A TALL DARK STRANGER
I saw a man in black in broad daylight. From his gait, you could tell he was lost. I could only see the back of his head. It was five in the morning, and I was up to walk Little Miss Al-Qaeda.
I saw a tall dark stranger stumbling home. I prayed he would find his way home. I prayed he would not find his keys. I prayed he would not turn around. I prayed he would not see me. I hid behind a tree with a small black terrier on a long red leather leash.
I was out walking Little Miss Trouble, who woke me with her pacing. “When I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.” This Man in Black was not Johnny Cash. He was not even a ghost of Johnny Cash. His hair was jet black. His shirt was black. His pants and belt were black. His shoes were black. He was wearing a backpack. The backpack was black. He never did turn around.
He awkwardly stumbled, then stopped to adjust his balance. He looked like he might be pissing himself. It would have been impossible to tell, as his pants were black. He lurched toward a parked truck, and I wondered if he was going to find his keys and attempt to drive home.
A Man in Black, A Tall Dark Stranger was trying to find his way home. It is how nearly every country song begins. A walking blues in black. A cliche. A canard. A cipher. An accident waiting to happen.
Since it was early morning, I was still in my slippers. I’m never the guy who goes looking for trouble. I wanted to remain invisible to this spectral creature. The last thing I wanted was a conversation at five in the morning. I was supposed to be resting my voice fir the Big Show. I certainly was not looking for any confrontation.
This could have gone many ways. I’ve lived many of those ways, stood in those same black shoes, and worn the suit of black. But he never even made a noise. He just stumbled in silence on his drunk walk home.
There is a vulnerability you feel in the early morning hours, or in the late night when night becomes day. Since the landscape was abandoned, fear is in the air. Anything could happen. Bad boys get worse around midnight. By five they could be ready to lash out. Or not. One never knows exactly where you stand with a drunk.
I have been drunk far too many times in this short 65 year old life of mine. My drinking was legendary, but as my friend Jimmy Cummins once said, the legend is history. Jim was speaking of his days as a “man about town” when he made the above comment. But if the shoe fits….get ready to kiss a Prince.
It has been two months since I have had any booze. I don’t remember exactly when my last drink was because it wasn’t that important. I did not “mark” the occasion. I just stopped. When I learned about Lump, when I still did not know the extent of the cancer, it became obvious that my drinking days were over. There was no question, no internal debate, no fighting and kicking. Drinking had been such a part of my routine. I often joked about it. For years, I considered myself a professional drinker. But I no longer had the willpower to continue drinking.
Let me repeat. I did not have the willpower to continue to drink. Stopping was obvious. It wasn’t a big choice. I simply had no desire to drink anymore. Perhaps I finally had reached my limit. I cut myself off. It wasn’t cold turkey, it was frozen Butterball bowling. A soft lob, and this Kid knocked it out of the ballpark, rounded the bases, and walked sober across the plate. No stumble here.
But I remember that feeling of stumbling home, when I was the Tall Dark Stranger, when I was The Man in Black. I remember losing my balance and falling flat on my face on a wet concrete street. I recall practically curbing myself. I remember as I fumbled with the keys to my front door, only to be surprised to see my dear wife on the other side of the door.
My face was bleeding. I was out of control. I posted a photo later of my smashed face online. Twenty minutes later Michelle advised me to take it down, said it would haunt me if I left it up. So I removed it, although months later, when I googled myself, the photo reappeared. The internet never forgets.
I can remember other times when my face kissed concrete. I remember driving home in the fog, I was a teenager driving my Morher’s car. I was so drunk that I could not see beyond the hood of the car. I remember driving in the literal fog, my mind smashed on some version of Baby Duck, taking the the highway exit, driving through the tunnel, making my way from the party in North Delta back to my parents house in Richmond, perhaps 20-30 kilometres. Somehow I drove. Somehow I did not kill myself, or anyone else. Somehow I made it home to ... “wake up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.”
It’s enough to make a man believe in a higher power. But that was in my teens, and I continued on this drunken path for forty more years. That also is a special kind of stupid.
I am not proud of my drinking years, or my bad choices, of which there were many. I thought drinking made me funny, and entertaining. Drinking also made me into an asshole, one who wilfully ignored every sign or suggestion any higher power may have offered me.
I quit many times, but it never stuck. So I’m not promising it’s going to stick this time. But today I have no interest in drinking. I have no desire. I don’t have the willpower to continue to drink, as concentrated as I am on simply surviving.
Break a leg.💜