The Night A Few White Russians Saved My Life

 

        I know that it is probably the dumbest thing I could have done, but the day that I found out my liver was failing, I went out to the bar with one thing in mind. Well, actually two things. One: To smoke at least a pack of Marlboro Reds, and Two: To get absolutely stone drunk out of my gourd.

        Dumb right? Well, that's not the way it turned out. It turned out that, if I hadn't gone out with these two things in mind, I would probably be in a very dark box, buried underground, say, I don't know, six feet. Instead, I am sitting in my favorite chair, typing on my laptop, and drinking a nice cold brew of Lipton iced tea. My side aches a little bit from the operation, but my mind is at ease, and that, my friends, means everything. I ought to know.

        A week ago my mind was a freakshow. Images of hospital beds and headstones danced in my head. Let me tell you, I'd rather it was sugarplums. But when you find out that one of your organs—one that doesn't come with a spare, mind you—is going ka-put on you, it's amazing what your brain comes up with. You would think that the guy who thought all of us up would have put in a fail-safe for situations like this, but, it's like the opposite. It's like the brain is on one of those hamster wheels, going round and round, never losing the train of thought. Never shutting up for one second about how and when you are going to meet your demise. And not only that. It comes up with all sorts of fun scenarios: Will I be driving when it happens? Perhaps I will be in the grocery store, squeezing melons when it happens. Or maybe it'll happen when I'm asleep. But will I dream about it then? It goes on and on like this, until you want to take a Black and Decker and drill a hole through your skull, just to get that wrinkly gray bastard to shut its yap.

        So, I went on like that all the way from the doctor's office, back to the house, and then I sat in my recliner for two hours, trying to watch the news, and not hearing a damn word of it. I saw the guy's lips moving, and all those frigging pictures of Iraq, and I saw the commercials for all of those medications. Medications that couldn't help me now, because I was beyond that. And so eventually I muted the news, and watched it like that for awhile, all the while, picturing my liver, shriveled and black.

        I could actually feel it dying in there—in me. In my mind's eye, it looked like an overcooked piece of steak, crusty, and rubbery. Trying with all its might to just regenerate, damn it, regenerate. But failing. And then the news ended, and that mindless "Wheel Of Fortune" came on. Well, I couldn't stand to look at Pat Sajak's haircut, or at Vanna's prom dress, so I turned the friggin' tube off, and sat there in the growing dusk.

        But that only made it worse—the silence. I was starting to think that I could hear my liver rotting. Like sucking noises. Like someone desperately trying to get the last few drops of a malted with a small red straw. It was like someone was squeezing a sponge dry. Squeezing it until it was light and airy again.

        And I guess it was right about then that I decided, fuck it, I'm going to go get drunk off my bony ass. I was going to flood the organ with the one thing that it despised most. I was going to torture it. Make it gasp for air. Why not? The thing had betrayed me. It was time that I evened things out a bit. Settle the score, if you will.

        So, I got in my Mustang. The one I had rebuilt from scraps. The one I had planned on cruising in throughout my golden years—letting the wind blow back the gray hair from my forehead. Telling myself that the women were admiring me, and not the machine. Right. Like some thirty-something is going to be interested in a crusty old grandpa like me. A crusty man with a crusty liver that was about to poop out on him. Of course, I hadn't known about it back then, when I was re-building the car in my back garage. In fact, I thought that I was getting my exercise, lifting all of those heavy parts, and contorting myself in all sorts of positions. I actually thought that my sorry old muscles were getting quite a workout. Jeez, I was probably adding years to my life!! Growing stronger. Keeping active, don't ya know!

        And I would tip 'em back out there too. Not too many, mind you—I didn't want to get so sloshed that I dropped an engine block on my foot or something—but I would have two or three, always insulated in a "beer cozy," always sitting on the hood, standing at the ready. Little did I know that every ounce of that stuff was pickling my insides.

        But, anyhow, I got in the Mustang, and I floored that mother all the way to "Clyde's Watering Hole." And the wind did blow through my gray hair, and I had the radio tuned to the oldies—even heard "Mustang Sally"… what a hoot—but it was no fun. No fun at all. I felt like I was driving a hearse. Just waiting it out until I would be the passenger. Gee, I'd have the whole back seat to myself. And curtains even!! What a treat.

        When I walked into "Clyde's" I went straight to the cigarette machine. The same machine that the teenagers got their illegal smokes from. Because vending machines don't hound you for ID's, and because Clyde turned his head when they stuck their quarters in.

        So, I got my pack of Marlboro Reds, and pulled that little plastic string to get rid of the cellophane, but it stuck to my shirt with its damn static cling, so I just left it. I didn't much give a frig at that point. Then I packed them onto my palm to get the tobacco nice and dense, and finally stuck one in my mouth. It tasted like raisins. I had forgotten about that—how they tasted like raisins before you lit them. See, I hadn't smoked in ten years or more. But things change when it don't matter anymore. My liver was going to hit the deck before either of my lungs did.

        When I lit it, I sucked in, and coughed for a good twenty seconds. I had to prime the pump a little bit, apparently. That was OK. I had twenty tries in that soft pack. But, sooner than later, it was like riding a bike. The smoke went down the chute like it was supposed to, and the dizzy stuff went straight to my head. And that was nice. That had always been my favorite part about it anyway. The lightheadedness. It had a certain magic to it. A way of clearing your vision. Making things stand out. Making the colors a little brighter, and more vivid.

