THE UNBELIEVER
By Hank Parkhurst
DULL . . . listless . . . semicomatose . . . I lay on my bed in a
famous hospital for alcoholics. Death or worse had been my sentence.
What was the difference? What difference did anything make? Why think
of those things which were gone-why worry about the results of my
drunken escapades? What the hell were the odds if my wife had discovered
the mistress situation? Two swell boys . . . sure . . . but what
difference would a corpse or an asylum imprisoned father make to them? .
. . thoughts stop whirling in my head . . . that's the worst of this
sobering-up process . . . the old think tank is geared in high-high . .
. what do I mean high-high . . . where did that come from . . . oh yes,
that first Cadillac I had, it had four speeds . . . had a high-high gear
. . . insane asylum . . . how that bus could scamper . . . yes . . .
even then liquor probably poisoned me. What had the little doctor said
this morning . . . thoughts hesitate a moment . . . stop your mad
turning . . . what was I thinking about . . . oh yes, the doctor.
This morning I reminded Doc this was my tenth visit. I had spent a
couple of thousand dollars on these trips and those I had financed for
the plastered play girls who also couldn't sober up. Jackie was a honey
until she got plastered and then she was a hellion. Wonder what gutter
she's in now. Where was I? Oh . . . I asked the doctor to tell me the
truth. He owed it to me for the amount of money I had spent. He
faltered. Said I'd been drunk that's all. God! Didn't I know that?
But Doc, you're evading. Tell me honestly what is the matter with me.
I'll be all right did you say? But Doc, you've said that before. You
said once that if I stopped for a year I would be over the habit and
would never drink again. I didn't drink for over a year, but I did start
to drink again.
Tell me what is the matter with me. I'm an alcoholic? Ha ha and ho
ho! As if I didn't know that! But aside from your fancy name for a plain
drunk, tell me why I drink. You say a true alcoholic is something
different from a plain drunk? What do you mean . . . let me have it cold
. . . brief and with no trimmings.
An alcoholic is a person who has an allergy to alcohol? Is poisoned
by it? One drink does something to the chemical make-up of the body?
That drink affects the nerves and in a certain number of hours another
drink is medically demanded? And so the vicious cycle is started? An
ever smaller amount of time between drinks to stop those screaming,
twitching, invisible wires called nerves?
I know that history Doc . . . how the spiral tightens . . . a drink .
. . unconscious . . . awake . . . drink . . . unconscious . . . poured
into the hospital . . . suffer the agonies of hell . . . the shakes . .
. thoughts running wild . . . brain unleashed . . . engine without a
governor. But hell Doc, I don't want to drink! I've got one of the
stubbornest will powers known in business. I stick at things. I get them
done. I've stuck on the wagon for months. And not been bothered by it .
. . and then suddenly, incomprehensibly, an empty glass in my hand and
another spiral started. How did the Doc explain that one?
He couldn't. That was one of the mysteries of true alcoholism. A
famous medical foundation had spent a fortune trying to segregate the
reasons for the alcoholic as compared to the plain hard, heavy drinker.
Had tried to find the cause. And all they had been able to determine as
a fact was that practically all of the alcohol in every drink taken by
the alcoholic went to the fluid in which the brain floated. Why a man
every started when he knew those things was one of the things that could
not be fathomed. Only the damn fool public believed it a matter of weak
will power. Fear . . . ostracism . . . loss of family . . . loss of
position . . . the gutter . . . nothing stopped the alcoholic.
Doc! What do you mean-nothing! What! An incurable disease? Doc, you'
re kidding me! You're trying to scare me into stopping! What's that you
say? You wish you were? What are those tears in your eyes Doc? What's
that? Forty years you've spent at this alcoholic business and you have
yet to see a true alcoholic cured? Your life defeated and wasted? Oh,
come, come Doc . . . what would some of us do without you? If even to
only sober up. But Doc . . . let's have it. What is going to be my
history from here on out? Some vital organ will stop or the mad house
with a wet brain? How soon? Within two years? But, Doc, I've got to do
something about it! I'll see doctors . . . I'll go to sanitariums.
