Embarrassing story No. 3: The Drunkest Week of My Life

A collision between the sacred and the profane ...

A mostly sober man

I am not a drinker, except by technicality. Whenever I’m asked by a doctor’s office in a questionnaire, my response to alcohol consumption amounts to one or two drinks per month. My father’s father was an alcoholic, but my father isn’t and I haven’t come close.

I don’t think I’ve overdone it since November 2001, the night before the Thanksgiving and my 34th birthday. I had all but given up on my screenwriting career and taken a miserable job with an online business news service. I had been unemployed when I got married in April 2000, and I couldn’t bear the fear of wondering when the next job would come. I started paying attention to the Los Angeles Times classified ads (remember those?), and I found the opening there. I had a nice interview with the vice president/hiring manager, and started on a Monday morning. I met my new boss, the president of the company, at 9 a.m.. By 9:30 a.m., I knew I had made a terrible mistake.

Dana knew me well. When she came home that late November night and saw five empty beer bottles on our coffee table, she knew it was time for me to get out of that job. I doubt I’ve had more than three drinks in a night since, and that would be rare.

But there was this one week when I was 19.