Tricky Keg Stands

Binge - Chapter 1 (rough cuts)

I like to drink.  It almost always leads to trouble.  Like anything, though, it depends on how you look at it.  Take this novel.  If it wasn’t for drunk, I wouldn’t be writing it.  I’d be looking at people falling down on the internet while hitting send/receive on my four email accounts and refreshing the for-sale section of craigslist.  For what? Got me, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I buy it.

For a while, there, I was drinking every day.  It didn’t serve me very well.  Like anything else we like to do, doing it every day gets old.  Plus, nothing new can come from something old so, for now, I choose the binge.  It keeps things fresh and the stories are more fun.  Let’s compare:

“I was so drunk for the past nine years.  I don’t really know what happened.”

• to -

“I drank 5 pints of Guinness in 25 minutes.  You won’t believe what happened.”

Q.E.D.

 

I like to drink alone.  Mostly because the kind of trouble drinking alone leads to typically does not involve a trip to the E.R.  However, trouble is trouble no matter where you end up.  Nineteen stitches and an appointment with your local cosmetic dentist or a three day deadline for a finished novel.  Perhaps I should have called some friends.  I'll explain the three day deadline in a bit.

The problem with the drink is it lubes all the thinking tubes and forces a brilliant rush of ideas, debris, fear, and wonder through your conscious which can, by design, only keep track of about seven things at once.  This is why some of us fall over.  People falling down led to the invention of camcorders and the internet. God love the internets.

I don’t typically fall down. Instead, I bang shoulders into door frames and bang out brilliant emails and timeless ideas for books and fine literature to be written when I sober up. This is an evolution of the drunk dial.  I find it leads to a lot less trouble, usually, and I get to keep souvenirs in the form of a pile of papers in my 'drunk stack' which gets tucked away in a 'drunk file' every three months.

A few years ago, when I was drinking every day, my mother sent a gift.  It was a wonderful, green book full of names, addresses and success stories.  There was a note written in bubbly script inside the front cover.

“You write the best stories. Why don’t you send some of them out to get published?  Here, I bought you a book. You just send your stories out to these publishers.  The checks will start pouring in any minute. You should enter some contests, too. Love, MOM”

Per her, I am also the most handsome, smartest, cutest, funniest, and favorite son.  Never mind I was born holding the I.U.D. in my hand. Imagine the look on her face when the doctor said, “You’re pregnant, again!”

Bless her heart. I put the big green book on the table, poured another whiskey.  My drunk stack was empty.  I wasn’t doing much of anything those days.

Seasons changed, people moved on and I eventually woke up, bored, with a horrible headache and a decision. It was time to trade the constant vodka haze for the occasional binge on good scotch.  Eventually, the empty drunk bin became a drunk stack which meant I was back.  I don’t think anyone noticed or cared if the stack was empty or full.  You probably don’t care, either. You shouldn’t. You have your own problems.

One night I banged out a brilliant synopsis for an epic I might eventually get around to writing. A novel loosely based on a classic which I would cleverly title, “Huckleberry Funn.” I clicked print and swung around to retrieve my genius when I caught my little toe on the edge of the desk.  The desk ripped my toenail clear off.  The chair rolled out from under me as I pawed for something to grab onto.  Shit was flying everywhere.  Next thing I know I was on the ground, balled up, holding my toe and my mouth.  I managed to pull that dusty, big green book off the desk and right in my mouth where a corner pushed back the gums between my front teeth.  I laid there for a while tasting blood with an icy pool of watered down scotch soaking into my shirt. I spent some quality thinking time there. Maybe I should frame the toenail.

So much for drinking alone to avoid injury.

I eventually got up and noticed the book was laying there open to a page full of addresses.  The thing had just punched me in the face and now it is acting all innocent and shit.  For fear of angering the book, I took out an envelope and hand wrote a publisher’s address on it. I popped in my synopsis for “Huckleberry Funn” along with my contact information and walked it to mail box.

My mailbox eventually replaced the drunk stack.  I’d write some crap, pick out an address then stumble to the mailbox in boxers or pajamas.  Sometimes I’d even leash up the dog and bring her with me.  There’s nothing better than taking your dog for a stumbly walk at 3am in tighty-whiteys, drink in hand. If we timed it just right, she'd get to bark at newspaper delivery guy and I'd get to throw out my drink-sloshing, two chest pump with peace sign combo greeting.  He would never return the salute, but I knew we were the highlight of his route.

He’d sit down to breakfast with his wife after a long night of work, “That drunk asshole on Briar Ct. was out walking his dog again.”

She’d say, “The one in underwear with the wiener dog?”

“That’s the one.”

Some nights I'd forget the leash. The little shit would take off after some sort of suburban rodent and I'd spend a half hour stumbling around and yelling for her. This is exactly why I named her Taxi.

