Chapter One
I wish Giovanna would kiss me.
There are many reasons why this would be a terrible idea. Giovanna is an exchange student from Milan studying marketing in Dublin. I am an American businessman in my late thirties hiding out in Ireland trying to get so drunk that my wife''s recent betrayal will stop burning my insides like hot lava. Giovanna''s a beautiful young Italian goddess with a lion''s mane of jet-black hair, and I''m a thoroughly average-looking New Englander with the beginnings of love handles and some gray creeping into my temples. So Giovanna is almost twenty years younger than I am. She is engaged to a guy named Teodoro back in Italy. She is sweet, and innocent, and deeply religious. But the real reason why Giovanna kissing me would be a terrible idea is that she is so incredibly drunk right now that if she were to kiss me, she''d probably throw up all over my face.
Ireland is an amazing country. In no other spot that I have come across on my travels has drinking to excess been accepted to such a degree as normal, everyday behavior. I used to think that Texans didn''t actually wear cowboy hats-that it was just a stereotype propagated by movies and TV. But one day I had a stopover in the Houston airport and I saw a bunch of people wearing cowboy hats for real in a totally nonironic fashion. Well, Ireland is just like that-only instead of cowboy hats, it''s people getting shitfaced. And instead of just a handful of good ol'' boys rocking their ten-gallon lids, it''s every single person in the country slamming shot after shot and beer after beer from morning till night and then starting all over again.
As further proof that Ireland is committed to promoting a drinks-based culture, I''d like to point out that one of the most popular sections of Dublin, where all the tourists go and the fun happens, is called Temple Bar. They have the word "bar" in the name of their most famous neighborhood! That would be like Parisians calling the Latin Quarter the Escargot Quarter, or Los Angelenos changing the name from Beverly Hills to Cocaineville.
In defense of the Dubliners, the "bar" in Temple Bar doesn''t actually refer to a bar where you order drinks. But it''s not like they don''t know about their international reputation for throwing it down. If the Irish didn''t want to encourage the stereotype that they''re all booze hounds, they easily could have called the place Old Dublin, or South Bank, or Liffeytown or something. But these sauceheads love everything that even tangentially has anything to do with alcohol. So they have been calling the cultural center of their capital city Temple Bar for four hundred years.
There''s a reason that the Emerald Isle has never produced any world-class painters, sculptors, or architects-none of them could hold a brush, chisel, or pencil steady enough to get the job done. The poets could dash down their rhymes and romances in shaky letters on cocktail napkins in between pints. And the singers could wail and moan while teetering on the verge of alcoholic unconsciousness-but that''s where Ireland''s artistic contributions peter out. These people really drink, is my point. If you were to cut an Irish hemophiliac, you''d have beer on tap until the poor bastard bled out.
I should mention that as I''m staring at Giovanna''s gorgeous face, lustrous hair, and devastating green eyes, I''m probably even drunker than she is. Here is a quick recap of what I''ve had to drink in the three hours leading up to my current emotional quandary: six pints of Guinness, six shots of Inishowen, three large Bacardi Breezers, two glasses of red wine, half a glass of water. At this point it''s really a toss-up between Giovanna and me as to who is going to puke on whom first. But as I''m staring into those lovely, albeit significantly glazed-over green eyes, allow me to flash back to another occasion when I was staring into a woman''s eyes. This time they are my wife''s eyes-also green-but at the moment I''m remembering they are more red than green as she has been crying hysterically in the bathroom for about an hour.
Chapter Two
There are approximately a dozen possible explanations as to why my wife might have been crying hysterically for about an hour. In ascending order of significance, these are some of the things that made her weep uncontrollably: world hunger, accidentally skipping breakfast, missing a sale at Barney''s, not enough women on the Supreme Court, noticing a new frown line, political persecution in far-off lands, thinking she''s not as pretty as her sister, the subway, anything having to do with me.
My guess is that this tear binge was primarily driven by the last option-but you never know. Once while we were staying at the Four Seasons Resort at Punta Mita, Mexico, she wouldn''t leave the room for two days because she didn''t want anyone to see the bags under her eyes that were a direct result of her sobbing about the possibility that she might have bags under her eyes. For those of you keeping score at home, the Four Seasons Resort at Punta Mita, Mexico, is a very expensive hotel. And having a profoundly neurotic, self-obsessed wife turns out not to be a valid excuse for a refund.
On the night in question, however, I just knew that this was all my fault-that I was the bags under her eyes. There was a familiarity to this wailing that I had dealt with many times in the past. I was getting the same vibe that I used to get when I''d forget about meaningless pseudo-anniversaries or when I didn''t introduce her "quickly enough" to people at the office Christmas party.
