Dead relatives
On a Thursday night a week or two ago, time runs together so I’m no longer certain which, I had a drinking dream. Drinking dreams are not uncommon. They occur more often in early recovery, but people with decades in the program have reported them in meetings.
I’ve had using dreams before. I’ve always awakened just before lighting the stem. I’ve never had a drinking dream, and that particular night, I took it. But that’s getting ahead.
It was the occasion of an x0 birthday. I’m inclined to think my 50th because it’s closer. I’d spent the day testifying in court at a murder trial. I walked to the hotel for the party—I think it was the Hyatt but it may have been the other one across the river from the courthouse. It’s been everything from a Holiday Inn to a Sheraton. I can’t remember what they’re calling it now.
Anyway, I arrived late. The meal had already been served. No one saved me a plate. It smelled good though and I was glad the guests seemed to have enjoyed it.
I found myself at the bar, someone pressed a glass into my hand, a 10oz knobby-bottom rocks glass with a couple of fingers of dark amber liquid in it. A toast was made, I raised my glass and downed the shot. Scotch, neat. Mmmm. Yummy. It warmed me inside all the way down.
They sang Happy Birthday, I turned to the bartender to ask for another, this time with a little ice and a splash. Then I remembered I don’t drink any more and changed the order first to ginger ale, then to bottled water. I slapped a few bucks on the bar, and turned my attention to the party.
Someone had taken all the presents away. A shame since there had been quite a few of them. Why wasn’t there a cake?
Friends and my family of origin were notable by their absence. In the whole room of 50 or 60 people, I recognized only one, Uncle Stan, my maternal grandmother’s older brother. Not sure who the hangers-on were or why they were at my birthday party, but they made it seem more festive.
Uncle Stan always drove Chryslers and was ridiculed in the family for not buying GM. A WWII vet, his main claim to fame was that he was among the first to enter Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest—a claim backed up with a few pieces of Nazi silverware and a Luger. I’ve since learned that half the US Army makes similar claims, especially if there are artifacts to go with them, but I’ll let Uncle Stan have it.
His son, Norm, five or ten years older than I, drank himself to death a few years back. I was newly sober and didn’t attend the funeral because I figured, like all funerals from the Polish side of the family, it would end up with the usual open bar at the Polish Falcons Club on Hudson Ave. I bought a lot of dope not far from the Polish Falcons Club. Hudson Ave is not a good neighborhood. Even during the day.
Uncle Stan was across the room at a table, wearing a brown suit, yellow shirt and pale blue tie. I raised my drink to him in acknowledgement as they wheeled in the sound system.
No DJ, no disks, so why the sound system? I awoke while pawing through the box of cables to see if they had one like I have here at home that lets me plug my CD/MP3 Walkman into the stereo. At least then there’d be music I like, even if the food and presents were gone.
More importantly I wouldn’t have to polka. Yes, I can polka. It’s something I rarely admit and that I do only at weddings which, blessedly, have become fewer and further between through the years.
Tonight, I’m unsure of the occasion, but again, the dream was set in a hotel, although this time in a lobby or reception area. Again I was in a suit. A receiving line of dead relatives stretched out before me, waiting their turn.
It was good to see Aunt Georgie again. She’s my maternal grandfather’s older brother’s wife. She seemed very happy to see me again too, even if I kept calling her Aunt Georgina, who is from my father’s side.
Aunt Georgie was a little bit of a thing. I awoke when I realized I was hugging her so tight she probably couldn’t breathe with her face pressed into my chest like that.
There were a couple of people in the dream’s receiving line between Aunt Georgie and her husband, Uncle Clar (for Clarence, but pronounced like the woman’s name, Claire). My only real memories of him are from summers at the cottage. He and my grandfather bought four ajoining lots on the west side of Blind Sodus Bay off Lake Ontario about 90 minutes east of the city. They build their summer cottages there.
Uncle Clar was an alcoholic. He spent the entire day, from just after breakfast, until supper time, sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck of the boathouse chewing tobacco and drinking cans of Red Cap ale.
Just inside the boathouse door was his beer fridge. A full-sized (for the era) kitchen fridge that, beyond the occasional box of worms or minnows, held only Red Cap. All the shelves and the doors were filled with it. Thing must’ve held four or five cases. We kids had to go to the kitchen fridge for a bottle of pop.
He never said much that I remember. Grunted a lot. Spat. Told the occasional story, but I barely remember his voice he talked so little.
I’m not sure what all this means. I’m grateful there were no dark tunnels leading to pools of blinding white light. I did awaken this morning feeling more peaceful than I’ve felt in a while.
Having spent my “fall back” hour doing this, I’m going make a nice artery-clogging breakfast and see if I can catch some more sleep before the church next door gets into full swing.
