War of the Rosacea
The barfly lifestyle isn’t just something that people can just choose on a whim. It’s a very specific genetic makeup that one has literally inherited at birth. Although the fundamentals are there, it still requires years of environmental conditioning and training to finally sit proudly among your peers in a bar. The great ones are welcome to sit at not just the bar, but at any bar. These are the very legends that have literally raised the bar for those fortunate enough to be afforded the privilege to sit at the bar. These are the names that are spoken with such irreverence. They are immortalized, their greatness assured in such glowing terms. Superlatives like “a regular” and “functioning” are so readily dispensed when discussion of their alcoholic prowess arises. All of the up and comers, fervently pounding back shooters with aspirations of their own potential barfly legacy, have been left awe-inspired with the tales of how the great ones “ Never called in sick.” and “Always showed up the next day and did their jobs!”.
The barfly is in possession of a very particular set of life skills. The path they follow is a destiny preternaturally crafted by the gods of fate, not unlike those of the great warrior archetype whose predilection for glory was also written in the stars. There are striking comparisons that one could make and yet the vast differences that insist upon distinction. Warriors possess courage, a fierce determination, and an unyielding passion. Barflies, on the other hand, have a jaded cynicism, a half pack of smokes, and the innate ability to feign interest in the most random of conversations, no matter how trivial or ridiculous.
Similar to the warriors, the barflies also have a code that they adamantly adhere to. Firmly ingrained in both codes is the quality and stock of those they surround themselves with. Warriors would never be seen in the company of cowards, whereas the barflies are resolute in maintaining a safe distance between themselves and the dysfunctional alcoholics. They cannot allow these pseudo drunk posers to tarnish such a carefully crafted legacy.
Most barflies are fully aware of their alcoholism and yet they still have the fortitude it takes to consciously make a very specific decision. The unpopular one, the one branded as foolhardy by an overwhelming majority of medical experts. Despite all of the scientific findings that substantiates the hard facts, the barfly is steadfast in their rejection of the so-called truth! They will decide for themselves if it’s safe to exceed the limits that have been so emphatically urged by those other alleged scholars of common health sense.
These conspiracy theorists have now taken to believing that we’re considered alcoholics if we consume more than 15 drinks a week. That’s 15 for men and 8 a week for women. I imagine it would be somewhere around 11 for the unique men that have chosen to be recognized as women. And that’s per week, folks. Not per sitting. Through the eyes of the barfly,those numbers are telling us that our society has fallen into the hands of a bunch of pussies.
If the medical community were to be correct however, then that would suggest that there are a whole lotta alcoholics out there. If that’s true then I’m quite proud of the fact that I am able to sit among them, perched comfortably on my swivelling throne. Who wants to hang out with pussies anyhow?
God knows that I have more than 15 drinks a week and it would be deceitful of me to have you believe otherwise. Many times I have had more than 15 drinks in a single sitting but I’d be hard pressed to try that now. Two reasons in particular are the obvious health risks and the wish to stay less fatter than I already am. Although it might be considered that being fat is a very large part of any inherent health risks anyways, therefore suggesting one less reason to be concerned about drinking. I am an optimist, being both literally and figuratively a “glass half full” kind of guy. My crafty barfly logic indicates that I should have a drink to celebrate! ( That’s why I’m a lord, dammit!)
As any barfly worth their weight in tequila salt will tell you, remaining functional is the integral part of earning your wings. The barflies are aware of their alcoholism. Whether they are able to admit to this out loud is another thing entirely. Speaking from experience, it can take time to accept that one’s own alcoholic proclivities may be rooted somewhere in the history of their failed relationships. If it isn’t the root itself then, at the very least, it’s the water that feeds the root.
Functional alcoholics perceive dysfunctional alcoholics in the same light that Ebeneezer Scrooge would have viewed the ghosts of both Christmas past and future. They can already see the unpleasant state of the drunk that stands weaving before them, slovenly representing the present. For some, it’s the deep ceded fear of recalling a past time wherein they were that literal staggering ghost of the present. For others, it can represent the possibility of a terrifying transition that potentially awaits them if they won’t reconsider their views on mixing spirits. Rest assured, either one of these ghastly visions is a definite buzz kill for the barfly.
Besides warriors, there are remarkable similarities that functioning alcoholics have with witches and vampires. The obvious example, the vampire is compelled to drink blood in order to maintain an existence and, just like the vampire, the functioning barfly exhibits that same compulsion to drink. Only his choice of poison is somewhat different. Both parties are aware that their proclivities are a somewhat controversial topic and therefore great discretion must be exercised while partaking in this insatiable indulgence. This also is indicative of a common pattern.
I discovered this years ago when I officially became separated from my wife. I had always worked in a restaurant up until that point and most of the restaurants had bars. Sharon and I had worked together in a few of them and both of us rather enjoyed the concept of a drink after work.
Sometimes we didn’t work the same shifts and I would still go out for drinks with friends from work. My reason being that it would be rude to say no to an invitation. I suspect that if one were to inquire today, Sharon might undoubtedly suggest my absence as being the water to the root of our problems. She’s still a functional alcoholic herself but, unlike me, she’s been remarried. So, while she and her husband found a refuge in the closet, I was drawn to the mystique of the coven.
It’s worth noting that not every alcoholic chooses to walk the path of the barfly. The unnatural ability to drink like a fish and walk away while still retaining a modicum of dignity is greatly admired by barflies worldwide. Dignity is generally assessed through social engagement. While there may be exceptions, this requires talking. Some would argue that dignity can be verified through written communication. This proposal is not acceptable to the USC, Universal Society of barfly covens because: 1) We need visual proof that you can handle your liquor, 2) With the advances in AI, there is always the possibility that A.I. wrote your dignity proposal for you and, finally, 2b) It is a widely known fact that A.I. is accepted as a sober intelligence. So no go on that one. Your barfly application is denied!
