Hero In Addict (Chapter 10)

It's becoming almost impossible to tolerate other people, and mesh in with the crowd at this point, at all of 21.

My husband, who I won't meet for another 6 years, once told me how difficult it was to tolerate the pettiness of people's "issues" after coming home from Iraq. Granted, I have no noble cause to attribute my feelings to, but I find myself hating people in all of their pettiness, none the less.

I picked up a job as a cocktail waitress in the city, and I really wanted to slit the customer's throats. Jersey Shore was big during this time, and as much as I hated that show, I hated the people that tried to fashion themselves after it, that much more. Here I was trying so hard my whole life to hide the fact that I was a raging drug addict, and these bastards get to flaunt their alcoholism on a TV screen for everyone to fawn over. The ironic part about this, and there are so many, but my favorite is that society overall seemed to like these brash Italian kids PLAYING alcoholics on TV, but they hate actual alcoholics and drug addicts. They got a front row seat into all the crazy, alcohol fueled nights, without all the consequences, and they ate it fucking up. Especially the guys with their chains, gel slicked hair, and asshat antics that made me want to slit all their throats, but I think I mentioned that.

Outwardly, I was a hot 21 year old girl wearing skimpy black, lacy cocktail dresses and boots for all the guys, that suddenly flaunted their Italian descent in a way that would have made their ancestors roll over in their graves, to ogle while they ordered champagne bottles like the pretend ballers they were. It was summertime, and I hated wearing knee high boots, because it was so hot on my legs. All the other girls were wearing cute stilettos, and so was I, but they were stiletto boots up to my knees, used to hide the enormous, clunky ankle bracelet that no one knew I was wearing. Yeah, people loved to pretend they were fucked up like those brash kids on TV, but I knew their inner thoughts better than they did. The second you incorporate some reality of the consequences to this behavior, into their artificial wanna be world, they immediately apply the stigma ingrained in them by society. Do you really think Jersey Shore would have been as popular as it was if it turned into an episode of Intervention at the end? They were fun loving, crazy, binge drinking morning, afternoon, and night consecutively on a daily basis, college kids enjoying their lives that included high jinks and silly antics. Those crazy kids, what will they do next, and the world couldn't wait. The same crowd that ate it up, were the same ones that would chant "brown bag bitch", as they stepped over the disheveled, brown bag Jager guzzling homeless woman, on their way into the club I worked at. The irony was lost on them, but it sure as fuck wasn't lost on me, because despite my outward appearance deceivingly reflecting a cocktail dress clad, coulda been Price is Right model, I was that 'bag lady bitch' inside. The only difference between her and I was that I was high functioning on drugs enough to hold a job to support my habit AND a roof over my head. I didn't slit their throats even though I badly wanted to, because this job, albeit shitty, was the only thing keeping me on the inside of this club serving, instead of outside begging.

I did, however, slap the shit out of many of these douche bag dudes. I grew up with three witty, sarcastic, hardcore brawling brothers, and I knew how to handle my own. After I left Brad, I made a deal with myself to never let anyone fuck with me again, and I upheld that deal even though it was a fine line between putting these fuckers that tried to grab my ass in their place, and losing my job. I was pretty good at learning how to toe the line at this point, and indeed I had to be if I wanted to survive. So, with this in mind, I hid my ankle bracelet underneath my stiletto boots, and every night it would engrave it's clunky square impression deep into the skin above my ankle.

So here I was, every night desperately pretending to hide my drug addiction and portray a normal, careless, hot, young 21 year old girl, to these kids desperately pretending to be what I was pretending not to be. If you're confused by now, imagine my predicament. All you need to know is that if they knew who I really was, they would have hated me as much as I hated them for actually knowing who they really were. They were affluent, douche bag dudes, pretending to have a drinking problem while splurging on bottles of well brand liquor they barely drank, but pretended to. Every time I heard a "Hey, honey, shake that ass", I accidentally ground my stiletto deep into the flesh of their sandal wearing bare toes, repeatedly...

They were spending most of their money trying to impress me with their artificial ability to binge drink, and I was just trying to earn enough of it to support my actual, hidden, and embarrassing habit, so I could survive on a daily basis. I hated them, and they would have hated me too if I wasn't wearing this costume. Just like they hated the woman they dubbed the 'brown bag bitch', the woman not fortunate enough to have a costume like mine to don. I was very lucky in that regard, because I was able to blend in at will, and other addicts and alcoholics can't always be as lucky as me. I just wished I was dead, but this costume made it so others didn't wish I was dead too like they did at first glance with a majority of my counterparts. Minus the ankle bracelet, I was superficially one of them. It was so much harder to fake my internal feelings and exude what they thought I was though. I'm not very good at keeping my mouth shut, especially when it comes to injustices. Something about the little guy, or girl in this particular case, getting stepped on and harrassed just doesn't sit well with me.

My sporting this costume of a high class, pretty, white, upstanding citizen, really just brought out the worst in these fucking creeps. I imagine it would be like wearing a black face costume when you're actually black, and having some piece of shit thinking he can banter racist thoughts back and forth with you. One thing I wasn't imagining though, was that I actually was any of those things people thought I was. Whatever they thought I was on the outside, sure as fuck wasn't matching who I really was on the inside, and I couldn't hide that.