Surely the medical profession knows something about it. So little, you
say? But why? Messy. Yes, I'll admit there is nothing messier than an
alcoholic drunk.
What's that Doc? You know a couple of fellows that were steady
customers here that haven't been drunk for about ten months? You say
they claim they are cured? And they make an avocation of passing it on
to others? What have they got? You don't know . . . and you don't
believe they are cured . . . well why tell me about it? A fine fellow
you say, plenty of money, and you're sure it isn't a racket . . . just
wants to be helpful . . . call him up for me will you, Doc?
How Doc had hated to tell me. Thoughts stop knocking at my door. Why
can't I get drunk like other people, get up next morning, toss my head a
couple of times and go to work? Why do I have to shake so I can't hold
the razor? Why does every little muscle inside me have to feel like a
crawling worm? Why do even my vocal cords quiver so words are gibberish
until I've had a big drink? Poison! Of course! But how could anyone
understand such a necessity for a drink that it has to be loaded with
pepper to keep it from bouncing? Can any mortal understand such secret
shame in having to have a drink as to make a person keep the bottles
hidden all over the house. The morning drink . . . shame and necessity .
. . weakness . . . remorse. But what do the family know about it? What
do doctors know about it? Little Doc was right, they know nothing. They
just say "Be strong"-"Don't take that
drink"-"Suffer it through."
What the hell do they know about suffering? Not sickness. Not a belly
ache-oh yes, your guts get so sore that you cannot place your hands on
them . . . oh sure, every time you go you twist and writhe in pain. What
the hell does any non-alcoholic know about suffering? Thoughts . . .
stop this mad merry-go-round. And worst of all this mental suffering-the
hating yourself-the feeling of absurd, irrational weakness-the
unworthiness. Out that window! Use the gun in the drawer! What about
poison? Go out in a garage and start the car. Yeah, that's the way out .
. . but then people'll say "He was plastered." I can't leave
that story behind. That's worse than cowardly.
Isn't there some one who understands? Thoughts . . . please, oh
please, stop . . . I'm going nuts . . . or am I nuts now? Never . . .
never again will I take another drink, not even a glass of beer . . .
even that starts it. Never . . . never . . . never again . . . and yet
I've said that a dozen times and inexplicably I've found an empty glass
in my hand and the whole story repeated.
My Lord, the tragedy that sprang out of her eyes when I came home
with a breath on me . . . and fear. The smiles wiped off the kids'
faces. Terror stalking through the house. Yes . . . that changed it from
a home into a house. Not drunk yet, but they knew what was coming. Mr.
Hyde was moving in.
And so I'm going to die. Or a wet brain. What was it that fellow said
who was here this afternoon? Damn fool thought . . . get out of my mind.
Now I know I'm going nuts. And science knows nothing about it. And
psychiatrists. I've spent plenty on them. Thoughts, go away! No . . . I
don't want to think about what that fellow said this afternoon.
He's trying . . . idealistic as hell . . . nice fellow, too. Oh, why
do I have to suffer with this revolving brain? Why can't I sleep? What
was it he said? Oh yes, came in and told about his terrific drunks, his
trips up here, this same thing I'm going through. Yes, he's an alcoholic
all right. And then he told me he knew he was cured. Told me he was
peaceful . . . (I'll never know peace again) . . . that he didn't carry
constant fear around with him. Happy because he felt free. But it's
screwy. He said so himself. But he did get my confidence when he started
to tell what he had gone through. It was so exactly like my case. He
knows what this torture is. He raised my hopes so high; it looked as
though he had something. I don't know, I guess I was so sold that I
expected him to spring some kind of a pill and I asked him desperately
what it was.
And he said "God."
And I laughed.
