Water Street Waylay

 My nightmarish weekend, 50 years ago … the same weekend the Daniel Webster Inn burnt down.

At age sixteen, I got drunk.

It wasn’t the first time. I had done so once previously, at age fourteen. At that time I had found a boxful of assorted liquors stashed away in my grandparents’ attic, apparently forgotten. I decided that one day I’d give them a try. It turned out that trying one of each wasn’t such a good idea. I got horribly sick, my parents found out, and I got grounded. The experience left me with such disdain that I swore I’d never drink again.

That pledge lasted about a year. I got back into it slowly: during a campout with friends; sneaking slugs of wine from my grandparents’ refrigerator; stealing an occasional beer from my father’s supply. I was wary of overdoing it, but the memory of that initial drunk eventually faded so I decided to plot something larger.

I searched through my parents’ liquor cabinet, looking way in the back for something they may have forgotten about. I found an unopened fifth of rum. I had never known either of them to drink rum, so I thought maybe it was a bygone gift. I grabbed it, then wondered where to stash it. Also, I had to figure out what to mix it with. I had overheard classmates and teammates talk of mixing rum with Coke, so, not knowing anything else, that became my plan. But where to stash it? It might be best to place it where I could also consume it covertly. This was all prior to getting my driver’s license, so I’d have to hand-carry it to the secret location somehow.

I decided that hiding it, and later consuming it, under a bandstand adjacent to a local pond made sense. It was certainly a good hiding place. But consuming it while lying among dirt, rocks and weeds? What sort of future did this portend?

No such concern occurred to me at the time. And at no time did I consider sharing the rum with anyone. My only question was, when?

I had previously witnessed an upperclassman show up at a high school dance having drunk many rum & Cokes, or so I was told. I hadn’t noticed anything until it was mentioned, and then it did appear that his dancing was a bit erratic. I was intrigued by this; as if it would be fun and exciting to get away with such a thing without getting caught or thrown out.

So that was it: I’d wait until the next high school dance!

I was a junior in high school at this point. I always went to these dances, but the last time I remember truly enjoying one was probably a 7th grade record hop. I preferred slow dances to fast ones, the fast ones requiring improvisation that I found incomprehensible. But the slow dances seemed to become more infrequent as time went on, and some of the out-of-town bands seemed not danceable to anyone.

The day came, a Friday. Baseball season was just getting underway, my favorite time of year. I was looking forward to becoming one of the regular starting pitchers that year.

I used to walk to school during this period, about a mile-and-a-half. So I suppose it wouldn’t have been unusual if I’d announced that I was going to walk to the dance, the bandstand being right along the way. But my sister would also be going, and likely getting a ride from one of our parents, so I’m not sure how I fenagled this.

Anyway, I actually first went to a Coke machine that stood on a sidewalk in the center of town to buy a couple of cans of Coke (@15 cents apiece!) and then made my way to the bandstand.

I must’ve had a separate cup to do the mixing – I don’t recall – but I proceeded to lie among the dirt, rocks and weeds to try my first rum & Coke, as darkness descended.

I didn’t care for it. But that did not deter me. I had one; then another; and then another; et cetera. I finished about half the bottle, well on my way to somewhere, then proceeded to walk to the dance. I was definitely feeling it, but didn’t think my condition would be noticeable.

I was a bit stunned when I arrived at the entrance to find my baseball coach as chaperone. He took one look at me and my condition and scoffed. And yet he let me in. I stumbled across the dance floor and vaguely remember behaving somewhat inappropriately with one of the sophomore girls. I made my way to the boys’ room, immediately followed by a couple of classmates who wasted no time informing me that it was obvious I was sloshed and that I should leave. I was surprised that it was so apparent. I didn’t argue. I must have left through an exterior door that’s between the boys’ room and the dance hall. I have no recollection of leaving or of anything else the rest of that evening. Most likely I walked directly home, but I don’t remember any encounter with my parents.

On Saturdays during this time I worked with my father at his hardware store. It was a weekly routine of getting up early, eating breakfast at a local diner, stopping at a market for a newspaper, and then opening up the store. On this day I apparently failed to respond to repeated wakeup calls, so he left without me. I felt horrible about this, on top of being hungover.

That day is a blur, but somehow I must have talked my way into heading out again that Saturday evening. Amazingly, I went back to the bandstand and repeated the routine, finishing the bottle. At some point prior to this, a classmate, whose father owned an historic inn in town, had promised to leave a 6-pack of beer for me out behind the inn at a spot he had described. Although already drunk, I went looking for it, but couldn’t find it. I knew that my classmate also worked in the kitchen, so I walked in through a back door and asked for him. His father told me he wasn’t there, so I left. As soon as I hit the cool evening air, I went into another blackout.

My next memory is of being yelled at by some woman. I came to while ripping fishing rods off the side of a beach buggy that was parked at the inn. Unbeknownst to me, this woman was in the vehicle when I started doing this. She threatened to call the police, so I got scared and walked off. I walked directly home.

I was sitting on my bed when this time I was confronted by my father, who wanted to know if I’d “tried something new.” I denied there being any problem and he let me be. Once again, I passed out.

Later that night, the historic inn – its original structure dating back to 1729 – was destroyed by fire. I was stunned when I got up that Sunday to hear of this. My father had gone to the fire. We had a fire/police radio, and he was somehow connected to the volunteer fire department, so we would often go to fires around town together. This was the biggest one ever, and I was not available to join him. I had let him down again, the second time that day. On top of this, memories were flooding back of my actually being at the inn the night before, drunk and in search of more alcohol, and exhibiting bizarre behavior. And that’s just the parts I remember. I hadn’t been particularly upset about not being able to find the beer, but not knowing all of what happens during a blackout is always haunting. What exactly did happen between leaving that kitchen and getting yelled at by that woman? It turns out the fire reportedly started in a dryer that was in the basement, so I was relieved to hear that.

Once again, I swore off alcohol … temporarily. I went on to have a pretty good baseball season; but when the time came to announce the captain for our senior year, I got overlooked. I was incensed, with no thought that my past behavior might have had consequences.

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Members of Alcoholic Anonymous might call such a weekend a “signpost,” this one maybe of the flashing neon variety. There would be many more over the next ten years. Why I had such a fate is not a primary concern of mine. I’m actually one of the lucky ones – lucky to have been granted the gift of desperation to ultimately seek help and to recover; lucky to have lived to be able to tell of such unseen signposts. But during those ten years, while under the influence, I offended many with my inexplicable behavior, and occasionally humiliated myself. Since then, for almost forty years now, I’ve tried to not add to the pile. Occasionally I actually see an important signpost along the way. I still fail on occasion, as does anyone, but happily that’s due to my own humanity versus any chemical influence.