I was 21, and so my friends, few they were though even at this point, expected me to have a couple drinks with them when I got off work. I just couldn't bare to lose the reflection of myself in their eyes, the reflection of normality, enough to say no. I always wanted to be who they saw, but I couldn't even maintain this front for an entire night.

I went to an Irish pub to meet Joel and his friends. McGrath's was more laid back and my speed. Alcohol has never been a problem or vice for me, and thank God for that, because I don't need any more to add to my growing list. I didn't even order a drink, but rather just sat in the upstairs section waiting for Joel and his gang to arrive when this random, rich fucker came in like a wrecking ball. I loved this bar all adorned in an Irish theme, and it's employees loved me as well. Sweet girls just trying to make a living, like I was. The manager of the bar was a great guy, too. He was a family man with two toddler little girls that I imagine he raised in a loving home environment, a different environment entirely than what I was raised in. He always picked up my drink tab and then I would just tip the waitresses exceedingly well. Their end goal likely more practical than what I spent my hard earned money on, but we were all just trying to make a living none the less. It was more of a dive vibe than the wretched club bar that I worked in, and most importantly for me was that it lacked, ordinarily, the piece of shit guys that flocked to the horrid cocktail club bar I worked at. This night, however, was different.

There's a young guy with a cop's authoritative, straight edged hair cut that I'm beginning to realize, unlike me, very much inwardly represents the young, rich, lawyer's son who wants to be just like his Daddy, cardigan sweater vest wearing costume he's fully clad in.

He just got here, shuffled through the crowd pushing people out of the way as though he's offended that they aren't treating him like the very important person he is in his own head. You know 'im. He's the guy that gets wasted at a party, drives his date home, but before they get there takes his own liberties with her body without consent. She reports him, he spends the night in jail for rape, maybe even opposite end of the jail that I was recently in for a little weed, but because of who his Daddy is, he gets out of jail the next day scott free, probably around the same time the guard is dragging my bloody, corpse-like body back into my cell and laughing at me. That's this guy.

He just ordered his drink, a fucking martini, of course, and now he's becoming belligerent with the working class waitress because he needs her to know he's better than her, but pretending it's because she isn't making his drink fast enough.

Hey, Big Tits, if you're not gonna shake my drink, can you at least shake your titties in my face? She's trying not to pay attention, but this guy is such a piece of shit. How fucking long does it take to get a drink in this shithole, sweetheart? She's ignoring him, and she's doing a far better job than I am. She has a full bar, and she's scrambling to make this asshole's drink first to satisfy his abundant and false delusions of grandeur. Come on baby, shake your titties for me! I wish I was making this up, but I'm not, so this next sentence you have to understand, is just as unwarranted and pretentious to me, as I'm sure it will be to you. I don't know what would possess this prick to think anyone actually cared about his occupation, or that that would somehow get his drink out faster, but he actually fucking did. Hey honey, I'm a fucking LAWYER! Fuckin' bitch here, how long does it take to get a drink in this shithole? He directly that last one to me. He thinks I'm one of him, and that I might round back with a 'fuckin' bitch isn't getting my drinks fast enough either', of my own to match his. He thought wrong.

Half of this was for the waitress, but the other half, the one that involved my fists, was for me. I began mercilessly mocking him. I involved anyone close to me by pretending to gather them around as though I was going to tell them something important, and stunned him with a, 'hey everybody, this guy right here, he's a fucking lawyer! Everybody stop what you're doing, this guy's a fuckin' lawyer and he's gotta get his drink right now or he's gonna tell his Daddy on you! Holy hell, he's a fucking lawyer! This sweater vest wearing, waitress demeaning, Daddy lawyer wanna be, piece of shit prick is a lawyer! Get his drink, Jenny, or he's gonna call his Daddy on you! Hey buddy, nobody fucking care'..-and with that midsentence, this rich prick picked up the contents of an ash tray, and threw it in my face and mouth.

Before the ashtray hit the ground, my fist was hitting his face with a fury behind my punch that had been stored up waiting to be unleashed on someone just like him, very appropriately accumulated by a night serving a bar full of assholes much like him, but with slicked gel hair and fake chains, instead of the lawyer costume this guy borrowed straight outta his Daddy's big boy closet. The force knocked him backward off his bar stool, and I didn't even realize it at the time, but I had already pounced on top of him straddling him the way he probably wished his date would have before she didn't and he had no choice but to rape her. I was on top of him, in a skimpy cocktail dress, straddling him. It was likely the fantasy he had of exactly how his night was going to unfold, minus the harsh reality of the hot, cocktail dress clad woman, me, straddling him was also viciously and effectively punching him in the face. He actually started crying.

Next thing I knew, the bouncer was pulling me off, and kicking us both out of the bar. This guy tried to tell the bouncer that he had no idea why I attacked him. He also, not surprisingly, did in fact have a father that was a lawyer. He told me so while also telling me he and his Daddy were going to sue me for assault.

As it turned out, this would be one time in my life where I get vindication over a rich prick. The manager, my manager friend and owner of the bar, had a camera set up upstairs. The camera's focus was really only wide enough to pan over a couple people, and guess who it happened to catch on it this very night. The manager will see this guy in a month, and he'll tell him he has a video for his Dad to see whenever he wants to swing by the bar. He never came by again.