The Sober Drunk
The sober drunk
He woke up early, had fallen asleep when drunk
now, he was sober trembling hands and blurred vision
full of self-loathing; what happened once, he had been
a little boy in the Vatican and bathed in Fonte Aguiar
that’s what his mother said, and knew it was
not true, but enough for him to expect to succeed.
Walking to work, he had an unimportant snack bar in town
he stopped at a butcher and bought sliced ham to make
sandwiches also stopped at a shop and bought several
bottles of beer to get the courage needed to confront
young people, buying French fries and soft drinks.
Now that it was winter, not many people had money
came, and he was faced with long hours of tediousness
yet, he was secretly glad no one came.
Since his wife left him, worst of all had taken the dog
also, living at her father’s farm, he had no one to look after
drinking had become a problem, sometimes he closed
early so he could go to the pub and drink hours away.
He had been a seaman with a college degree, a good job
and had read hundreds of books, some of them good, his
favourite writers were Dos Passos and Ernest Hemingway
He also read supermarket books on “how to win friends
and be a success.” This was his problem, he didn’t know
how to get along with people without a drink in his hands.
One day, after buying sliced ham, but no beer, he rang
the people he had rented the snack bar to, told them he
quit, and went to an AA meeting.
At the meeting, he took the issue of what many middle-class
people said those who endlessly spoke of suffering, telling
stories of how drunk they had been and done, which
in his mind was not very much to go on about.
Friendly people they were, but one got the sense that
the down and out were not made welcome.
Since he was not drinking, his hands still tremored
went to see a doctor who said he had diabetes and wrote
out a note to buy tablets; apparently, according to
the medic had had this condition for many years, a toll
on his heart which was not in great shape either.
he lives now, a quit in Portugal and happily drinks red wine
in the evening, he says to himself. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
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