From The Devils In Your Details:
When it comes to
how people view and deal with substances or activities often regarded as vices,
one of the worst offenders is the overindulgent consumer. He’s usually the
victim of his own inability to exercise good judgment, discipline, or
moderation. There was one in particular who stood out to me. To protect his
privacy, here we’ll call him Glenn Corbin. He had two distinct – and ultimately
debilitating – vices that I knew of: drinking and gambling. For each of these,
he indulged in something very specific. He loved red wine, and the cheap stuff
in particular – seriously, he’d guzzle down bottles of that shoddy Australian
wine you could get for six bucks or so. (If you can’t figure out the brand, a
quick search engine query should clear that right up for you.) If he didn’t finish
the entire bottle in one night, he’d wake up the next morning and spill the
rest out in the sink, swearing in stark contradiction to his addictive habit
that he’d never touch alcohol again.
There are many stories to be told about
Glenn’s bargain bin wine escapades, some that I witnessed directly, and others
that were relayed to me by mutual acquaintances; some that were equal parts
hilarious and saddening, others that were serious and devastating. Because this
book isn’t titled The Intoxicated Misadventures of Glenn from New Jersey,
I’ll trim the stories down to a few short narratives.
The more amusing one I’d like to share
actually happened during the brief period in which he lived in Chicago, and was
later relayed to me by my roommate in the Windy City years later. The first
thing you have to understand is that the neighborhood he lived in was on the
South Side, in an area beset with poverty and gang violence. In other words, it
wasn’t exactly safe to walk around in at three o’clock in the morning.
Nevertheless, at that late hour, Glenn decided it was a good idea to take his
chances on street blocks known for shootouts and drive-bys in order to have a
wine-addled stroll to the local park. He did this while actually carrying a
glass full of wine, which he was eagerly sipping from as he strode down the
dimly-lit sidewalk, his other hand casually placed in the pocket of his jeans.
I know the details of this because a
mutual friend of Glenn’s and my future roommate’s – we’ll call him Stewart –
happened to be driving home when he spotted this odd event. Though Stewart
offered to drive Glenn back home, Glenn adamantly refused, and seemingly blind
to the other man’s disbelief, proceeded to approach two vehicles in which
several gang members were making some sort of drug exchange. Ignoring Stewart’s
hastening calls for him to get in the car, Glenn began to lecture these young
gentlemen on their lifestyle choices, pointing his finger and nonchalantly
chastising them in between swigs of wine. I was told the gangsters were so
shocked by the calmness and audacity of this random, skinny older white man
that their mouths hung open for a few moments, at a loss for words. Before long,
however, they proceeded to curse at him and make threats on his life. Suddenly,
as if sense had finally come to him, he took a look around, assessed the
situation, and meekly shuffled off to continue his walk. To me, this story is
so unheard of and funny that it seems like a scene that fell out of some
offbeat comedy movie, but in reality, Glenn was very fortunate to have walked
away from this situation with his life – and physical wellbeing – intact.
The next incident fits firmly in the ‘saddening’
category, and happened during a visit to my future roommate’s mother’s
apartment in Brooklyn, New York. Let’s call that future roommate Jeff for the
sake of brevity. Jeff’s mother had a couple of guests over – old friends of the
family. I don’t know why Glenn had accompanied Jeff to the city that day, but I
do know that Glenn was in a very, very bad place in his life. An older woman
who he had considered to be like a mother to him had recently died, and he was
carrying her ashes around in an urn (more on this later). Aside from said urn, in
his other hand was a recently purchased bottle of wine – yes, still of the
cheapo variety. I don’t know what was going through Jeff’s head at the time,
but he ought to have sized up both of these items, as well as Glenn’s agitated
and melancholy demeanor, and realized this was a recipe for disaster.
A couple of hours into this visit, Glenn
had likely polished off close to half the bottle, and was becoming increasingly
loud, rude, and testy as Jeff struggled to maintain a conversation with his
family friends. I’m sure the situation was awkward by that point, but it became
downright unpleasant as Glenn continued to raise his voice to the point where
it was an uphill battle to even get a word in edgewise.
What happened next was as random as it was
– surely – embarrassing, and Jeff never explained what triggered it, but it was
certain to make Glenn an unforgettable figure, forever affixed to the memories
of these people, like a wad of gum nestled deep down to the roots of your hair. Perhaps it was the urn and the ashes therein of this beloved older woman
that had prompted it, or maybe the alcohol had triggered a flood of emotion in
him that he could no longer hold back. Whatever the cause had been, he suddenly
picked up his phone and decided to call his mother, a woman who had
psychologically abused him and thereafter disowned him, and whom he hadn’t
spoken to in years. For some reason, something in his intoxicated mind told him
it would be socially appropriate to place this call while he was a guest in the
home of his friend’s mother, in front of company he had just made the
acquaintance of.