A ball bat across my face would have been no greater shock. I was so
high with hope and expectation. How can a man be so heartless? He said
that it sounded screwy but it worked, at least it had with him . . .
said he was not a religionist . . . in fact didn't go to church much . .
. my ears came up at that . . . his unconventionality attracted me . . .
said that some approaches to religion were screwy . . . talked about how
the simplest truth in the world had been often all balled up by
complicating it . . . that attracted me . . . get out of my mind . . .
what a fine religious bird I'd be . . . imagine the glee of the gang at
me getting religion . . . phooey . . . thoughts, please slow down . . .
why don't they give me something to go to sleep . . . lie down in green
pastures . . . the guy's nuts . . . forget him.
And so it's the mad house for me . . . glad mother is dead, she won't
have to suffer that . . . if I'm going nuts maybe it'd be better to be
crazy the way he is . . . at least the kids wouldn't have the insane
father whisper to carry through life . . . life's cruel . . . the
puny-minded, curtain hiding gossips . . . "didn't you know his
father was committed for insanity?" What a sly label that would be
to hang on those boys . . . damn the gossiping, reputation-shredding,
busybodies who put their noses into other people's business.
He'd laid in this same dump . . . suffered . . . gone through hell .
. . made up his mind to get well . . . studied alcoholism . . . Jung . .
. Blank Medical Foundation . . . asylums . . . Hopkins . . . many said
incurable disease . . . impossible . . . nearly all known cures had been
through religion . . . revolted him . . . made a study of religion . . .
more he studied the more it was bunk to him . . . not understandable . .
. self-hypnotism . . . and then the thought hit him that people had it
all twisted up. They were trying to pour everyone into moulds, put a tag
on them, tell them what they had to do and how they had to do it, for
the salvation of their own souls. When as a matter of fact people were
through worrying about their souls, they wanted action right here and
now. A lot of tripe was usually built up around the simplest and most
beautiful ideas in the world.
And how did he put the idea . . . bunk . . . bunk . . . why in hell
am I still thinking about him . . . in hell . . . that's good . . . I am
in hell. He said: "I came to the conclusion that there is
SOMETHING. I know not what It is, but It is bigger than I. If I will
acknowledge It, if I will humble myself, if I will give in and bow in
submission to that SOMETHING and then try to lead a life as fully in
accord with my idea of good as possible, I will be in tune." And
later the word good contracted in his mind to God.
But mister, I can't see any guy with long white whiskers up there
just waiting for me to make a plea . . . and what did he answer . . .
said I was trying to complicate it . . . why did I insist on making It
human . . . all I had to do was believe in some power greater than
myself and knuckle down to It . . . and I said maybe, but tell me mister
why are you wasting your time up here? Don't hand me any bunk about it
being more blessed to give than to receive . . . asked him what this
thing cost and he laughed. He said it wasn't a waste of time . . . in
doping it out he had thought of something somebody had said. A person
never knew a lesson until he tried to pass it on to someone else. And
that he had found out every time he tried to pass this on It became more
vivid to him. So if we wanted to get hard boiled about it, he owed me, I
didn't owe him. That's a new slant . . . the guy's crazy as a loon . . .
get away from him brain . . . picture me going around telling other
people how to run their lives . . . if I could only go to sleep . . .
that sedative doesn't seem to take hold.
He could visualize a great fellowship of us . . . quietly passing
this from alcoholic to alcoholic . . . nothing organized . . . not
ministers . . . not missionaries . . . what a story . . . thought we'd
have to do it to get well . . . some kind of a miracle had happened in
his life . . . common sense guy at that . . . his plan does fire the
imagination.
Told him it sounded like self hypnotism to me and he said what of it
. . . didn't care if it was yogi-sim, self-hypnotism, or anything else .
. . four of them were well. But it's so damn hypocritical . . . I get
beat every other way and then I turn around and lay it in God's lap . .
