The Vow

Every day I make a solemn vow and every day I tell a solemn lie. The vow is supposed to act as some form of new dawn, an impetus if you will, to encourage myself to better things. Every evening I fail and every morning I make the same vow. I know what I am, I know what I am supposed to do and I know I have certain responsibilities. I know all this. It doesn’t matter though. My heart is barely in it and is shrivelling into a barren, drying prune. When you’re like me getting out of bed is scary, going out of the front door is scary, seeing people is scary, talking is scary, life is scary.

I look in the mirror of a morning and study myself, critically going through each facial flaw; cobwebbed streams of broken capillaries cascade down to form an endless reddening mother lode that is my nose whilst I observe living stubble that could scratch an itch and nasal hair that could clean a chimney.

My cheeks bloom with a scarlet radiance that a prostitute could quite adequately work under and my ears and nose grow feelers that can sense a change in the weather. My skin is fit for use as a pin cushion and my stained enamel-free teeth are not allowed on display. My face is etched with seasoned cracks and crows feet that have been searching for a comfortable nesting place forever and a day.

My eyes bore back at me with a yellowing, bloodshot stare supported by bags heavily laden down with shopping. The aches in my body are rampant and pitiless and there is no delight in movement. I am old before my time. After this moral boosting start to the day, I tend to make my vow.

Not for one moment did I envisage this life for myself. I’m supposed to be well-off, proud and selfless, a story of honesty, guts and hard work. Funnily, it hasn’t quite turned out like that. Fifty-five, divorced, humiliated, broke, ignored by my own offspring, sick, alone and addicted.

Addicted you ask? Irrefutably so. Hey, hi there folks, I’m an alcoholic. I don’t want your applause or praise for saying this. No, I want to crawl back into myself, comfortably complemented by my friendly bottle in hand. Long ago, my children took a liking to referring to me as ‘Alcopops’.

My current abode is a rundown shit-tip of a flat. The carpets have departed and been replaced by a whole new concept in the flooring business, the sun cannot penetrate my blacked-out windows, the kitchen is a law unto itself and if you wish to eat then you must be prepared to do battle with dogged, raging armies of bacteria. Personally, I can’t and gave up long ago.

My bedroom is used as my extra rubbish room as it’s not accessible anymore. I tend to retire to the couch of an evening if I manage to make it there. As you can picture - an exquisite dream of a property and frankly, who cares?

I moved here eight years ago when the missus had had enough of us scraping by as I worked long hours as a primary school teacher. I was handsomely rewarded with the prize of her and the kids scarpering off with some hairy gorilla. I often wonder what she saw in him. Maybe it was his success as a local businessman, owning a top of the range BMW, mammoth detached and principally (not that I’m a cynic) bottomless wallet. Things may have taken a turn for the worse at this point in my life.

It may surprise you that I still have a job to go to. I work hard and earn my money. The job is awful, beneath me, demeaning but it pays for the bills and the alcohol and then there’s nothing left. I manage to make myself presentable; have a wash, conceal my night sweats in a sweet cloying deodorant and place my fake daily mask on.

This pretence is essential if I am to keep my employment for a mid-functioning alcoholic must always come across as sociable, content and conscientious if one wishes to get pissed of an evening. It’s a mockery that I clean the streets. I pick up shit and detritus that others drop as charitable goodies to keep me employed and yet, I can’t clean myself up. If I could do that, life would very different. I would show all these virtuous saints.

There is a new chap at work today. He sees himself as an inspirational visionary and his name is Michael. Michael looks like a fresh-faced muppet just out of uni. Wearing a pristine white shirt, navy tie and navy trousers combo with brown brogues polished like a conman’s smile. He is a walking advertisement for a bargain-basement men’s catalogue that you wouldn’t dream of wiping your own backside with. He has his sleeves rolled up in pretence that he is joining us and is in no way sitting at a desk all day with his suit jacket stretched uniformly over his snug chair.

I’m indifferent and try to give him the time of day. We shall see if he wakes me from my reverie. Remarkably, this amoeba is my new boss and he is attempting to trigger some life into us all with a stirring speech in the yard. We are all listening to his virgin address, lounging against any vertical surface available. He wants us to be the best group of cleaners in the district; to go out there with an unshakable determination to rid the streets of waste and to do so with a friendly, caring smile on our faces. He informs us that he has gone to the trouble of making each of us a badge to attach to our uniform.

There are five of us witnessing this display of heart-warming motivation. Long John Sliver, so nicknamed as he is six foot five inches, looks gaunt to the point of starvation, about thirty-five, Indian and is ironically called John. He’s timid, doesn’t say much but works like a trooper. Weasel is next. His name is in fact Jamie, he’s nineteen and gay. He seems intent on telling everyone that he’s gay as if there is nothing of more importance in the world. No one gives a toss. With his greasy mop, the rare whisker that braves his face added to his constant fidgeting and eyes that know no respite, he resembles an unkempt rodent. No one trusts him. I watch as he studies Michael with an intensity that borders on psychopathic, looking him up and down deliberating whether to manipulate him or have sex with him. He doesn’t take kindly to his nickname and scowls when others call him by that moniker.

Bob is leaning against the back wall with a toothpick twirling around his mouth. He is a literal man-mountain in height and width. A forty-something black Rastafarian that seems completely uninterested in Michael’s speech but don’t let this lackadaisical approach fool you. He doesn’t miss a beat. He’s actually called Sam but everyone preferred Bob as he looks like Bob Marley and he seems quite comfortable about it. He is a divorced vegetarian and doesn’t do alcohol, drugs, or smoke. He’s the most wholesome person I’ve ever met and does this job to pay for his daughter’s education.

