Chapter 1: A Cautionary Tale of Drunkenness

Reflecting on my life as I approach fifty, I take pride in my ability to consume alcohol responsibly. Most nights, I enjoy a glass or two of Cabernet and steer clear of anything that might lead to embarrassing antics or waking up with a lampshade on my head.

However, my past tells a different story.

In my younger days, I made some regrettable choices. For instance, I can barely recall two-thirds of my 29th birthday celebration. The only thing I remember clearly is the first bar we visited. If you ever go downtown with an attractive blonde relative who knows the bartenders intimately, beware!

“HEY! IT’S MY BROTHER-IN-LAW’S BIRTHDAY! How about some free Jäger shots? One for him, and two for me? WOOOOOOOO!”

She had an uncanny ability to charm the Woo-Girls into serving us for free. Hence, my infamous blackout incident from 2003. I was lucky to miss work by only about six hours. Had someone lit a cigarette near me that night, it could have caused a disaster.

Rest in peace, Jason. And the staff at Humpin’ Hannah’s, taken too soon…

That night marked my last venture into the depths of drunkenness. I learned about pacing, staying hydrated, and avoiding morally questionable drinking buddies. Now, I stick to going out with just a couple of fives to ensure I never receive “All-you-can-drink-for-free” VIP status again.

And honestly, I’d rather avoid waking up at 4:30 PM surrounded by remnants of a wild night. The mere smell of black licorice or Pink Sugar perfume still sends shivers down my spine.

My 29th birthday ruined Jäger for me. Even the sight of this adorable old photo of my daughter makes me feel queasy.

In the years following that night, I had a few minor lapses that left me feeling ill. There was the time I drank too much wine with a date and her friend, which my kitchen sink will never forgive me for. Then there was the infamous White Russian incident, where I ended up incapacitated. I may have lost that battle, but I still emerged victorious overall.

Yet, nothing compared to my very first experience with alcohol at the age of 24.

No, that's not a mistake. Twenty-four.

Raised by a pastor, I was sheltered from the 'worldly' things. The term “worldly” always struck me as amusing. Of course, we live in the world, so we’re bound to indulge in things like swearing and, on occasion, drinking too much.

As the obedient son, I did everything to avoid my father's wrath, while my younger brother embraced rebellion. He lived life like a rock star, creating chaos wherever he went. He and my father clashed like titans.

Unsurprisingly, he played a pivotal role in my first drinking escapade. I lay the blame squarely on him—well, maybe 90% on him. I could have declined the offer of “Reverse Screwdrivers.”

When I visited my younger brother, he insisted we celebrate his new place that very first night.

“I’m going to get you drunk tonight. It’s time,” he declared.

The naive older brother in me hesitated but didn’t want to seem weak in front of him.

“Is that a giant bottle of Popov vodka? Isn’t that what Lorraine drank in Back to the Future? And are those tall bottles BEER?”

He grinned, “Yep. And that orange juice? We’re making Reverse Screwdrivers tonight.”

Reverse Screwdrivers? I should have caught on, but my sheltered upbringing left me unprepared. My brother was ready to introduce me to the dark side in a comical manner.

I’d heard of Screwdrivers, which typically consist of vodka and orange juice. However, the ratio my brother used for Reverse Screwdrivers was alarming. He filled my glass mostly with vodka and added just a splash of OJ.

I was skeptical but took a sip, only to be met with a terrible taste. He gave me a look that said, “Seriously? Twenty-four, and you can’t handle it?”

“Man, just shotgun it if you’re going to be a big baby about it,” he urged.

To prove him wrong, I downed the entire glass in three seconds.

That was unpleasant, but after about thirty seconds, I started to feel a little cool. The situation became amusing, and he cheered me on.

“There’s no way you could do that again!”

“Set ‘em up, Little Bro. Let’s do this!” I replied.

He poured another drink, nearly filling the glass. As I reached for it, he dashed off to get his camera.

Another warning sign missed.

When he returned, I shotgunned the second glass. This one hurt.

“Is it supposed to make everything look like The Predator? I can only see his outline!”

He laughed, “Yeah, that means it’s working. Now drink your forty.”

I nursed a 40 oz malt liquor bottle until I passed out. As the spins kicked in, I lay on the floor, talking to myself for about an hour. My brother eventually had enough and retreated, only returning to tell me to shut up and turn onto my side.

Surprisingly, I didn’t throw up. But the next morning, I felt like I was dying. We had plans to meet our parents for lunch at their favorite Mexican restaurant, and I wasn’t ready for it.

“Tell them I’m dying. Say I have the flu or food poisoning,” I complained, feeling worse than ever. How was he not suffering as much?

“Get up. Stop being a baby. You’re getting in my car, and we’re going to Dos Caminos to eat some of their spicy salsa. You’ll feel better by the time the food arrives,” he insisted.

As annoying as he was, he was right. After a short drive and some chips and salsa, I started to feel better.

We never spoke of our Reverse Screwdriver antics with our parents until many years later.

Though it wasn't glamorous, it turned into a memorable story. It taught me valuable lessons about responsible drinking that I carry with me today. Recently, our son encountered a similar experience while bartending for a friend's 21st birthday.

Now, we share a knowing glance whenever we drink responsibly.

I don't think I'll subject him to the Reverse Screwdriver trick. That’s more of a brotherly initiation than a father-son rite of passage.

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