. damned if I ever would turn to God . . . what a low-down, cowardly,
despicable trick that would be . . . don't believe in God anyway . . .
just a lot of hooey to keep the masses in subjugation . . . world's
worst inquisitions have been practiced in His name . . . and he said . .
. do I have to turn into an inquisitionist . . . if I don't knuckle
down, I die . . . why the low-down missionary . . . what a bastardly
screw to put on a person . . . a witch burner, that's what he is . . .
the hell with him and all his damn theories . . . witch burner.
Sleep, please come to my door . . . that last was the eight hundred
and eighty-fifth sheep over the fence . . . guess I'll put in some black
ones . . . sheep . . . shepherds . . . wise men . . . what was that
story . . . hell there I go back on that same line . . . told him I
couldn't understand and I couldn't believe anything I couldn't
understand. He said he supposed then that I didn't use electricity. No
one actually understood where it came from or what it was. Nuts to him.
He's got too many answers. What did he think the nub of the whole thing
was? Subjugate self to some power above . . . ask for help . . . mean it
. . . try to pass it on. Asked him what he was going to name this? Said
it would be fatal to give it any kind of a tag . . . to have any sort of
formality.
I'm going nuts . . . tried to get him into an argument about miracles
. . . about Immaculate Conception . . . about stars leading three wise
men . . . Jonah and the whale. He wanted to know what difference those
things made . . . he didn't even bother his head about them . . . if he
did, he would get tight again. So I asked him what he thought about the
Bible. Said he read it, and used those things he understood. He didn't
take the Bible literally as an instruction book, for there was no
nonsense you could not make out of it that way.
Thought I had him when I asked about the past sins I had committed.
Guess I've done everything in the book . . . I supposed I would have to
adopt the attitude that all was forgiven . . . here I am pure and clean
as the driven snow . . . or else I was to go through life flogging
myself mentally . . . bah. But he had the answer for that one too. Said
he couldn't call back the hellish things he had done, but he figured
life might be a ledger page. If he did a little good here and there,
maybe the score would be evened up some day. On the other hand, if he
continued as he had been going there would be nothing but debit items on
the sheet. Kind of common sense.
This is ridiculous . . . have I lost all power of logic . . . would I
fall for all that religious line . . . let's see if I can't get to
thinking straight . . . that's it . . . I'm trying to do too much
thinking . . . just calm myself . . . quietly . . . quiet now . . .
relax every muscle . . . start at the toes and move up . . . insane . .
. wet brain . . . those boys . . . what a mess my life is . . . mistress
. . . how I hate her . . . ah . . . I know what's the matter . . . that
fellow gave me an emotional upset . . . I'll list every reason I
couldn't accept his way of thinking. After laughing at this religious
stuff all these years I'd be a hypocrite. That's one. Second, if there
was a God, why all this suffering? Wait a minute, he said that was one
of the troubles, we tried to give God some form. Make It just a Power
that will help. Third, it sounds like the Salvation Army. Told him that
and he said he was not going around singing on any street corners but
nevertheless the Salvation Army did a great work. Simply, if he heard of
a guy suffering the torments, he told him his story and belief.
There I go thinking again . . . just started to get calmed down . . .
sleep . . . boys . . . insane . . . death . . . mistress . . . life all
messed up . . . business. Now listen, take hold . . . what am I going to
do? NEVER . . . that's final and in caps. Never . . . that's net no
discount. Never . . . never . . . and my mind is made up. NEVER am I
going to be such a cowardly low down dog as to acknowledge God. The two
faced, gossiping Babbitts can go around with their sanctimonious
mouthings, their miserable worshipping, their Bible quotations, their
holier-than-thou attitudes, their nicey-nice, Sunday-worshipping,
Monday-robbing actions, but never will they find me acknowledging God.
Let me laugh . . . I'd like to shriek with insane glee . . . my mind's
made up . . . insane, there it is again.
Brrr, this floor is cold on my knees . . . why are the tears running
like a river down my cheeks . . . God, have mercy on my soul!
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