We alcoholics think that we're fooling everyone when we're drinking. We're fooling almost no one. I was the guy walking around with a gash on my forehead, courtesy of a door or a sidewalk or someone's fist, and a blood-soaked shirt, thinking: "Nobody seems to notice this. I think I'm pulling it off." I figured I could conceal the smashed windshield if I parked my car at the end of the lot. I'm missing my front bumper, you say? How about that.
One night I came home after a long bout of drinking and drug use -- which is a redundant qualification in my case -- and decided to listen to a little music before passing out. I put on an old LP and started to rock or groove or chill or drool. Almost immediately, the door to my room swung open -- my bedroom was right next to my parents; I'm sure they couldn't hear the stereo at 3AM -- and my mother stood there a minute, glaring down at me.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yes. What? Yes." I said, cleverly.
She lingered a minute before going back to bed. I probably didn't turn the music off, or down. I was probably angry at being interrupted, in the middle of the night, in her house.
"Fooled 'em again," I figured.
The next day I cued up the record that I didn't remember listening to. A weird, syrupy drawl came out of the speakers, like Darth Vader singing punk rock in slow motion, underwater, with a mouth full of Novocaine. Apparently when I placed the album on the turntable in my drunken state, I bumped the switch which changed the speed of the turntable, slowing it way, way, way down. It reminded me of Hal losing power in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
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