There are plenty of functioning alcoholics that don’t apply to a coven for a multitude of reasons. Social anxiety, homelessness, and legal parental requirements are to name but a few. They do their drinking at home and their actual functioning capabilities can only be speculated. There are the occasional social appearances that may help quash any untoward rumours. Open bars at wedding receptions and staff parties have proven to be an effective barometer with which to estimate.
Upon acceptance, standing members of a barfly coven, or “nest” as it’s referred to, are well aware of the exit policy procedures that are expected of them. Having said that, leaving a bar with dignity intact does not ensure that said dignity will still remain once outside the bar. Alcoholism is most peculiar in that regard.
Dr. Leonard Timleck is probably my best friend in the world and yet, while we would probably both agree with this, it is a very fragile declaration to say out loud. We are both very close to many other people as well and it might serve as a slight to them, undermining the belief that they should be acknowledged as the best friend.
In truth, I think it’s fair to say that the average person’s life contains a veritable carousel of rotating best friends. It’s like being asked which of your children is the favourite. Most people simply frown in annoyance and mutter, “There’s no such thing. I love all my children equally!”
That’s not always true though, is it? If one of your children was a cannibalistic serial murderer and their sibling was a modest, unassuming accountant then I think there would definitely be some favoritism there. One’s likely to be the source of great humiliation while the other can help you with your taxes while negating your unsettling paranoia of possibly getting eaten.
There were years where both the good doctor and myself were not in contact with one another . We both have had multiple experiences that did not include each other. We’d both been married and fathered children. No doubt having fostered an incredibly richly layered bond with them. We’ve also had the same good fortune of not being mutilated and later digested by these parties.
We are connected through an unusual number of commonalities. We have a unique mutual appreciation for many of the same things and that lends itself to intelligent discussion. Sharing our thoughts gives both of us a much broader perspective which allows us to consider things more thoroughly. So with this in mind, there is no need to discuss the extent of our friendship.
Leonard is a barfly too. He would prefer that particular people remain oblivious to this fact but, as you can see, I’ve just informed you. So I’ve both betrayed his confidence and inadvertently made a strong case for exclusion from best friend considerations. (That’s okay though because the pressure of being a best friend is too great! And then there’s the reality that this is actually fiction.)
It’s no surprise to find Lenny and I at a bar called Red’s Smokehouse quite often. It’s a safe distance from both our working environments and we can enjoy our drinks there.The smokehouse aspect of this establishment infers that this is a restaurant specializing in smoked cuisine. This inference would be wrong. Any resulting misinformation can quickly be explained by Nick, a profusely sweating man of Greek heritage, who also happens to be the owner/proprietor.
Nick is bald for the most part but he does have hair on the sides of his head that almost seems like a garnish for his exposed scalp. The great irony is that he is hairy everywhere else, more gorilla-like than orangutan. That analogy, of course, would be because his hair is not, and never has been, red.
“This place used to be owned by a hockey player named Red.” Nick explained to us a few years back.
“Red Berenson?” Lenny asked curiously.
“Ya. Dat’s da guy!”
Back then Nick seemed genuinely pleased that someone would believe his story. Although I’m sure he would’ve emphatically agreed with the suggestion of Red Kelly or any hockey player with the nickname Red. After our first visits it became apparent that Nick, while undoubtedly a gregarious guy, was also a bit of a bullshitter. Perhaps a Red Steiger or Red Serling would’ve even sufficed. It was evident back then that there would be no need to ask about the smokehouse cuisine or lack thereof. We never went there to eat anyways. Over time it became apparent that the majority of Red’s Smokehouse clientele didn’t come to eat either and bearing witnessing to the few that did has often been likened to the rare appearance of Hailey’s comet.
It was our coven though and we both came there often. The last Friday of the month was always an absolute though because it was also the same day as my scheduled appointments, which were conveniently booked as Lenny’s last before the weekend. This meant that he could indulge freely without possible ramifications the following morning. Not just the threat of a hangover but the effect that it could have on his professional reputation.
It would be difficult to be taken seriously by a patient if he were to be reeking of booze. Blood shot eyes and swollen facial features aren’t likely to instill the required empathy that a patient might require when reliving a suicide attempt. It was only natural that Friday be the day for precautionary reasons.
For me? It would make no difference. I am a bar manager and the actual “managing”aspect of my job takes place behind the scenes in the kitchen anyhow. I do like my job but I think it’s generally regarded as being less important than Lenny’s. You don’t often hear the term “service industry professional” and if you do, it’s simply used as linguistic bullshit. If you don’t own a successful restaurant and you’ve been doing this job long enough to describe yourself as a professional then you’re just admitting to your own inability to overcome poor life choices.
I also happen to have sleep apnea, which requires the need for a cpap machine. Apnea is a condition that causes sleep interruption. Snoring is the one that is generally acknowledged with irritating the shit out of other people, like the partner sleeping beside you. Unfortunately for some, that can sometimes lead to a past tense, the partner that used to sleep beside you.
While snoring is aggravating, it usually doesn’t kill you. Unless, of course, it drives said sleeping partner over the edge and they are to murder you. I haven’t checked the figures but I could see that occurring. Lucky for me, I sleep alone and that lessens the likelihood of me getting murdered. It’s the actual inability to breathe independently that can kill me in my sleep.
The cpap machine continues to pump oxygen through my airways while I sleep. The required mask seemed like a hassle in the beginning, but the refreshed feeling that sleep now provides is night and day to what it was like in the past. There is yet another upside to this unique contraption. A benefit that befits my lifestyle quite well. As a result of this forced oxygen that I intake every night, my body gets rehydrated and I don’t get hangovers.