Read Online American on Purpose by Craig Ferguson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Ferguson
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instead and kept the change as his payment. That was the deal, essentially, though it should be noted that with the substitution of El-D his cut was substantially larger. This was Sandy Calhoun, though, what the fuck could we do? We thanked him and skulked off to the woods near the school to consume our dangerous contraband. He went off to cheat or beat someone else.
I remember standing with Stuart in that damp Mirkwood, feeling the thrill as we broke the seal on the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and smelled the treacherous brew, the dark elixir of the ring.
I remember retching as I took my first swig from the long, dark-green, glass neck. I remember holding my nose and trying to push past the awful taste in order to feel drunk for the first time. I had tasted alcohol before, sips offered by tipsy grown-ups at family gatherings, or by my dad when he was drinking beer and in a particularly genial frame of mind. This time was different, there was no restraint, no authority figure standing between me and my thirst for knowledge. I remember the excitement, and I remember feeling grown-up, and then I remember nothing at all.
Nothing.
I completely blacked out that first time. The next conscious thought I had was coming to on the couch in the living room ofmy own house with a sense of dread and fear and confusion that I would later become way too familiar with.
Someone—my mother, I hoped—had removed my clothes and put blankets over me. I had peed myself during the night and the coldness of the old piss had crept up my back. I had a thumping headache, so I reached up and touched my forehead, sending a shock of pain through my system that rapidly accelerated the waking process. I got up, wrapped myself in the driest blanket I could find, and shuffled over to the little mirror above the TV. I had a giant purpling bruise on my forehead, and the mother of all black eyes. That was nothing compared with my deep sense of shame. I had never felt so lousy in my entire young life, and at that moment I swore off alcohol forever.
I learned later on that the best thing to do after waking up in such a state was to drink some alcohol as quickly as possible in order to numb the psychic and physical pain, but at that point I was still a rookie.
It was still dark outside, but light was threatening. I had no idea of the time. I thought the rest of the house must be asleep, but not my mother, who must have heard me shuffling around. She came into the room and turned on the light, which I shrank from like Gollum. I still recall the look of anger and concern as she stood there in her pink quilted dressing gown, her arms folded across her chest and her hair restrained by rollers and a net. Even if she were not my mother, I would love her forever for what she said.
“Are you okay?”
I expected dire recriminations and yelling and maybe a slap or two (and certainly I got a bit of that later), but her first concern was that I was okay.
“What happened?” I said.
“You were steamin’ drunk. Mr. Elmslie brought you home.”
This was very bad. Mr. Elmslie was a police sergeant who lived a few doors away from us.
“Did he arrest me?”
“No, but he could have. You punched him in the face. Right here in the house. I was a witness.”
“Oh fuck!”
My mother was outraged that I had sworn in front of her, so I apologized immediately. She told me to clean myself up and get the wet blankets into the wash. Then she went off to make tea, which is what Scottish women do in moments of high drama. I imagine she served Sergeant Elmslie about four cups the night before.
I crept into the bedroom to get some clothes; my brother was, of course, awake.
“Da is gonnae fuckin’ kill you when he gets home frae night shift.”
I said I knew. And I did. But I was wrong, as I often was about my father.
As it turned out I had woken up at about six and my dad, who was working the night shift, wasn’t due home till about seven-thirty. By that time
I remember standing with Stuart in that damp Mirkwood, feeling the thrill as we broke the seal on the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and smelled the treacherous brew, the dark elixir of the ring.
I remember retching as I took my first swig from the long, dark-green, glass neck. I remember holding my nose and trying to push past the awful taste in order to feel drunk for the first time. I had tasted alcohol before, sips offered by tipsy grown-ups at family gatherings, or by my dad when he was drinking beer and in a particularly genial frame of mind. This time was different, there was no restraint, no authority figure standing between me and my thirst for knowledge. I remember the excitement, and I remember feeling grown-up, and then I remember nothing at all.
Nothing.
I completely blacked out that first time. The next conscious thought I had was coming to on the couch in the living room ofmy own house with a sense of dread and fear and confusion that I would later become way too familiar with.
Someone—my mother, I hoped—had removed my clothes and put blankets over me. I had peed myself during the night and the coldness of the old piss had crept up my back. I had a thumping headache, so I reached up and touched my forehead, sending a shock of pain through my system that rapidly accelerated the waking process. I got up, wrapped myself in the driest blanket I could find, and shuffled over to the little mirror above the TV. I had a giant purpling bruise on my forehead, and the mother of all black eyes. That was nothing compared with my deep sense of shame. I had never felt so lousy in my entire young life, and at that moment I swore off alcohol forever.
I learned later on that the best thing to do after waking up in such a state was to drink some alcohol as quickly as possible in order to numb the psychic and physical pain, but at that point I was still a rookie.
It was still dark outside, but light was threatening. I had no idea of the time. I thought the rest of the house must be asleep, but not my mother, who must have heard me shuffling around. She came into the room and turned on the light, which I shrank from like Gollum. I still recall the look of anger and concern as she stood there in her pink quilted dressing gown, her arms folded across her chest and her hair restrained by rollers and a net. Even if she were not my mother, I would love her forever for what she said.
“Are you okay?”
I expected dire recriminations and yelling and maybe a slap or two (and certainly I got a bit of that later), but her first concern was that I was okay.
“What happened?” I said.
“You were steamin’ drunk. Mr. Elmslie brought you home.”
This was very bad. Mr. Elmslie was a police sergeant who lived a few doors away from us.
“Did he arrest me?”
“No, but he could have. You punched him in the face. Right here in the house. I was a witness.”
“Oh fuck!”
My mother was outraged that I had sworn in front of her, so I apologized immediately. She told me to clean myself up and get the wet blankets into the wash. Then she went off to make tea, which is what Scottish women do in moments of high drama. I imagine she served Sergeant Elmslie about four cups the night before.
I crept into the bedroom to get some clothes; my brother was, of course, awake.
“Da is gonnae fuckin’ kill you when he gets home frae night shift.”
I said I knew. And I did. But I was wrong, as I often was about my father.
As it turned out I had woken up at about six and my dad, who was working the night shift, wasn’t due home till about seven-thirty. By that time
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