As I lay in bed desperately trying to pretend that not only was I still asleep, but I was so deeply asleep that even loud caterwauling couldn''t possibly wake me up, I wracked my brain to try and remember what I possibly could have done wrong. My checklist was pretty slim. I never cheated on her, I never hit her, I was nice to her family, I paid for all of her stuff. When you get right down to it-what else is a decent husband supposed to do?
The correct answer to that question is "not much." Her answer to that question was "a lot." I discovered this when she finally called my sleep bluff by storming out of the bathroom and making a caustic remark about my testicles. I believe that the exact phrase was, "You got some kind of balls!" At that point I felt that not even the greatest actor of our time could have pulled off the fake sleep gambit any longer, so I sat up in bed and asked what was the matter.
As it turned out, my initial instincts were correct. I was the matter. Somehow I was responsible for the myriad sadnesses in her life. I was indifferent to world hunger and political persecution. I wasn''t enthusiastic enough in my support of women''s rights. I made her ride the subway too often. I looked at her sister''s ass at Thanksgiving. The floodgates burst open and I was drowning in my own massive culpability.
In my defense, I should point out that if I did look at her sister''s ass at Thanksgiving, it was only to marvel at the staggering effectiveness of bulimia. I swear-that woman can''t weigh more than one hundred pounds. There was never any lust in that glance. I felt sorry for her and I was mystified by her feelings of inadequacy. She''s a smart, pretty lady-how come she never eats?
Anyway, as far as women''s rights go, I stuffed envelopes for Hillary Freaking Clinton! I actually liked the broad! It wasn''t my fault she got hosed.
And I wasn''t indifferent to the problems of the world. I just didn''t waste my time moaning about them. I actually tried to help whenever I could. I just never saw the point in talking about it all the time.
As for the subway thing-I have to plead guilty there. I know she hated taking the subway, but taxis are ridiculous. It''s not the cost that bothers me, it''s the traffic. I''d rather take my chances of catching tuberculosis on a fast-moving A train than spend an hour staring glumly through a dirty window at the same backed-up midtown street corner while sweaty cabdrivers curse in Russian.
I knew she hated the subway. And I knew she resented me every time I insisted we go down there. But if marriage is all about compromise, then why was I the only one compromising all the time? If the Guarneri String Quartet were playing at Avery Fisher Hall on Sunday at the exact same time as the Super Bowl, guess where I spent my afternoon? Exactly-Beethoven 1, Football 0. And, sure, I DVR-ed it, but it''s not the same. Sports are like sweet shrimp-they''re meant to be enjoyed live.
I really felt like I gave way more than my fair share in the relationship. But my wife had absolutely no interest in breaking down my emotional mathematics. The only thing she wanted to break down was me. She had come to a powerful realization while she wept onto the porcelain-and it wasn''t that we were out of toilet paper. My wife wanted a divorce.
Although we were out of toilet paper-which also turned out to be my fault.
Chapter Three
The first time I got drunk I was thirteen years old. I was at my sister''s sweet sixteen party and someone left the bar unattended. I filled a brandy snifter with a mixture of rum, vodka, Jack Daniel''s, Mountain Dew, and Cointreau and went to town. A videotape that my uncle recorded clearly documents the fact that I subsequently stripped naked, punched our neighbor''s dog, and threw up in the swimming pool. While I have no memory of any of these events, the visual evidence is incontrovertible. I was thoroughly punished and totally embarrassed, although, to this day, I remain quite proud that I never actually passed out (and that I dropped a German shepherd with one shot).
After that trial by fire, I pretty much kept a lid on my taste for the grain and the grape. I enjoyed the occasional descent into Dionysus''s lair, but nothing too extreme. A beer here, some tequila there. The only time I ever shot an eighty-two on the golf course, I celebrated by downing a half dozen shots of J?germeister. I woke up in a sand trap with a five iron twisted around my waist like a belt. Apparently, unlike my thirteen-year-old self, the twenty-two-year-old version of me had developed the ability to pass out.
My wife was not a fan of drinking. Or, to be more specific, she was not a fan of being drunk. She loved to blather on about red wine and its nose, legs, body, bouquet, thighs, thorax, and hints of persimmon. But if you ever actually tried to drink more than one glass of the stuff, she''d glare at you like you just farted in the potato salad.
So for the eight years during which I had been married, I had been operating on a pretty steady diet of fruit juice, sparkling mineral water, and tiny sips of pinot noir hastily expectorated into pewter bowls.
Upon hearing the news that my weepy wife wanted a divorce, however, I was suddenly overcome by a massive thirst for the great taste of rum, vodka, Jack Daniel''s, Mountain Dew, and Cointreau. It''s just as well that I didn''t have an open bar nearby because this time it might not have been the neighbor''s dog who got punched.
