Three years later, Abel Erikson, the man who could give Father Time a run for his money, found himself in a reflective mood as San Francisco fog rolled in, casting a soft-focus filter on his life of ups and downs. His hair, once as jet black as a moonless night, now sported a distinguished salt and pepper look that he wasn't entirely convinced about. The mirror above a bar showed a man who had swapped the dance floor for a more mature shuffle and traded his laughter lines for a stoic, almost theatrical frown. Beneath his bushier brows and experience etched on his face, was a man who still knew how to make an entrance, even if it was just into his own living room high above the city on Pemberton Place steps secluded below Twin Peaks.
With his beloved AWOL and probably gallivanting in the Castro, he needed a drink without an audience to applaud his bottle ballet, just the silent company of a dry gin martini, and the overwhelming urge to play hide and seek with love and liquor. As he stood there, the master of his own clandestine cocktail hour, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of rebellion at the thought of sipping gin without ice—how uncivilized! He crossed the Tibetan rug hurrying over to the bar. As the vermouth kissed the gin, a realization dawned on him: perhaps it wasn't the lack of ice that made him feel less than a man or even the insatiable boy, but rather the fact that he'd forgotten the olives. The true essence of a martini. With a chuckle, he decided that next time, he'd prepare a shopping list with the same precision as a secret agent on a mission. The classic case of the brain’s gymnastics. One moment doing cartwheels, the next tripping over hurdles of haphazard thoughts. My God! He wanted to scream. He hit the pause button. Once upon a time he could drink until he was literally blue in the face. There were no hangovers then, no problems. Now, he went to therapy and made special appearances at AA meetings upon his therapist's suggestion. He hated the meetings, having to sit there in that melancholy room, half listening to their stories, thinking he was not as far gone as those people. Drinking out of control and waking up in a gutter was not something he had in common with any of them.
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON ArchivesCategories |