6/11/2025
Newsletter #774
The Crack of Dawn
Part IV:
After two idyllic years, at least in my perception, my girlfriend Lisa broke up with me. Then we got back together, then she broke up with me again. Then we got back together, then she broke up with me again. This disheartening cycle repeated itself a half dozen times between 2006 and 2012. That I tolerated it at all was ridiculous. That I kept participating was pathetic. So, I started to drink.
Years later, a therapist concluded, “So, you found a woman who treated you as badly as your father.” I guess I had, though I certainly wasn’t aware of it at the time. Lisa’s a lawyer, has another degree in accounting, and was the editor of her law review. She sincerely believed that she was much smarter than me (and maybe she is). Lisa hated my writing. She quickly made it clear that she wasn’t interested in reading anything of mine. But worst of all, she thought I was unlucky. Plain and simple, I’m not unlucky. However, I certainly was unlucky for a while, and it coincidentally coincided with going out with her. As my life fell apart, Lisa would offhandedly comment, “Josh’s luck.” Even during those first few halcyon years, before I was drinking, she made it abundantly clear that though I was good enough for now, with some effort she could do better.
By 2009, even though I had been drinking daily for three years, I didn’t think I had a problem. I mean, I always waited until around 5:00 PM., aways drinking the same reasonable amount—a half pint of vodka and a couple of beers. Therefore, I was in complete control. Yes, I was a drunk; but I was a “functional drunk,” just like my dear old dad, and he did very well for himself. I was convinced that I had joined an illustrious, though entirely nonexclusive, group that included such luminaries as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt. John Barrymore and Anthony Hopkins. Errol Flynn and Humphrey Bogart. Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. Vincent Van Gogh and Pyotr Tschaikovsky. Gerard Depardieu and Buzz Aldrin. Oh, sure, alcohol would kill me, what of it? We all had to go sometime, right? As Charles Bukowski said, “Anyone can not drink. It takes a real man to be a drunk.” With bravado, I wholeheartedly accepted the challenge.
Let’s face it, drinking was frequently a lot of fun. Many a good time was had whilst hoisting a brew. I had a party at my house three, four and five nights a week for about six years. After work, one by one, cars would show up. In these cars were my friends, acquaintances, friends of friends, friends of acquaintances, acquaintances of friends, and sometimes strangers I’d just met at the smoke shop. What, you might ask, made my little, unassuming house so appealing? Well, you could smoke in my house, I always had good music playing, and I always had weed. I got a medical marijuana license the moment they were available. For seven years I grew twelve eight-foot-tall Sativa plants in my backyard. I had so much weed it was coming out my ass. Joyfully, I gave it away for free. That’s why over the course of six years I literally had about a thousand parties. Cars parked all over my lawn. To me at that time, all drinkers and smokers were my friends. Non-drinkers were squares, but they were welcome too (if they could tolerate the smoke). Drinking, of course, has ugly side effects, but I was tough, I could handle them (I cavalierly believed).
It was at this propitious time that Robin reentered my life.
I can’t exactly remember how Robin and I met again. I do know that I was an inveterate drunk dialer. Therefore, I probably just called her. Wait, it’s coming back to me. I did just call her.
On the phone, Robin sounded wonderful. She was as nice and smart and direct as ever. In the intervening 25 years, she had married and become an elementary school art teacher. I don’t remember if she had kids. Robin seemed like a teacher. A teacher who took no shit from anyone. During our first conversation on the phone, she told me that she had recently gotten divorced. I said, “I’m so sorry to hear that,” thinking, “Maybe my timing’s improving?”
No, it wasn’t. At this point my memory dims and the visions grow hazy. But I do remember meeting Robin for a drink at the nearby restaurant and bar, the Moose Preserve. When she came walking up, I thought, “Wow! She looks fabulous for 50.”
So, Robin and I began going out again. She told me that her divorce was contentious, and painfully protracted. It took more than two long, grueling, celibate years to conclude. I thought, “Did it really?” My timing had definitely improved.
Happy horseshit aside, my first dishonest deception was attempting to fool Robin into believing that I wasn’t as big of a drunk as I really was. If I only knew then what I know now. It’s impossible. Regardless of mints, mouthwash, deodorant or cologne, drunks stink of alcohol; it’s secreted through their pores. Therefore, as I cared to construe it, Robin liked me sufficiently to overlook my flaws. Well, that’s huge. And I didn’t see it at the time. And I regret it.
To make matters worse, at the age of 50, I was experimenting with cocaine for the first time in my life. I had refrained throughout the entire disco era when it was popular and readily available. My short-lived romance with blow didn’t last long. After a year I entirely lost the use of my nose. If I’m unable to breathe through my nose; I’m unable to sleep. Of course, one of cocaine’s plethora of side effects is causing sleeplessness, and anxiety, tension, paranoia, and poverty, to name just a few. Luckily for me, alcohol palliates most of these problems, for a while.
Naturally, I also tried to hide my cocaine use from Robin. Whether I did or not, it didn’t seem to matter. She still seemed to like me, and we kept getting together.
Lisa hadn’t yet remarried, and I was still foolishly heartbroken. Over Lisa. Lisa who dumped me half a dozen times. Lisa who didn’t even like me. Whereas Robin thought I was talented. Robin was never mean to me. Robin was very attractive and now an enthusiastic participant in sexual hijinks.
Given the circumstances, it was incredible that Robin and I lasted a few months.
Finally, Robin came over. After some chit-chat, we retired to the bedroom. After a sufficient amount of frisky foreplay, we got down to business. But no matter how hard we tried, neither of us could get off. When it appeared futile, and I was running out of steam, she looked up at me and said in her own direct way, “Your heart’s not in it.”
She was right; my heart wasn’t in it. Of all the fucking ridiculous things, I was still stuck on Lisa. Lisa who hated my writing and thought I was stupid and unlucky. Lisa, who really didn’t even like me.
Robin was right, my heart wasn’t in it, and I couldn’t fake it. At that moment, it was over.
We parted ways.
Fourteen years later, which was last year, I visited my sister in Florida. She took me to the cemetery where my grandmother is buried, which I’d never seen. Then she took me to another cemetery where my mother and my niece are entombed in a mausoleum, which I’d also never seen before.
As my sister and I left the mausoleum, we were both quiet and reflective. When we got outside into the bright Florida sun, a man and a woman, both dressed in black, came walking toward us. To me it was a fuzzy blob. My sister poked me in the side and said, “That’s Robin.” I put on my glasses, and goddam it if it wasn’t Robin, and she looked fabulous. Black really suited her. I blurted, “Robin. You look great!” She recognized me and said, “Josh.” Oblivious to our moment, the man took hold of her arm and led her inside the mausoleum.
As my sister and I walked away, I asked rhetorically, “Doesn’t Robin look terrific?”
My sister nodded and said, “Yes, she does. I think that was her husband. Her third.”
That was the last time I saw her.
I appreciate the encouragement.
It has been said that friends are God's apology for your family.