Tonight, we saw a movie called 21, which was not only about counting cards at the blackjack tables in Vegas (and I almost always hear the voice of Richard Grieco saying "21, do we win or what?" from the movie If Looks Could Kill when I think of that card game). It's also about the main character turning 21, becoming wiser about how the world sometimes works. Or doesn't.
Most people probably think of 21 as the age when they get to drink alcoholic beverages. By the time I reached that age, though, I had already drank plenty because my father believed in teaching me how to handle the privilege long before the government afforded it to me. At the time I was turning 21, I lived in what's called a "dry" county, meaning that liquor stores aren't permitted, and alcoholic beverages are not allowed to be sold in the usual retail outlets. Some restaurants do serve alcohol, but the customer who wants to drink has to submit her driver's license to be examined, the number recorded, and she must pay a fee for a "Unicard," sort of like a membership card, which can be used in all alcohol-serving restaurants.
Weird, huh?
To buy liquor or beer or wine, we had to drive to the county line where liquor stores were lined up on both sides of the highway, Texas 31, in my case. I remember going with my Dad, selecting what I wanted to drink, usually a kind of beer that I don't think is available anymore, and Dad would buy it for me. He told me never to mix alcohol. He said to pick one drink for an evening and stay with it to avoid getting really wasted really fast and waking with a severe hangover. I never got drunk with him. I don't know if he was monitoring how much I was drinking or not. He was teaching me how to handle my liquor, how to know my limits, how to be responsible for myself when I chose to imbibe.
I learned the most valuable lesson of my drinking history, though, when I turned 21. My birthday was on a Wednesday that year, I think, and I got together with some friends from work the following weekend. I arranged for my younger brother to transport me because I knew there would be drinking. What I didn't know was that my father's wisdom--don't mix liquor--would be fully demonstrated for me so that I would never, ever forget it.
I started with a liter (that's half a two-liter bottle) of tequila sunrise. One whole liter, and tequila isn't exactly a "lightweight" liquor, even mixed with whatever's in that cocktail. Then I drank at least one beer, then a couple tumblers of rum and coke. After that, we started passing the rum bottle around the room, and I got fucking plastered. I remember my little brother showing up, being so, so angry at me because I also decided to try smoking cigarettes that same night. I remember having to pee and having to literally crawl to the bathroom because I couldn't walk. I couldn't get up on my feet. A total stranger helped me onto the toilet, and I remember that she was worried about me. My brother and one of my friends, who apparently drank like that on a regular basis, helped me to the car.
Where I passed out, only to awaken when we were mere minutes from home and vomit all over the car.
My poor little brother.
The next day, I awakened around 11:00 a.m., smiling to myself, feeling really happy. I got out of bed, and my mother was in our dining room, clearly pissed off at me. I didn't recall doing anything to deserve her ire, but she quickly enlightened me. She said that I'd thrown up all over the car, that she had to get me in the shower, with my little brother's help, fully dressed because I was covered in puke. It was a little scary that I couldn't remember any of that. A few minutes later, I started to feel sick. I hadn't eaten anything, so there wasn't much there, but I puked anyway, then dry-heaved, no exaggeration, every twenty minutes for a good eight hours.
I'd never been so sick in my life, and the good news is, I haven't been that sick since. I completely quit drinking for about a year after that. In contrast to my mother's reaction to my utter folly, which was a deep and lasting disappointment, even though she'd been that drunk at least once in her life, my father more or less shrugged his shoulders and chalked my drinking binge up to a rite of adult passage.
And it was, because I learned a lesson more valuable than the wisdom of not mixing alcohol. I learned the valuable lesson that privilege comes with responsibility. I also learned that making mistakes, while painful, can sometimes be the best way to learn.
Copyright 2008 Melissa LaFavers