Prologue

August 2022

The alarm blares at 7 a.m. It’s loud and unwelcome. I arise out of a light slumber. I have been twisting and turning in a pile of sheets and pillows since 3 a.m. I gave up on sleep around 4:30 a.m. and began doom scrolling on Instagram and Facebook until I dozed off – phone resting upon my chest. It feels as if I haven’t slept at all.

I stumble to the bathroom and begrudgingly gaze in the mirror. It’s not a pretty sight. Black bags droop beneath my blood red eyes. Blotches of patchy red skin take up more and more real estate on my face. More grey creeps into my beard, which hasn’t been trimmed for at least a week, maybe two. My black hair is matted and shiny with grease.

I drown my eyes in a waterfall of Clear Eyes. I swallow my Duloxetine (anti-depressant), Clonazepam (anti-anxiety) and Gabapentin (I can’t remember why I take it). I press a warm wet washcloth to my face in a futile attempt to alleviate the swelling in my cheeks and jaw.

I’m anxious. I shake. I feel dread. Impending doom consumes my thoughts. A subtle tremor radiates throughout my body.

I down a tumbler of water to satiate my depleted core. The fuel is needed, but it doesn’t go down easily. I’m gagging. Constantly gagging. Coughing. Hacking up phlegm. Trying not to throw up.

I muster up the courage to brush my teeth. It’s going to be a battle. Can I make it to completion without puking in the sink? When I hit the back of my mouth, the gag reflex is going to set in. I know it will. I turn the water on full blast to mask the sound of the noisy and potential hazard. I don’t want my wife and the kids to hear me wretch in the sink.

I must take my daughter to preschool. So, I throw on some ratty old shorts, a basketball jersey and a trucker hat. I help her get dressed. We head to the car. We drive a few blocks. I park, walk her in, but am careful to keep my distance from her teachers and other parents. I’m sure that the scent of vodka is still seeping through the pores of my skin. I don’t want to raise concerns or generate a sideways glance. I drive back home and plop on the couch.

“Goddamn it,” I think. “I can’t do this.”

Simply existing is a marathon. It’s a chore to exist. Did I get more than an hour of consecutive sleep last night? I’m exhausted. My muscles ache. My equilibrium is off.

Luckily, I don’t have to work. I’m between jobs. My infant son is crying, and it’s making my headache even worse – if such a feat is possible. He’s rolling around in a mound of stuffies on the living room floor. My oldest daughter is home for the day since it’s the middle of July, school is out and she doesn’t have childcare on Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays. She’s watching Bluey, a Disney cartoon about a family of blue heelers. I have no idea what Shyla is doing. Presumably working upstairs?

Now what? Back to bed? Sleep on the couch? Watch Bluey? Instagram reels? A little food? Nah. Breakfast is off the table. I’m queasy and the thought of an egg or toast is revolting. I head outside to take in some air.

Sitting on the steps of my patio, head in hands, an idea pops in my head. I need a drink. An elixir to push my physical and mental misery aside. It’s only 9 a.m., but I don’t care. I grab a LaCroix carbonated water, pop the top and meander to the basement. I reach into the rafters of the unfinished ceiling of the laundry room. Above the door frame, I root around a mountain of empty pints and quarts of vodka bottles. My fingertips collide with one that has some mass. I dislodge it from the ceiling and discover it’s about half full. Perfect. I empty its contents into my can. My grapefruit flavored LaCroix is now about a 50/50 mix of vodka and carbonated water. I down it in one long gulp. It burns as it slides down my throat, but the elation is instant. Euphoria sweeps across my body.

Life instantly becomes easier. I’m not drunk, but I no longer feel like shit. I can walk, talk, think, breathe, maybe even eat something. I’m functional again.

