I heard the unmistakable rumble of George’s Caprice pull up last hour. I was sitting at my computer listening to last night’s Coast to Coast AM.
“Come go to poker night with me!” George pleaded after our usual pleasantries. “I will front you some money so you can play!”
“I can’t go out of the house,” I replied.
“What do you mean you can’t go out of the house?”
I pointed to my cranium and shook my head no. George got the hint.
George sat down in my den taking over the TV’s remote control. He talked very excitedly about his night ahead.
“Can you at least come and eat supper with me and mom tonight?” George asked. “I am grilling some of mom’s hamburgers. She is cooking French fries as well.”
“I can’t,” I replied solemnly and steadfastly. “I am not feeling good and just want a quiet night in. I want to watch my British comedies tonight if those goddamned PBS pledge drives aren’t on.”
“What are you feeling right now?” George asked, concerned.
“A good bit of anxiety and agoraphobia,” I replied. “I didn’t even feel like getting dressed today.”
I was still in my sleeping gear at 3pm in the afternoon.
“You sound like you need a couple of drinks to calm your nerves!” George said, grinning and scheming at any excuse to drink a few.
“No. No more drinks. I don’t want to ever drink again,” I replied. “Drinking got me in this mental illness mess I am currently in. It plays havoc on my medications.”
“I’ll be back around seven with some hamburgers, cole slaw and fries,” George told me, leaving.
It will be very nice to have some of Mrs. Florene’s homemade hamburgers for supper. That gives me something to look forward to. I am also serious about never drinking again. I am an all or nothing sort of fellow. I am either drunk as a wino or sober as a judge. I just can’t moderate any substance that makes me feel good. I know this drives my good friend, Pipe Tobacco, crazy.