        When I got used to inhaling again, I was really ready to set things rolling. And, by that I mean, "tie one on" as they say. So, I told Clyde to snatch me one of them shot glasses of his and told him to top it off with some JD Whiskey, which he did, obligingly.

        Well, that went down like fire, and I was all the happier for it. I hoped it was burning that traitor liver to a nice brown crisp. I hoped that it was sizzling. So, after that I went for the cinnamon stuff. The stuff they keep refrigerated so that it goes down like liquid ice. And that really hit the spot.

        By then, my throat was feeling like somebody had stuck a wick down my esophagus and was burning it at both ends, so I ordered a Budweiser just to settle things down a bit. After all, I wanted to go down slow tonight. Why ruin the fun by throwing up my guts in a half hour's time? I mean, I was sure that that's how it would end, but I might as well draw it out a little bit. Make that liver sing for its supper.

        Well, I'd say I was on right around lucky number seven when she walked in, and took the barstool next to me. This was the girl that was going to save my very life, but I had no idea of that, and neither did she at the time. So I continued to guzzle number seven, and she ordered a White Russian, which I always have—and still do—imagined tasted something like milk and cyanide. I have never drank one myself, and, if I have anything to say about it, I never ever will. But, evidently, she liked the stuff, because she sucked the first one down like it was sweet nectar, and then ordered another, which she drank a tad bit slower.

        When that second White Russian was almost fully drained of its thick chalky color, she turned to me and said two words: "How's life?" she said.

        And that was a funny question at the time. Maybe it was the seven drinks in me or maybe it was the simplicity of the question, but it struck me as humorous. So, I laughed, and told her to ask me that in about a week. I didn't tell her that "How's death?" might be a more appropriate question by then. She gave me a puzzled look, and then shrugged her shoulders. I guess she had heard many answers to that question over the years, and my answer was just as good as any other she'd heard.

        Me and that girl—and when I say girl, I mean she was maybe in her late thirties—sat there at the bar and got plenty plastered over the next two or three hours, and by drink number umpteen, I had almost forgotten about my organ—that lily livered piece of shit. Ha!! Lily livered—that's rich! But, something like that doesn't leave your mind as easy as forgetting about that F you got on your midterms or that girl that dumped you. So, no, I didn't forget about it, but, you know, I had fun despite it. And to spite it, frankly.

        We had a lot of laughs, and, as is common knowledge to the consummate drinkers of the world, I didn't remember a friggin' thing that we talked about, later. I mean, not so much as a word of it. Now that part is a little odd, I'll give you... Usually you remember something—some kernel of he conversation—but this time it was in one hairy ear, and straight out the other. Bypass that brain entirely, won't you? Why, thank you. Now be on your way.

        So, we talked and laughed until around 1:00am it must have been, because I know that I was drinking awhile even after she had left, and Clyde closed up shop at 2:00am.

        Well, I must say, I was in a pretty cheery mood after that. Especially for someone who might be swimming in formaldehyde in the near and not so dear future. So, I kept my butt parked right there until closing time, upon which I wished Clyde the very best. And I meant that. He was a good guy, and he always kept me in good spirits—literally and otherwise. And then I guess I must have staggered out into the night, because the next thing that I remembered after that was not driving home in my home-made Mustang, but, rather, waking up on the sidewalk courtesy of one very firm slapping hand of one very young EMT. I guess everyone looks young to me now, but when I first saw him, that show about the thirteen year old doctor came to mind—Booger Howser---or whatever it was. Well, this pimple-faced kid stuck me in an ambulance (I learned later that a young couple had called the meat wagon when they saw me passed out, saying that I looked "too pale for comfort"—whatever that means) and drove me to the hospital.

        I was very near death indeed—too near for comfort—when they wheeled me in, but it wasn't until I was coherent that I, apparently, told them of my failing liver. And that's when they took me straight to the ER. Of course, there wasn't much that they could do. Unfortunately, fresh pink livers don't come out of vending machines as readily as Marlboro Reds—I don't care what kind of money you have. I don't even think George Bush could have gotten a fresh one had it been "his presidency" on the operating table.

        But, in that moment, my luck changed. For the better.

        They operated on me alright. And when I woke up I had a clean white bandage taped to my gut, and I felt like I had been ripped open by the teeth of a great white every time I changed positions. But, I was no dummy. Even with a screaming hangover, I knew that somehow I had gotten that ever elusive liver. And just as surely I knew that my old rotted piece of gutter meat was lying in a silver pan somewhere, waiting to be tossed into file 13. And, I know this part sounds crazy, but I could just feel the difference. It felt like I had taken a hot shower after shoveling coal in the sweat mines all day. I felt clean. So clean.

        Well, it wasn't until the next day or two that I saw her picture in the obituaries. Although I hadn't remembered a single thing that we had talked about, I remembered her face as if it were my own daughter's visage. I read on, eagerly, and sadly. Yes sir, she had died in a car accident that night. One too many White Russians I suppose. Drove her damn car right into a friggin' oak.

        They had searched the vehicle in search of her license, as they will with those cases. Of course they will. They want to check the backs for organ donors, don't ya know.