Then there is Mar (short for Marie). She hails from Dublin, around the early thirty mark and seems intent on using Catholicism as a reason for any misjustice in her life such as her ever-widening girth. She considers herself the matriarch of our tribe. Although, she already has five kids by three different fathers, maternal instincts remain an unsolved enigma to her. From the way she slags them all of it’s clear that she doesn’t really care about any of them but gets plenty of cash off the government to keep her in constant roll-ups.

I think she does this job just to get away from them for some peace and quiet. You wouldn’t mess with her as she’s as hard as nails. With rollie being sucked on through ever-pursing lips, she stares at Michael as though silently ordering him to look somewhere else sharpish. She doesn’t bother hiding her disdain and you can see that when Michael catches her eye, he is clearly intimidated and promptly focuses his attention on someone less threatening.

And finally, lil’ ol’ me. A petrified, sober-acting tragedian, hell-bent on keeping this job to come in hungover. I’m the sort of person that doesn’t want any hassle; come to the yard, have a laugh, if possible, work, go home. I’m always wary of Weasel and Mar as they both love confrontation and try to give them both a miss if possible.

This is our ragtag posse of waifs and strays, and we all get on okay, to a degree. We don’t take any shit from anyone, especially pubescent upstarts that want to try and change us for the better. Unbeknown to young Michael and without a word to each other, we have formed a militant cabal. I think he will have his work cut out. He is starting off poorly by creating animosity as opposed to a rapport. I observe the others with a wry smile. Poor Michael. He has no idea.

I wouldn’t say any of us are best mates but Bob is the person I talk to. He always has time for me and gives me advice in his usual placid manner. He tends to think long and hard before he utters a single word from his mouth. He knows what I am and doesn’t castigate me for it. He says he admires me for having the balls to get up off my arse and work. Occasionally, I wonder why he got divorced and I can only think in the past, he may have been the same as me. One day, I might ask him, one day.

He says, ‘I don’t ever want to see you properly pissed up, man. I’ll see you after work one day when you’re ready to return to being sober.’

His mantra towards me is, ‘There’s always hope for you, my brother.’

I love him for this. He doesn’t know it, but Bob is my best friend.

I wish more were like Bob and didn’t judge me. Why do people think they know what’s best for me? I’m not stupid, I am perfectly aware of what I’m doing. People have no right to look down on me. They don’t know what I’ve been through, am going through, they have no idea. Life affects people in different ways, not everyone is the same.

There is no fucking constant! There is no single generic way to deal with what life throws at you. Yet, these tossers are always there, constantly droning; don’t go down this road or that road, think of this person or that person, put yourself first and so on. They can live in their bubble of a righteous world, reciting complete drivel to others as though they know it all. They don’t know anything; they are naive, arrogant, selfish and talk bullshit.

Michael’s speech is coming to a close and he sends us all off into the big, wide world to rid it of disease and give it an unblemished, dazzling future with a cherry on top. He hands out our new badges bearing our names alongside a smiley face stating that we are ‘Happy to help’.

He has decided upon the revolutionary approach of driving round to see how each of us are doing at some point in the day. He says it will be a good time for us to get to know each other on a one-to-one basis. Something for each of us to look forward to. He looks relieved and slightly smug with himself. That look won’t last long.

Bemoaning our luck on getting a new manager and remaining steadfastly untouched by his tone, we trudge off to collect our mobile cleaning stations, each of us going to our allotted areas to sanitise the evil from the earth.

As I wander the streets I often think about the vow. Do I seriously want to do this? It states that I am all for it but my mind and body tell it to go fuck itself. Ultimately, it’s just words. It doesn’t mean anything and is irrefutably pointless. I suppose it’s an exercise in comfort, designed to make myself feel better.

The vow is an attempt to get me to greet the new day with a resolve that this is it. This is the day! The day that I won’t be broken! I will beat my personal demons into retreat! This is the day I shall win! I shall be rewarded with amazing gifts; a sod-you-all attitude, a new clarity of thought, a pain-free existence, and an infectious joy that I shall infuse in others! I will become a master of booze, a guide to other poor souls and I will set up a centre to aid ‘Alcopops’ and ‘Alcomams’. I will be acclaimed throughout the world as a modern superhero; influential, patient, giving and an innovator of modern thinking. I am convinced this will happen and all I must do is stop drinking for one day. Just one single solitary day! Pretty much a piece of piss really and then I’m there - The salvation of the world.

But then again.

Behind every toiled bead of sweat produced from my working day is a driving force. I can’t help myself. Within me, there is an inbuilt fuckup switch that must be pressed. My body prepares itself; trembling when the time is near, heart fluttering, a nervous, excited frenzy taking over. I cannot contain it. It needs its hit. Like a spoilt child, it demands satiating and if it’s not, it cripples me in pain. The pain is adamant, unyielding and all-enveloping. You will do anything to be rid of it. Stomach cramps gnaw away, making me want to throw up, pores release tidal waves of sweat, aggressive shaking is a given, sleep is impossible and my mind races around like I’m tripping on acid. There’s only one answer and off to the off-licence I pop. I wish to drown in liquid love.

Yay, Alcopops is back!

I shall say my vow again tomorrow.