What transpired next was nothing short of
making a scene in every sense of the word. Glenn had scarcely begun the drunken
conversation before he had devolved into a sobbing mess, screaming and cursing
and berating her for never having loved him, for never being there. Everyone
else present must have been as silent as a tomb, their plans of coffee and mild
conversation unceremoniously thrown out the window into a dumpster, which was
then set on fire.
As Glenn was now engaging in histrionics
to the level that he was physically pounding his chest with his hand and likely
treating even the neighbors to his own personal Jerry Springer
experience, Jeff must have finally had the presence of mind to try and handle
the situation. His thoughts must have been something akin to “oh fuck, this is
actually happening in real life right now,” though I was told his words were
kinder and more sympathetic. And I support that sort of response. The situation
might be objectively humorous in retrospect, but the truth is that this man’s
emotional pain and mental health issues were something to be looked at through
a lense of compassion and understanding. As such, Jeff convinced Glenn to get
out and get some air, and afterward he was able to sober up and, I’m assuming,
find some way to apologize for his behavior.
The final wine story, and one of the last
I heard about Glenn before we fell out of contact, was the most distressing to
me, because it highlighted his addiction issues in a profound and entirely
unfunny manner. After having had a bit too much merlot, Glenn stumbled back
into his rental car and proceeded to turn onto New Jersey’s highly busy, highly
chaotic Route 23. In the wrong lane. I fortunately was not present when this
occurred, and I don’t know what must have gone through his mind as he realized
he was driving headlong into oncoming traffic, but I know it’s an absolute
wonder he wasn’t killed. I don’t believe in angels – guardian or otherwise –
but it really does beg the question of whether he had some protective spirit in
his presence that night. From what I remember being told, the car slammed into
the divider and was obviously totalled, and Glenn sustained serious back
injuries, but he was alive. He ended up having to have a rod inserted into his
back and will have lifelong chronic pain because of his choice to drink and
drive, something for which there is no excuse, and for which he should thank
the universe or whatever deity he holds dear that he didn’t harm or kill anyone
else.
But I mentioned two addictions, right?
Well, it just so happens that hours before that crash, he had been just one
state over in his usual place of choice for getting inebriated: a casino. There
was one in particular he would frequent in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, falling
hook, line, and sinker for its membership scam designed to separate him from
his money. I accompanied him a couple of times to this place – after all, I had
just turned 21 and it was my first time actually being able to go to a casino
and gamble. Now, I’ve never really been interested much in it, but I thought I’d
like to try my hand at it and see if I win anything (for the record, I won
about $80 at the slot machines on one occasion, and came out even on the other –
but of course, I very easily had the power to take my modest win and get up and
walk away).
So during each of these visits, it was
just the two of us – well, three if you count the old woman’s ashes in the urn,
because of course he had to bring it with him. I had known the woman back when
she was still alive, and here I’ll call her Zel, because she looked like the
spitting image of Zelda Rubinstein. If you’re not familiar with the actress,
she played the eccentric medium in Poltergeist who helped the family get
in touch with their daughter on the ‘other side.’ He liked to think of Zel’s
remains as his “good luck charm.” I’ll never forget how embarrassed I was as he
sat at the slot machine next to mine, swaying from intoxication and rubbing the
urn, saying, “Come on Zel, help me win big!” Of course, at a machine across
from ours was a gentleman who was possibly even more drunk, who was
trying to convince a very harrassed looking old Asian woman that if you simply
rub the slot machine the right way, you’re more likely to win. So, you know,
the bar – no pun intended – was pretty low to begin with.
Anyway, I quickly assessed that his penchant
for gambling was a real issue; a full-fledged addiction that might have been
even stronger than his constant need for booze. I couldn’t understand why he
was working so hard for his money as a budding real estate agent back in Jersey,
only to piss it all away at casinos in PA – to say nothing of the sheer amount
of gas he used up in any given week during that interstate travel. But at that
point I simply didn’t understand addiction, and there are still components of
it to this day that I’m trying to comprehend. I’m big on empathy, so it’s a goal
of mine to form a better picture of how it works, and perhaps by the time I’ve
finished this chapter I’ll have that deeper understanding by doing what I think
I do best: processing my thoughts, emotions, and memories through the power of
the written word.