But I kept my base urges in check. I was totally sober while my wife enumerated my infinite failings. I was clearheaded while she packed her bags and stormed out of the house. I was even-keeled when the lawyer she had already hired called me the next day to begin divorce proceedings. But on the day after that, when I found out that she had already moved in with some guy named David, I went out and got hammered.
There are lots of different kinds of hammered. There''s happy hammered, wistful hammered, angry hammered, horny hammered-but the worst kind of hammered is heartbroken hammered. I achieved that sorry state at a bar in midtown Manhattan whose name is best left unmentioned due to legal restraints and general good taste.
I was walking to my office around 10:00 am when I received the following text message: "Cming 4 jwlry 2mrw. Dnt B thr. Lvng w David. L8r 4 U." At first I thought that my cell phone had been hacked by a retard. Then I realized that the message was from my wife and, with the help of a nearby eight-year-old, I was able to break the code. For those of you whose minds haven''t been jellified by modernity, allow me to translate: "Coming for jewelry tomorrow. Don''t be there. Moved in with David. Later for you."
By 10:03 I was in the only open bar I could find, exhorting the barman to fill a pilsner glass with bourbon. By 10:26 I was on my third glass. By 10:34 I was shattering all three empty pilsner glasses against the wall. By 10:35 I was being punched in the face by said barman.
At around 10:50, as I was applying ice to my cheek and singing "The Gypsy Rover" with Kevin (the barman), I came to the conclusion that heartbroken hammered just wasn''t working out for me. I still realized the utter necessity of getting drunk and staying drunk, but I knew that there had to be a healthier, safer, and more amusing way of going about it.
I needed to shock my heart back to where it used to be. Not where it used to be when I was being picked at and hemmed in by my wife. Not where it used to be when I was sweating over assignments or grinding out exams. I wanted-no, I needed-to get back that feeling I had when I was thirteen just after I punched the dog, and just before I lost my memory. I had to find a way to have some fun again. And that''s when I first hatched the idea of checking out of my life for a whole year and going in search of a better one. And I decided to kick off my year of living stupidly by getting happy hammered in Ireland.
Chapter Four
When I floated the idea of an alcohol-fueled Hibernian holiday around town, many of my friends wanted a piece of the action. But they''re all married so one by one they each had to admit that they couldn''t come along for the ride. Not one of them blamed his wife-but it was clear what was going on. They all looked like their moms had just told them they couldn''t go skateboarding in the rain.
But my "mom" was shacking up with some guy named David in Williamsburg. So I could skateboard wherever the hell I wanted to. Besides, I didn''t really want anyone to come along on this trip anyway.
Pretty much my entire life I have had someone tagging along with me. First it was my parents, then it was roommates in college, then it was girlfriends, then it was my wife. The only time I was ever actually alone was in the bathroom-which might explain why my wife was always complaining that I took so damn long in the bathroom.
In one fell swoop I went from never alone to way too alone. Wandering around my house wondering what she was doing and why she was doing it started eating away at my insides. I needed to get out of the rut I was in, because everything reminded me of her. Going to work, buying oranges, filling up the gas tank-it was all part of my life''s routine and my life''s routine was inexorably tied up with her. And trudging through it all without her made being without her hurt even more.
That''s why just taking off seemed to make so much sense to me. It wasn''t going to be just another two-week vacation. This was going to be the start of an entire year of vacation. Actually, it wasn''t even going to be vacation. I was going to hire myself to spend a year entertaining myself. Kind of like when that English couple hired Mary Poppins to take care of their kids, only this time I was Mary Poppins. I was also the kids. And I guess that, technically, I was also the English couple. The point is: I decided to take a year to figure out what the hell had gone wrong with my life. I was going to break the cycle of monotony, self-recrimination, and sorrow-and the first step was to get delightfully wasted on the Emerald Isle.
I gave notice at my office. The fact that no one there really wanted to know why or bothered to try and convince me to stay further reinforced the rightness of what I was doing. It also made me feel much less guilty about stealing all those office supplies.
I bought a one-way ticket to Dublin, double-checked to make sure that my passport was still valid, packed a bag, and vowed not to return until I was convinced that my life didn''t suck anymore. Then I hailed a taxi and headed to JFK. Not surprisingly, the ride took two hours in a smelly cab with an angry driver cursing in Russian the whole time. I swear-I''m not going anywhere ever again until they build a new airport much closer to Manhattan.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Drink, Play, F@#kby ANDREW GOTTLIEB Copyright © 2009 by Goodness Incorporated. Excerpted by permission.
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