In January of 2009, gin was my drink,
and everybody knew it. I daresay that gin was my drink for many
years before that. And if it weren't for this wonderful period of
sobriety I've been enjoying over these last several months, gin would
probably still be my drink. But in January 2009, and the night
before I turned in my graduate thesis, gin was definitely being
poured and I was drinking it.
Jimmy said: “Hey Anthony, I brought
us a bottle of gin.” I said, “Great.” He said, “A handle of
it.” After dinner, Julie and Jimmy and I went back to their dorm
and sure enough Jimmy had brought a handle of gin. What's that?
Well, it's 1.75 liters of Bombay Extra Dry. And if you don't know
how much 1.75 liters might be, think of a large bottle of pop,
subtract about one glass and go. I mixed three glasses of gin and
juice, I distributed them, one each—Julie, Jimmy and me. We
slugged down the first round. It was early and the mix was nice.
“Bartender,” Jimmy said. He shook the ice in the plastic
tumbler. “Make us another.” I said, “Now Jimmy, if I make
another, there is no going back. We're going to kill this bottle.”
I counted eight drinks that I made for
other people between 6 p.m., when we started and when we finished at
1 a.m. I reckon that's less than about the .750 ml of the gin and
that Jimmy and I split the liter. The night was a rough one. That
was Plainfield, Vermont on a January night in 2009 before we were to
graduate and move back to the places from where we all came.
