Dazed and Confused

For Jess—


"Let me see a show of hands," the journalism teacher said. It was my first day of college. "How many of you like to drink?"

He was referring, of course, to alcohol. The range of ages in the classroom varied. Most were young, freshly out of high school; others, like me, had been in the work force but had decided to get more education, to study for a career. A couple were in their late 30s and even 40s, as old as our teacher.

Almost everybody's hand went up. There were laughs and smiles as students surveyed the room to see so many people who were in agreement.

With our hands in the air, the teacher continued: "Now, how many of you would consider yourselves to be alcoholics?"

Most hands went straight down, including mine. A few people had their hands in the air, were still laughing, but soon dropped them. Maybe, one or two people left their hands in the air.

Our teacher looked at each student who held a hand in the air, acknowledging each of them. And then, he addressed the rest of the class: "I give you two weeks or you'll never make it as a journalist."

I was 20 when I started journalism school, having taken a year off, after high school, to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. In my last year of high school, I was sure that I was going to attend Queen's University as a psychology major, but then I had second thoughts, started bombing classes, and ended up not even graduating from grade 13.

My mother encouraged me to be a writer—it was something that I did, writing short stories from as early as the fifth grade—but I worked full time at a retail job in the Merivale Mall, trying to figure life all out.

Because I was old enough to drink in Ontario (I had been drinking in Québec, illegally, since I was 17), some buddies and I, who were also working and trying to find their way, would end up almost every night at a pub that opened in a strip mall across the street from our high school, Ruby Tuesday's.

The man behind the bar, Mike, saw us come in and would arrive at our table with mugs of draft Blue as he greeted us. He would keep an eye on our glasses, and as the beer came to the bottom he would return with fresh mugs. Though we always chatted with Mike, the only time we spoke about beer would be when he would bring replenished glasses and we would finally say "This is my last one, thanks."

When I started journalism school, I made new friends and we would end our school day at Bert's Bar or would sometimes carry over to Chances R. But I would always hook up with my old friends, later in the evening, and have more beer at Ruby Tuesday's.

I wouldn't say that I fulfilled my teacher's suggestion, that I become an alcoholic, but I came damned close. In the evening, when I left Ruby Tuesday's, I staggered home, not necessarily cognisant of the walk but rather on auto pilot. I awoke, hungover, and would drag my sorry ass to class.

At lunch, my classmates would have a beer or three, rather than eat, and then return for afternoon classes. Then Bert's, and maybe Chances R after. Then home for dinner, and then back to Ruby's.

On Friday's, we would almost always end up at a classmate's apartment, where the journalism students would play Trivial Pursuit in teams. Halfway through the game, I would nod off, but I would always awake for the final round and help my team win the game.

And then we would head downtown for drinks.

To say that I was drunk half the time I was in journalism school is a safe bet. Yes, sometimes I got so wasted that things became blurry. The next day, friends would sometimes say that I said something really stupid or offensive, for which I would apologise, be forgiven, and the next week would start again.

Most nights that my journalism friends and I went out, we would end up at a bar along Elgin Street. If we wanted to eat while we were out, we'd go to Pancho Villa. By the time we went there, it was very late, but they'd always serve us.

I think.

See, this is where things got super-hazy for me. I would remember crowding into the Mexican restaurant, remember washing food down with Coronas. I vaguely remember looks of disgust from our servers, who, for some reason, continued to serve drunken college students.

I remember a male server getting in my face, asking me to leave. Maybe once. Maybe twice. I remember someone waving a finger in my face, so close that I could bite it, if I wanted to. I remember being thrown out, hearing threats of someone calling the cops. Did I bite that finger?

I also remember returning to Pancho Villa, only being met at the door by who I could only imagine, in my haze, was the manager. None of us were allowed in, but I do distinctly remember the two words that were uttered as I turned to leave: "You're banned."

Last Friday, after an awesome Blues show at Live on Elgin, DW, DD15, and some good friends (one, from those days in high school, where we were too young to drink in Ontario so crossed over into Hull) went looking for some food. After trying one Mexican restaurant, which was full, crossed the street and went to another Mexican restaurant.

Pancho Villa.

It had been more than 30 years, but the place hasn't changed. My brain tried to dig back to those days, when my journalism friends and I would end up here, but all I could see was that dazed and confused haze that was college.

This was my first time since I was banned, the first time that I arrived sober (or mostly: I had a pint before the live show and another during the performance). I had a pint of beer while DD15 and my friends ate. Between the conversations, I scanned to see if I could recognize a face.

Obviously, the servers had changed. The bartender didn't look familiar, nor did the older gentleman, who came to our table to help serve food. I'm sure that I wouldn't be recognized.

It's strange to remember times in youth, when drinking myself silly seemed to be the norm, I did some pretty stupid stuff. I'm not proud, but at least I can say I never hurt anyone.

Except for... maybe... a finger.