About an hour later, my wife says she is going to Sam’s Club. My daughter, son and I will tag along, I conclude. It’ll give us something to do and provide a means to get some hot cheap food for lunch. Before we depart, I go to the basement and empty the remainder of the bottle I found earlier into a new can of water. I finish it quickly, load the kids into their car seats and my wife hops in the passenger seat. I drive the family to Sam’s Club.

We meander about the store for about an hour filling the giant cart with diapers, paper plates, apple sauce and yogurt packets, wipes, various toiletries, frozen pizzas and seasonal toddler and youth clothing. After checkout, we purchase some sodas, hot dogs and pizza at the food counter for less than $20. We grab a picnic table near the entrance of the store, and we sit down to eat. A slice of greasy pepperoni goes down easily, but I have heartburn almost instantly.

It’s early afternoon and its already nearly 90 degrees, hot for Minnesota. So, we decide to head to the pool in a bit. My wife goes back to work upstairs for a couple hours. The kids watch TV in the living room while blasted by the cool air conditioning. I decide to get towels, suits and splash toys ready.

As I pack, that sense of uneasiness and anxiety comes crushing back like a tidal wave. I load the car with our accessories. Soon, I’m drenched in sweat. My clothes are sopping wet even though I’ve participated in minimal physical activity. Am I going to faint? I’m lightheaded.

I need more vodka. Right now. I’m out, though. Think. Why do I need to go to the store? Any excuse will do. I tell my wife I’m running to the gas station to purchase a diet soda and some bubble gum. I pick up two quarts of vodka at the liquor store and stash one in the hidden trunk in the back of the car. I keep the other under the passenger seat next to me. I swing by the gas station to buy the stuff I don’t really need. I empty out half of the 20 oz. Diet Dr. Pepper bottle into the garbage can by the gas pump and put it in the cup holder. I make a quick pit stop in the parking lot of an apartment complex about six blocks from my house and fill the other half of the soda with vodka. I take a long pull before returning home.

During the next hour and a half, I finish my cocktail and make another carbonated water and vodka drink in a 12 ounce can. Before we depart, I finish my drink and pop a couple pieces of gum in my mouth. Time to swim. We’ve got to beat this heat. First, we need to pick our middle daughter up from daycare. My wife and the kids hop in the car, and I peel out of the driveway.

The drive to daycare quickly becomes precarious. My motor function lags, and my reaction time is off by at least two seconds. I pull out too far into the intersection when turning left. I hit the brakes suddenly – jolting my family forward, snapping the safety belts into action. When I notice a city bus in front of me pull over to pick up passengers, I hit a curb. We approach a roundabout. I can’t figure the timing out. The cars are moving too quickly and I’m having trouble figuring out how to merge.

When we arrive at daycare, I put the vehicle in park and hop out to get my girl. My wife says something, but it doesn’t register. I buzz the front entrance. I leave my shades on when I step inside and am sure to keep my distance from kids, parents and teachers. The three-year-old greets me with a hug and a smile. She squeals in delight when I tell her we’re going to the pool.

We get outside. My wife is in the driver’s seat. Strange. I buckle my daughter into her car seat and hop into the passenger side of the car. “What’s going on?” I ask. “I’m driving. I’m taking you to the police station.” she says. “Okay. Sure,” I reply.

The pool is about four blocks from daycare. Only, instead of turning into the pool, my wife drives past the entrance, and through a roundabout. She drives another block further towards City Hall. She turns into the parking lot of the municipal building when the reality of the impending danger dawns on me.

“Fuck,” I say out loud. She pulls up to the entrance of the police station next to the department of motor vehicles. A couple officers are waiting for us. “I wasn’t driving!” I yell at no one in particular. I exit the passenger door and begin briskly walking away from the scene of the alleged crime. I’m apprehended and cuffed moments later. I’m taken into police custody. As I’m dragged away, I turn my head to see my wife being interrogated from the driver’s side window – three kids nestled in tow.

The door slams behind me. I take a seat on a cot in a cell. What just happened? I’m bewildered. My memory begins to fade. Everything turns black.