“A poor companion without a cocktail, I became a very good companion with one.” – Jack London

Fall 1997 ~ Alone in Boston, I am feeling a sense of peace and solitary contentment, even as I want someone with whom to share the euphoria. Still, I’ve never minded drinking alone. Fall has unleashed its cool nights on the city – a welcome, refreshing jolt after sludging through a thick, humid, sticky summer, and the schizophrenic push and pull of October. By November the chill has stuck – even the subway has cooled off. The leaves no longer soft or fiery of color, they are brown and brittle and dry, crunching and crackling beneath the feet. The life of summer has been extinguished for another season, and I turn inside to gather myself for the coming winter. 

The walls of the living room are deep red, mottled by my own hands and aided by my Uncle – the hardwood floors are a light golden amber – it’s an Inferno of a room, as is my very first martini. I find a recipe for the classic drink in Mr. Boston’s bartending guide. For that first one, I pour in the gin and just the smallest dribble of dry vermouth – foregoing the olives completely – initiation by fire. Even chilled, it burns the tongue and throat, but by the last sip it’s going down smoothly. The bite is gone, and I’m deliriously up in flames. 

I will come to adore that burn – the first flush of the cheeks – the sting – the way the heat begins in the stomach, and how I can actually feel it moving outwards, emanating from within and bringing me to flushed relief – thousands of tiny tongues of flame, lapping away at my bloodstream and dotting it with sweet, hot forgetfulness.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco

and Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown.]

“I would like to sit down with 1/2 dozen chosen companions & drink myself to death but I am sick alike of life, liquor and literature.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Boston ~ It’s a summer morning in Boston and the delicious bite of a Bloody Mary is sinking its horseradish-spiked teeth into my stomach. A stalk of celery rises out of the highball glass, its color and fragrance the embodiment of summer. Laughing and talking with my friends, I think how I’d like it to be this way always, and I have one of those moments where the world is in tune and I’m right in tune with the world, the kind you usually only notice long after the fact. Our breakfast arrives and I acquiesce to another Bloody. The world is brighter at the beginning of a buzz. We talk about the trivial things that occupy most people before marriage and kids and mortgages and homes. Even our worries seem carefree, and on mornings like this I think we sense that. 

Provincetown: It’s a summer morning in Provincetown and the disgusting bite of a Bloody Mary is sinking its horseradish-spiked teeth into my stomach. A wilted stalk of celery weeps from the edge of the highball glass, its bruised leaves tinged with brown decay – another victim of the heat of summer. Along the sidewalk the brunch-goers meander by, laughing and talking, as I sit there sneering at such Sunday morning silliness, all the while wanting to be part of it, wanting to not be so hung-over, wanting to take more interest in the conversation that goes on around me. My friends do not see my wandering eyes through my sunglasses, do not sense my shame and fear at what I have done. I sip at the hair of the dog, hoping for a bit of that feeling of flying, hoping it settles or at least quiets my raging stomach, hoping for forgetfulness of everything that came before. It does not come, either in sips or gulps, and by the end of the second one I realize it’s a waste. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY

and Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco.]

“The buying of drinks for other men, and the accepting of drinks from other men devolved upon me as a social duty and a manhood rite.” – Jack London

Summer 1997 ~ Sitting in the grand wood-paneled drawing room of the Westin in Union Square, my friend Chris and I survey the scene. High ceilings soar into the sky, and a menu filled with specialty martinis is presented to us by an attentive but not overbearing server. In downtown San Francisco, we are two young men starting the weekend, and our lives, like so many do. The excitement of a new city, the thrill of a vacation, and the company of a good friend swirl together and I drink it all in.

Chris orders a margarita, silly salty rim and all. I decide on a melon martini. The drinks arrive. Mine is bright green – it glows like absinthe. It goes down much easier than that wormwood bitterness though – a sweet, pucker-inducing potion with a bit of lime to balance the Midori. 

After the second one, and before anything solid, I’m flying. Through Union Square we walk, and suddenly the crowds no longer matter, my non-existent love-life doesn’t matter, even the nagging urges to walk, issued by Chris of all people, don’t matter now. Just out of college, we have begun our adult lives. Like all other times when the bottle has been unleashed, I am more excited than scared, and the courage I find under the influence of liquor will become my trusted armor.

A decade later Chris and I will revisit the scene – the high wooden paneling will have been replaced by modern minimalism, and the ensuing years will have tread fine lines on our faces. But there is consolation in the company of a friend – and a martini. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans

and Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY.]

 “The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. The lover craves any possible relation with the lover, even if this experience can cause him only pain.” – Carson McCullers

Spring 1997 ~ Tequila. Cheap. Dirt cheap. I don’t yet know that quality does matter, and good liquor makes a great deal of difference – in taste, in effect, and above all in hangovers. I down about half the bottle with some orange juice, and walk out onto the front porch where some college friends of Suzie have gathered, joining them on a ratty old couch. It is the most fun fifteen minutes of my life – talking and laughing and entering those heady first moments of oblivion when everything is right with the world, people are good, and no one is out to get you. It is my first tequila experience, and it hits hard, and swiftly. 

Stumbling upstairs, I make it into the bedroom or the bathroom – I can’t remember. All I know is that a few hours later I am still heaving up what little remains in my stomach into a plastic-lined garbage bucket that Suzie has set up beside me. The next morning she is, rightfully, a bit pissed off. My first bout with shame, captured in sheepy smiles on film, and a hasty retreat to my hometown. Before departing, I draw a rough rendering of a skull and bones on the half-empty tequila bottle. 

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}

[See also Scene 1.]

 “I loathe alcohol. It is my enemy. And my seducer.” – Jean Stafford

Spring 1997 ~ I am weaving through the French Quarter, all bountiful decadence and beautiful desolation. This is my kind of town. Still new to drinking, I haven’t quite weaned off the sweet and fruity, beginning with a couple of amaretto sours and a white Russian, before stumbling into Oz and making my way up to the wrought iron balcony. In the cramped restroom, a couple tugs frantically at each other, hurriedly shutting the door in my face as I interrupt their kiss. It’s still early, and only one or two guys are dancing on the floor. A muscled man in tight trunks gyrates atop the bar, right above my head. I sip my drink and he leans down and tells me he likes my shirt. Thanking him, I slink back outside. My money will be poured down my throat before making it into his underwear.

On the street, a stand offering three-dollar Hurricanes has appeared in circus-like glory. A giggling couple orders one – an enormous amount of rum and frozen fruit juice in an obnoxiously ridiculous plastic cup. I can only finish about a quarter of mine, as I’m already swimming in drunken abandon. It’s sickly sweet stuff, and an instant headache comes on. Around the corner, I meet a Greek sailor on leave. We find an abandoned warehouse on the river, but I am already floating.

{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}