For
me, there was no urgency to stop drinking—what for, why be rushed by
man, or men; like burgeoning, or
mushrooming, something that doesn’t need dwindling, let it go at its own pace:
—this is what I said at
nineteen, during the infancy of my slave
days to Mr. Barleycorn.
Me
and him breathed the same air, suckled the same breast: Hamm’s
beer, Budweiser, Coors, Grain Belt,
Schmidt, Beck’s—
He
wasn’t biased: black, white, brown, we were all brought into his
brotherhood, young, cultivated young;
alas, the devil knew which one’s of us were genetically more prone to its
shortcomings, its cravings within
our chromosomes, we didn’t of course!
Thus
we had our brotherhood, free and unfree, shoulder to shoulder, like to
like, some to same, we chummed, and
tirelessly gave to him, life and rhythm, and then at thirty-six, I said “Where
am I destined?”
Aw,
to be his slave—with a child’s mind, I was amazed that men, so many
men, including myself were all saying
Mr. Barleycorn was not an
obstruction— of which of course he was!
I
mean, after twenty-two years his slave, he was still present, merely
visible, and I was one of his chief victims, sufferer!
Yes,
he gave me a little humor, a night or two; a little fading attention, now
and then; he had very little patience,
he gave me shame too, some bafflement, some anguish, despair: I was like a man
struggling with a
inherited vice: defeated? No!
What
was his quest? I asked myself, in self-defense!
And
the best I could come to grips with was this, let me put it as if I was reading
his mind:
“Let
him sweat, swivel, as on top of a needle; let him scrabble through the
youthful years of his life… when he wakes
up, if indeed he does,
he’ll
have something to think about!” And he was right, and I did indeed
sober up, and not a minute too late.
No: 4518
(8-9-2014