For the most part, my antics were harmless.  I’d receive the occasional rejection letter, but most of the time I wouldn’t hear anything.  I figured it was for the best because there’s no way I could possible write an entire book.  It would interfere with my dates with the newspaper guy.  More importantly, Taxi (the wiener) would miss the late night walks.  Nothing’s worse than a ticked off wiener. Trust me.

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I grabbed the mail after work at 5:34pm on August 9, 2002.  There were two credit card applications, one envelope of coupons, a gas bill, and a thick envelope addressed to me from Hendrickson Publishing.  I never got a thick envelope before.

In addition to little crossword puzzle books and travel games, Hendrickson Publishing publishes magazines and books aimed towards bored women and trendy gays about decorating and cooking.  They’ve got the market cornered for the grocery store check-out line crap.  Apparently, they loved the synopsis I sent last spring but at the time they were not considering any full length books.  In fact, the letter said they were not entirely sure why I had sent the synopsis for a book about decorating to the office which was responsible for short, holiday themed, recipe paperbacks. Lucky for me, the packaged ended up on the right desk.

Lucky for me? A book about decorating?  Twah?

That’s when it clicked.  I rarely make a copy of the crap I send out so any time I get a response I don’t know what they hell they’re talking about.  What do I know about decorating homes?  Nothing.  But, that didn’t stop me from writing a synopsis. I remembered it clearly.

The “Evolving Home” was a book detailing a well thought out plan for young couples decorating their first home on a budget.  The idea was to slowly replace their crappy dorm room furniture and stuff dug out of the grandparent’s basement with fine quality pieces; to slowly evolve your home into something that represents the homeowner’s personalities and tastes without breaking the bank or looking like an IKEA catalog.  This evolutionary approach also assures you don’t wind up with an entire house of trendy furniture which will be completely out of style in 7 years.  The book contained floor plans, designs, color charts, check lists, quizzes, and funny anecdotes.  The synopsis promised everything you could possibly want from a smart book about decorating.  There were plans for a website, too.

Lucky-for-me my ass.  I don’t know anything about decorating.  I don’t even think I can write a whole book.  This was something I hadn’t expected.  Someone wanted me, a guy who likes to walk his wiener around outside, in underwear, to write a book.  About decorating.  How fucked up is that?  I called mom.

She was THRILLED.  Her favorite boy got a book deal from a real publisher promising real money with a real contract in the real mail.  She assured me I could write the book. “You’ve decorated your home beautifully, Jordan. You can write that in three days.  You can do ANYTHING!”

I love her for that.

My wife was more realistic. “You can’t write a book about decorating. You can’t even write a book about things you know. Hell, you can’t even take out the trash right.”

She had a point.

I typed out a nice letter to the publisher.  “A lot of things have changed since Spring.  I am undergoing Sexual Reassignment Surgery in mid-September and therefore will not be able to take on the project at this time.  Thank you for your inquiry.” I signed it “Jordanna.”

I was fired up, though. Someone wanted one of my books.  I framed the unsigned contract, hung it next to the toenail, and continued to fill the drunk stack.

---

I’m sitting here on the patio of a café near my house. It is 7:30 am.  I called in sick from work. I have my laptop, snacks, and a bottle of decent scotch peeking from my bag.  There are five cigars in there, too. My second double shot mocha is on the table cooling next to a letter from John McDean.  It happened again.  Someone wants to publish my book. Problem is, there isn't one. Not yet.

The letter was simple, to the point, but this time it came overnight mail. "We love your idea but we're on a tight schedule. FedEx the first three chapters as soon as possible."

You know what, Mr. Publisher? I'm going to send the whole damn book. Today is Friday. I'll drop it in the mail Monday morning. I'm giving myself three days.

This, of course, means I have a lot of work to do. There are characters to develop, friends to make, and a timeless story to shit out over coffee and scotch. You can bet I'll lift a lot of the story from my experiences here at the cafe and wherever else I end up this weekend. It looks like rain. When it does, you can be damn sure my girls are going to get wet. Dishes will break, babies will cry and boring moms on cell phones will be jabbering away about nothing to their mothers. It will all be in the book.

Have a look at those two kids waiting inside for their drinks. They're my main characters, Jack and Madison. Cute kids. Innocent even. Hang on while I tap the glass to get their attention.

Yep, that is them. See how they're doing their best to ignore the weird old man outside the window. Good for them. It wouldn't be right if they talked to me. They have plenty more important things to be worrying about right now than the old man outside who is pretending to drive an imaginary car then throwing the imaginary keys outside the imaginary window.

Jack, look at that crazy guy out on the patio. What the hell is he doing?

I'm giving away the end.

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ch 1

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