Reading obituaries again, there’s a man they called “Fatboy”.

I’ve never quite had horrible trouble with substances in that I never really seriously craved the things I used as vices. I never felt truly addicted.

It was always the case that I could smoke a cig during an outing or even run through a pack and then simply not touch one again for months or even years.

It was the same with alcohol until last year, and even then the mechanic didn’t feel standard. It was part of this thing I do where I assume or wear the personality of another person or fictional character because it seemed useful or fun.

I was spiraling in an abyss of anxiety and grief so when I rewatched The Big Lebowski I thought “it sure would be nice to have his attitude and approach to life”.

So I watched the movie a few more times and took notes on The Dude’s personality. I noted how he still got annoyed and frustrated with things but he generally got over them quickly, how he wasn’t too forceful with his will or advances, how he took things in stride and -

at every opportunity presented to him, he would ask for or make a white russian.

So off I went to the packie down the street right at the bus stop I used to stand at waiting for the bus at 3am every morning.

Vodka

Kahlua

Cream

Actually they didn’t have any cream despite being a fancy liquor store so I trekked across the street to walgreeens to grab some before walking home. It was a bit embarrassing because I had walked into the walgreens before the liquor store actually. They sold alcohol at walgreens in Chicago which was a mind blowing discovery to me when I first moved but they didn’t have any coffee liqueur so I left and just went right to the grocery store only for them not to have any cream as previously discussed.

Every day from then on, before and after going anywhere, (including and especially work) I’d have a white russian. Indeed I felt more relaxed, easy going. It seemed I performed better at work even, I was much looser, I worked faster and didn’t sweat the small things. I even felt more creative!

This obviously wasn’t sustainable and had to come to an end at some point, and when it did, I felt I was fine.

I didn’t feel compelled necessarily. Of course a few months later during a downswing I’d resorted to drinking quite heavily but I’d told myself it had more to do with my suicidality and I needed to stay sedated, or punish myself by drinking far too much and suffering the consequences- this sort of thing. It was always a tool, it always worked for me, not the other way around. This sentiment being reinforced by the fact that I haven’t had a drink in a few months by now and still didn’t feel compelled. Quite the opposite actually! I’m no addict!

Last tuesday at work I had to soak some raisins in rum for a bread we make. When I started to pour the bacardi, something came over me. In a video I compared it to the scene in Finding Nemo where the shark (what which were an allegory for addicts funny enough) caught the scent of blood for the first time in a long while. His eyes rolled back into his head, glazed over black and he went into a frenzy.

I’m not being dramatic at all when I say, this was the most accurate depiction of what I was experiencing in that moment. Even writing about it now I’ve begun to salivate. The smell of the rum! I just kept staring into the bucket full of it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear the oven going off signaling it was time to pull out the almond brioche buns but for a few seconds that felt like a few minutes, I physically could not turn my head, my eyes, away from the clear, pure, liquid bathing the raisins.

TRULY I needed it. I felt a little high thinking about it! I couldn’t STOP thinking about the rum for the rest of my shift and it was then, for the first time ever that I realized and felt “Ah, I’m an addict.”

Now, I do feel the craving. For a drink, and for a smoke. I still haven’t succumb but not because of any force of will. Of course I can’t grab the bottle of bacardi at work and chug it, I also simply don’t have the money to buy any at the 7/11 I frequent daily and my psychotic superstitions are telling me that the island I’m currently living on would sincerely appreciate it if I didn’t pollute her air any further with smoke, and her body with a cigarette butt- so I don’t. Only because more powerful systems than my vices stay my hand.

Because of my career, I spend most of my time with older people and when they ask if I like to drink and party like the young folks supposedly do, I say no. I tell them I prefer to stay indoors and read or paint, which is true. I tell them I don’t drink because on the night of the break up that’s come to define my personhood, I only acted the way I did because of the whiskey sours I’d had to celebrate my release from the hospital. Those two drinks cost me everything, so I don’t touch the stuff any more. Which isn’t entirely true, but the old ladies almost always give me an approving and sympathetic look. Last week one said “men don’t really grow up until they’re 40 anyways”

I think she meant it as “it’s okay that you fucked up, you can’t help yourself anyways” In a sort of “besitos besitos” way.

I wonder if or when I have or will become “grown up”. It seems like I live everywhere in my mind simultaneously. I wonder if it’s because I haven’t been drinking or smoking, and I’m getting further away from the trauma, but lately my memory has been returning to me. My real memory, not the memory I’ve been working with where I have to make trades and bargains about what I’ll retain.

The one where I remember everything. Watching Saturday Night Fever when I was 3, my mother reciting “thumbelina thumbelina” when I was 2. Further back and further beyond, the “blah blah blah blah blah”

post script:

Thomas Paul “Fatboy” St. Hilaire, born March 5th, 1954 in Gardner, sadly passed away on Tuesday, May 21st. He is survived by two daughters, Melissa St. Hilaire and Kristen St. Hilaire; and a son David St. Hilaire; and possibly more that we don’t know about, an ex-wife/wife-ish turned domestic partner, Cheryl St. Hilaire; two sisters,, Diane Guild and Nancy St. Pierre; and 6 grandchildren, Gracie, Anna, Kayla, Sadie, Jacob, and Noah; and many aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins, all that he loved dearly. But most notably, he leaves behind a family of raccoons that he fathered for generations.