Drunken Dispatches

I know a few people who don’t drink. They’re defined by it, at least to me. They could be fantastic family men, internationally-ranked creatives, Nobel Prize winners, but if I had to introduce them to someone else at a party, their name would be followed by “Oh, he doesn’t drink.” In my mental Google Plus, they’re all lumped together in the “Teetotalers” circle, shifting their weight from foot to foot and looking bemusedly at each other and not drinking. 

One of them doesn’t drink simply because he doesn’t like the taste of alcohol. In an effort to convert him, I once spent a long house party by his side, convincing him to try various cocktails. These concoctions got more and more lethal as the night progressed and I the intrepid mixer got steadily drunker. “Rum with vodka and brandy? Let’s cut it with some calamansi concentrate! And coconut juice. C’mere, dude, try this. I call it the Mariah Carey.” Eventually he slunk away through the crowd, leaving me by the bar amidst half-full plastic cups. I see now that the reason he doesn’t drink is because of people like me.

Another doesn’t drink because he never has, and he values his health. We stumbled into each other once along Katipunan on a Friday night. I was only slightly tipsy, but he fixed me with a look that made me feel like I was Courtney Love and he was a social worker come to take Frances Bean away. “You’re drunk,” he said levelly. “No, no way, nuh-uh,” I replied hastily, wiping my hand across my face. “No,” I whispered, “I’m just really happy.” He started to walk away, arms full of groceries. Healthy things like apples and fine cheese and sparkling water, I bet. “You’re happy?” he said over his shoulder, “that’s even worse.” I see now that the reason he doesn’t drink is because of people like me.

The last case study doesn’t drink because he doesn’t like to lose control. He said that to me when we met at a party hosted by common friends. “I don’t like to lose control,” he said, straight up. In reply, I downed my whiskey, straight up. We spent the rest of the night talking as the party shifted and blurred around us. He was polite and clear-eyed, sharp as a knife. I found myself staring at his clean black shoes, making the mental note to aim away from them in case I threw up. When we stood up from beside the pool, I was tottering, exuberant, unconquerable. I admired the steady way he strode through the stragglers to clear a path for me, I admired the guiding force of his disinterested hand on the small of my back. His car was impeccably neat, with a beautiful sound system. I had reached the point where my lungs were making themselves obvious to me, breathing felt so good, the air conditioning felt so good, my hand in his hair felt so good. He turned to me in the half-dark. “I can drop you off at home,” he said, starting up the car. I put my head on his arm, tucked my feet up under me, watched the light from the passing street lamps pour golden stripes across his face. “I like you, though,” I murmured. Said it again, louder, in case he didn’t hear me over the radio. He smelled like soap and vetiver. He took my hand, which was nestled in the crook of his elbow. He held it for a while on top of the stick shift. “I like you too,” he said, his eyes fixed on the road. “But people like you are the reason I don’t drink.”