Glenn’s abysmally poor decision-making
that day, which led to his near-death experience, was the coalescence of two
vices that had long since taken root in his life, and which now ruled his mind
and body, so that his every waking thought was filtered through the rippled,
distorted myopia of drinking and gambling, like looking through the bottom of a
glass containing the last dregs of whiskey.
If I hadn’t understood the danger of
overindulgence up to that point, seeing or hearing about these incidents,
whether firsthand or second, certainly unfurled a length of bright yellow
caution tape in my mind’s eye. I came to understand that moderation can
sometimes be the letdown that takes the wind out of your sails, and excess can
be the spark that lights your fire and makes your weekend legendary. But
unchecked and reckless excess, with neither rational thinking nor
consequence assessment involved, is something I stand firmly against. It can
ravage mental and physical health and destroy lives, and I’m not just talking
about drinking – whatever vice you prefer, even if it’s gambling or sex – if no
restraint is ever exercised, no personal accountability ever taken, your hands
don’t belong at the proverbial steering wheel, because clearly, you don’t know
how to handle it.
So when I talk about exercising your
demons, what in the hell am I really saying? So, there’s a very well known
story arc from the late 70s in Marvel Comics’ Iron Man called “Demon in
a Bottle.” That’s partly how I came up with the mantra. In it, Tony Stark is
guilt-ridden after his armor malfunctions and kills a foreign ambassador. He begins
drinking. And drinking. And drinking. The story deals with his subsequent
alcohol addiction, which was something profoundly different for comics to tackle
in that time period, and for which critics deemed the arc “the quintessential
Iron Man story.” Bob Layton, who co-wrote the saga, remarked that it was
decided alcohol would be the bad guy. “Instead of Doctor Doom or somebody like
that,” he said, “it was the bottle. That was our villain of the month."
Here's the thing about demons: they can be
compellingly attractive for their darkness, yet utterly dangerous if approached
without boundaries. What do we do when we exercise? We seek to reap benefits
and rewards, primarily the betterment of the body, but also psychological
satisfaction. I’ve always firmly believed that it’s just as important for the mind
and the spirit to occasionally indulge in things a bit to the extreme, yet
never to the extent that you’re no longer in control. Sometimes the massive
dopamine hits you get from a strong drink, or great sex, or that extra snack,
is worth the hangover, or the post-coital tiredness, or the calorie gain you’ll
have to deal with afterward. Yet diving headlong and blindly into these things
with neither boundaries nor personal responsibility is a nightmare waiting to
happen. As such, a clear difference must be delineated between the two.
I believe it was summed up best by Anton LaVey,
founder of the Church of Satan and author of The Satanic Bible. In it,
he established the mantra of “indulgence, not compulsion.” He wrote the
following on the subject: “People often mistake compulsion for indulgence, but
there is a world of difference between the two. A compulsion is never created
by indulging, but by not being able to indulge. By making something taboo, it
only serves to intensify the desire. Everyone likes to do the things they have
been told not to. ‘Forbidden fruits are the sweetest.’
“Webster’s Encyclopedic Dictionary defines
indulgence thusly: ‘To give oneself up to; not to restrain or oppose; to give
free course to; to gratify by compliance; to yield to.’ The dictionary
definition of compulsion is: ‘The act of compelling or driving by force,
physical or moral; constraint of the will; (compulsory, obligatory).’ In other
words, indulgence implies choice, whereas compulsion indicates the lack
of choice.”
I’d say that it’s strongly implicit in
matters of addiction that lack of choice is often a core component, wouldn’t
you?
I will always support the exercising of
demons, as by contrast, whenever society has attempted to exorcise demons, whether we’re talking about
Prohibition or handing out prison sentences for youth who had an ounce of
marijuana in their pocket, the end result is that people are generally left the
worse for wear because of it. We choose our demons, certainly, but that freedom
of choice is a small but key part in the underpinnings of democracy, and when
we attempt to brandish the crucifix of law, legislating our morality so we can
feel better and delude ourselves into thinking we’re pristine and perfect, those
demons don’t go away. They simply flee to the cracks and crevices and backalleys
of society, where they manifest in black markets, gangs, and vehicles destroyed
and a life almost obliterated, because one man overcompensated when he picked
up the wine bottle, and afterward made a terrible mistake.
Life is
not a single path made to be quickly marched through with destination always in
mind, but rather, a labyrinth made for wandering and detour, so that one might
indulge in its pleasures and be spiritually and psychologically – if sometimes
not always physically – the better for it. Sometimes consorting with demons is
the best way to bask in that moment of paradise. As Epicurus so famously put
it, “Stranger, here you do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure.”
