I was talking with some friends the other day about my father's rule on drinking. He used to let us drink alcohol at an early age, as long as we did it at home. He felt this kept us out of trouble and kept us from driving a car while drunk. Those were his rules. He felt that if we were going to get drunk and stupid, we might as well do it at home where he could see us.
The first time I got drunk, I was 12 years old. It was at a going away party for my brother, Darrell. Darrell joined the Air Force and was leaving for basic training later that week. Earlier in the day, my brother Ira broke up with the girl next door, Lisa Brown. I was in love with Lisa long before my brother ever had any feelings for her. Their 18-month romance was nothing less than pure hell for me.
When I found out they were no longer seeing each other, I took it as an opportunity to make a move. I don’t remember much about that night, but I do remember kissing a girl that looked like Boy George and then getting punched in the stomach by Lisa on my driveway.
I tried to feel her up and kiss her as I was saying, “Now it’s my turn.” It was creepy, and it was embarrassing, and it was something Lisa would recall four years later; the night I spent visiting her at Milliken University. I got drunk again that night, and she invited me to sleep in her bed. By then, I was 17 and she was a college student. We were more like brother and sister. Her new puppy slept in bed with us that night too. It kept scratching at my eyes to wake me up.
I woke up hung over and in pain. Much like the first time I got drunk.
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