The Wake

I think I’ve figured out why people drink: there’s a lot to hate about this world.

‘Hate’ sounds a little bleak. Maybe it’s better to say there’s a lot to hide from. Drinking’s just an acceptable way to escape from the more pressing life issues. And it’s excusable. Think about it: if something doesn’t get done, saying “I was going to mow the lawn, but then we started drinking…” is somehow more excusable than a simple “I didn’t feel like mowing.” Why is that?

I thought about that while we toured the West Bank bars a few nights after my 21st birthday. As I passed through those saloon doors that once contained so much mystery, I couldn’t imagine how one liquid could bring together so many different people in such a small part of the city. What is this mysterious beverage, this elixir that makes hippies hold hands with cowboys? How, exactly, does booze magically make every jukebox song sound like the best tune of all time? And the real kicker: what keeps people coming back to the bars after late nights over the toilet and mornings of unbearable headaches and empty wallets?

I can’t answer these questions. I don’t think anybody really can. I thought I had the answer to the whole drinking mystery, but that was before I had the big martini at Town Hall.

But more than anything, I think people drink because it makes anything seem possible. Booze almost works like a translator. “I gotta do homework tomorrow night” turns into “What time should I be there?” after a few PBRs. “I like to stay clean shaven” becomes “OK, ‘Beard Month’ begins tomorrow!” And, of course, “Oh, she’s (or he’s) not that cute” turns into “She’s sooo hot, I can’t believe I got her number!!” Booze-speak is a whole other language.

And what about college? It seems that these institutions of higher learning are known for two things: academic achievements and massive booze consumption, strange bedfellows that are somehow universally accepted. Classmates that seemed so astute and learned in your afternoon philosophy discussion become indecipherable slobs hours later at the bar.

I thought I knew drinking before I became legal. “Yeah,” I’d say, “21’s not going to be that big of a deal. What’s gonna change?” As subsequent bar trips occurred, though, I soon found myself in a whole new realm of the drinking world, a strange land of foolish dancing, Monday night two-for-ones and long, slurred conversations about small-town Minnesota with strangers. Drinking was no longer restricted to hot, dark basements and hobo-ridden back allies; it was suddenly acceptable and perfectly fine to walk into an establishment and demand booze. Somewhere inside every newly legal drinker’s mind, Louis Armstrong warbles “What a Wonderful World,” I’m sure of it.

It’s an enigma, this drinking, and a beautiful one at that. Though we may spend most of our lives searching for “The Answer,” most of us can be sure it’s not on the floor of the men’s room at Bobby Z’s. We’ve checked. It’s a problem-solver, a social stimulant and other catch phrases your D.A.R.E. officer spouted. One thing’s for sure: nobody’s going to solve the mystery. In fact, there is no mystery. So, saddle up to the bar, partner. What’ll ya have?