The Clumsy Interloper

My relationship with alcohol started in the summer of 1998 while living in the Delta Upsilon fraternity house at the University of Virginia. It was the summer before my junior year of high school and the totality of my drinking career up until that point was having two screwdrivers at a sleepover freshman year while playing Resident Evil on PS1. My parents, who wanted to broaden me, got me a construction laborer job in downtown Charlottesville and sent me off to live with my older brother Tom (“TK” to his DU brethren). It was a formative period in life – Sammy Sosa hit 66 steroid-fueled home runs, There’s Something About Mary reclassified hair care products and I was granted admission to Coupe Deville’s at the tender age of 16.

For most of the summer I nursed beers while TK and his fraternity brothers played caps and watched movies like Swingers or Boogie Nights before going to bars. The comedic patois between the group was an intoxicant by itself. I was enamored with the hedonistic ethos of Greek life and their singular pursuit of a good time.

Most weekends they would leave for bars around 11pm which was my cue to fold my cards and hit the sack. However, on the final weekend of the summer, after 3 months of steady tolerance building, my brother had an idea. He was going to get me into their favorite watering hole, Coupes, by use of his expired driver’s license. I was dubious because we have only a passing resemblance, he is 4” taller and has different colored eyes. But TK would not be swayed, he was convinced this would work.

I remember standing in line with a cluster of early 20’s co-eds, flanked by DU brothers, with my acne surely glinting off the halogen glow of the exterior lights above. Floating on adrenaline and alcohol, I puffed up the new muscles I gained at the construction site while never meeting the bouncers eyes but instead peering inside to where I was going (as I was coached to do). Time stood still as I turned back and saw the ID being presented back to me. Security check complete. I completely disassociated as I walked to the back patio while someone whispered “A to the motherfuckin’ K” in my ear.

TK, who came in the back entrance, was already seated at a large table with a huge smile on his face. These drinking sherpas guided me into a new realm – gulping down ice cold pitchers, smoking parliament lights, telling drunken stories about other drunken nights just like this one – and it sparked a romanticism with booze that persisted for the next 25 years of my life.

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“I feel sorry for people that don’t drink because when they wake up in the morning, that is the best they’re going to feel all day.” -Frank Sinatra

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I remember hearing this quote as a senior in high school and staring at it for a long time. I didn’t really understand it. Is the premise that a non-drinker degrades during their waking hours?  Is feeling like shit when you awake a noble thing? In the end I just shrugged and thought, “Hell yeah, Ol’ Blue Eyes. Hangovers are punk rock”.

Next: Sober Curious: The Middle Way (Part II)