HERE’S TO YOUR HEALTH

This week’s HTYH is a continuation of Larcine’s story: The day after the wedding, I explained the rules and regulations of our marriage to Butch. There would be no more drinking after work and if he needed to drink, once a month, we could get a babysitter and party. Knowing what I know now, he was so loaded when I explained my rules to him that he never heard a word I said, his head just bobbed up and down, he was in another black-out. What he heard probably sounded to him like “bla-bla-bla and furthermore, bla-bla-blublala.” The third day of our marriage he didn’t bother to come home at all; he was out all night. I knew right then something had to be done so I sat him down at the kitchen table again and pretended to pour myself a glass of whiskey and pretended to drink it down and then I said, “I have to go home now fellows, I’m married and I have responsibilities; I’ll see you later. Do you think you can do that?” He nodded his head yes and said he could do that, but the very next day he didn’t come home again.

I referred to his friends as “scum of the earth people,” and I blamed them, but his friend’s wives were probably calling Butch the same thing and blaming him for their husband’s alcohol and drug related peccadilloes. One night the low-life friends who sold him drugs called and said Butch was loaded and obnoxious and if I didn’t come and get him they were going to call the police. Even drug dealers couldn’t stand to be around Butch when he was loaded. I put on my “Super Woman’s” cape, loaded our baby in the car and set off to rescue him from the drug dealers. This is one of my most vivid memories of his drunken escapades. We got into a big argument over who was going to drive the car and while we were arguing I saw the drug dealers peeking out at us through the slats of their closed Venetian blinds. I finally got tired of arguing with him and gave him a two-handed shove; he fell into the back seat of my car. I drove home, took the baby up the stairs to our townhouse, but in the meantime, Butch tried to get of the car by himself and he fell down, hit his head on the curb, and was lying in the street bleeding profusely from a head wound. I was not, in the least, concerned about his wound, I just wanted to get him off the street and into our townhouse before anybody saw him, but it was like trying to push a two hundred pound rope. Pushing didn’t work so I grabbed him by the ankles and started dragging him towards our door leaving a very noticeable trail of blood. A concerned citizen stopped his car, got out and asked, “Are you having a problem?” I said, “My husband has fallen and he can’t get up.” The concerned citizen got under one of Butch’s arms and I got under the other and we finally managed to get him inside.

My next problem was how to get him up the stairs to our bedroom and the cuss-words are really starting to fly between Butch and me. The concerned citizen helped get Butch up the stairs and onto the bed and he bolted for the door, he was out of there in a flash. The blood was still gushing from Butch’s head wound; it was pooled on our bed and all over the floor. By this time I was getting hysterical because I thought he was dying. I was so hysterical that I called the EMS and they called the police, the baby was crying and it was pure chaos. The police arrived and when they asked Butch what happened, he told them that I pushed him down the stairs. I told the police I had done nothing of the sort, but if they would be so kind as to lift him off our bed and carry him over to the stairs, I’d be delighted to push him down the stairs. They said, “That won’t be necessary as they cleaned him up and bandaged his head. As it turned out, he needed a couple of stitches but he was too drunk to go to the hospital so the EMS took him out of our house on a gurney. This happened on a Friday night, all the neighbors were out in our front yard and Butch was waving to them as they pushed him by them; he said, “Hi Fred, Hi Barney, I’ll be right back.” I had a newspaper in front of my face because I didn’t want anybody to recognize me. I was real big on anonymity back then, but somewhere amidst all that craziness, I called the Council on Alcoholism. I just happened to run across their phone number and had written it down and so I called them. To be continued.

The Waynedale News Staff

John Barleycorn

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