It would be safe as a reader to assume I didn’t return to that godforsaken shit hole after I ended that tour in Alaska, for more reasons other than just fucking up my leg and the horrendous company, and despite the cute name given to the place, The Valley of The Kings; I had made a ton of money. Well a ton of money for me, as a young twenty-some year old, and there was so much cocaine to blow up! A couple of nights after I returned home from Alaska, I went to a friend’s birthday party at some fancy restaurant where a bunch of homies were. I met an old but dear friend of mine who, in the time I was gone, had started dating this babely gal. We all hit it off as if no time had passed. He offered me a job as well as some blow and then the shit show began. For the next couple of years, this friend, his old lady and I were inseparable. We drank and partied almost every day. Me, with the chunk of cash burning a hole in my pocket and all of us with an insatiable hunger for getting all kinds of fucked up, we did just that. There would be nights where we didn’t even really want to get fucked up but decided “hey what the hell let’s get two eight balls!” There’d be nights where I was so fucked up on horse tranquilizers that I couldn’t even get off the couch, and my buddy would have to hold the straw and the CD case with lines on it so all would have to do was inhale. What a solid friend, hey? Sometimes I would refer to him as “Coach”, cause I felt like a teenage swimmer who really wanted to make the national team, but lacked the motivation to train hard enough and needed a coach to push me to reach my full potential… except with drugs, you know?
I know it sounds like we were just straight up degenerates, and don’t get me wrong we were, but we were also responsible. Coach was a successful tradesman who managed a construction company and I was his right-hand man, we went to work every morning without fail and worked the whole day through. Later on, I ended up being handed the manager’s position when Coach moved on to another company. I was far more lax in my approach to managing. I would make sure I had my managerial bottle of vodka in my truck at all times, just in case I had a long drive to a job site or a meeting with a customer. Despite my savage alcoholism I was still banging out projects on time and done right. I never really got in too much trouble for being a piss tank at work. I did crash the truck once on the way home from a bar, but when the owner saw it I just blamed it on my neighbour, who I said shared a driveway with me, and my boss took that as truth so that worked out. One day I was returning from a job three hours away from home and knew I’d get thirsty on the drive home, so I stopped before I left and snagged a twenty-six of gin and some sunflower seeds. I guess I was thirstier than I expected because, and this is what I was told later on by the sober passenger, I stopped again to top up my supply with another bottle. Apparently, I made it safe and sound to the parking lot of the shop before I passed the fuck out. I woke up in Coach’s house midday the next day, he regaled me with the story of the boss’s wife stopping by the shop and seeing me drunk as a fucking skunk, with the truck still running, midday, fast a fucking sleep with the bottle next to me. This whole story was told over a couple of glasses of gin, just to shake the cobwebs off. Luckily for me, there were no real repercussions to my savagery; my boss simply called me into his office and quietly said: “A few road pops are ok, but let’s stay away from the hard stuff hey?” Now that I think of this I can’t remember if this happened before Alaska or afterwards. Either way, you get the idea; it was a pretty gnarly twenties, and don’t worry, it gets better.
Throughout the next few years, I progressed with this style of pure debauchery. I too moved companies later on to follow Coach. There I found a whole new fucking playground full of playmates to get all kinds of fucked up with. At this new shop, the shift would end when one of the employees would walk through the door with forty beers and place them on my workbench. We would all crowd around and dig in like a pack of fucking hyenas on some poor zebra or some shit; basically an MGD massacre daily. Later on, I became the guy who picked up the booze just so I could get a little mickey of vodka or something a little stronger to supplement my six per cent beer buzz. That certainly worked out for me: I always enjoyed the drive home in the summer sun, smoking a cigarette with a solid buzz/ completely-seeing-double on. Oh, how sweet that memory is and how terrible the mornings were.