Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘sober’

A Thousand Down

In alcoholism, TOUR, travel on July 17, 2015 at 8:27 am

We pulled into the Crown Plaza Louisville at 8, or what I thought was 8.  We had just spent the last 10 hours in the van burning through Arkansas (thank Christ), Mississippi, Tennessee and a 1/4 of Kentucky.  The trees gave way to the hills, the hills to rock and then finally back to the hot and flat sprawl of downtown Louisville.  Last night at the Quality Inn we had to walk through 2 police officers and an African American gentleman in his PJs.  There were 8 shots fired outside my window just after 11, but I slept soundly and we were back on the road by 10:15 the next day.  The contrast between these two hotels is stark, but I’ll take the squalor of the Quality Inn in the ghettos of Benton, AK over the many floored splendor of the Crown Plaza any day.  Know why?  Cause I’m from Philly and I find most ghettos laughable or at least very doable for a 6’2 Italian-American with an anger problem.  But also because, despite the police, we were able to slide in to our rooms at the Quality nice and sleazy.  No problem.  In the lobby of the Crown Plaza there was a line to the front desk.  Me and the Boss waited the length of an Aerosmith song.  And then we waited some more.  When we finally got to the desk the clerk asked us where we were from, then regaled us with the story of his roadtrip, when he was younger, and was bestowed an ’88 Bronco on the condition that he drive it all the way from Big Sur to Louisville, but of course he broke down…he broke down in Vegas and
“You ever been to Vegas?”
We got our room keys.  Flagged a bellhop.  Loaded the cart.  With Ben’s bags, my bags and git, and the assorted necessaries of a quadripilegic’s bedroom.  Unloaded Blair.  Unloaded Ben.  But when we set up the baby monitors for a test, all Ben could hear at his end, around the corner and down the hall, was static.  This wouldn’t do.  We went back down to find the line had quadrupled.  Flights out of Louisville had been cancelled due to weather and the line was full of anger and pouting children.  Our man Chris (the bellhop) was able to butt in line, but not for long.  He got us a new room for Blair and we headed up.  Loaded Blair onto the cart again.  Loaded Ben.  Went to our new rooms.  Repeat.  When we finally got to my room I had lost the key.    Me and Chris went down AGAIN, got a new key and unloaded me and a $20 into the palm of his hand.  I looked at my phone.
“9:30?!”
We’d lost an hour.  Eastern Standard.  We’d already lost a half hour looking for the place and God knows how long doing the Hotel Shuffle.  Now it was 9:30, I’d been up since 8 and drove five hundred miles through 3 states.

Now I’m in my room.  It’s quiet here.  A far cry from the Quality Inn.  Loading in here was a CF of the highest order.  I would’ve thought a room over twice the price would’ve been easier to get into but that’s the road for you.  Today was the day the universe wanted me to drink.  It REALLY did.  But I said no.  Had a shortrib.  7 seltzers with lime.  Dessert.  Some smokes.  I should really get to bed.  We’re doing this whole thing again tomorrow.  I really can’t complain.  I’ve been on tours where something terrible happened EVERY SINGLE DAY.  No exaggeration. These things can happen when the band you’re driving has blown their tour support on coke, and the manager is a jilted X-member on psychotropic drugs that he should under no circumstance drink on. Which of course he does and wakes you at 2 in the morning, kicking your bed for yelling at the girls you hung out with earlier about the war in Iraq.  This fuckaround?  This little snag?  Ha.

800 to go.
Trainer
Louisville, KY

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bullet for the mourning dove

In alcoholism, Being A Writer, poem, Poetry, recovery, sober, Writing on June 1, 2015 at 2:55 pm

I’ve got a new pain
it’s just behind the shoulder blade
it could be worse but it makes writing even harder
I haven’t had a hangover in 70 days
and most days I make it past noon without a cigarette
I have breakfast now, I juice, before coffee
I go on break from the shift, from noon-3 everyday
and just before break I make the preparations
for a writing session like a kamikaze pilot
earplugs in, black shades on, curtains drawn
I fire up the coffee, dick around with my nicotine vaporizers
I ring the bell on my altar and say my silent prayers
then I take a toke of black hash, sit down
and get to it.
life is good, it’s easy and that’s so very hard to deal with
and there are certainly worse problems to have
I’ve got some hangups, some character defects
but nothing dire, the result of living like a drunk poet
for 20 years
and living under the heavy certainty that something heavy
is always waiting, and will come crashing
it’s hard not to consider those years as silly
and so regretfully wasteful
but what can you do but keep at it? so I do,
I keep at it, the clacking of keys into the afternoon
with a pain under my left shoulder blade
the worst most certainly behind me
savage in memory only
poetry was with me in the dire and air raid days
may as well bring it with me into this new age
days of typing quietly, with nothing being wrong
no real problems to speak of
except for one and he’ll be dead by dawn.