I am of legal drinking age. I like to drink. I was drinking and I ran out of alcohol. Things are never as easy as they appear.

Part I: The Dilemma

1:30 am, Friday night/Saturday morning. The obvious solution presented itself. I was trying to avoid the need to get more alcohol. I was, after all, only winding down from a week at the office. I had a drink to wind down. I had another. That was the end of the beer. The logical thing to have done at this point would be to stop drinking. Under normal circumstances, I would have stopped drinking. These were not normal circumstances, as I was feeling less than content with my personal life.

Alcohol is, technically speaking, a depressant. What it depresses is what I have always wanted to argue about. It does not, in my experience always depress the spirit of the drinker, nor does it always depress the ability to express complex thought or genuine emotion. On more than a few occasions the bon of bonhomie was due to a generous amount of alcohol (how could I stand these people if I was in my right mind?). And, more than a few of my deepest, most heartfelt and complex discussions have been while under the influence. It’s been a shame that I can’t recall some (most) of them.

On this particular night, alcohol was acting as a memory aid and a depressant. I missed some people and their lack was made more acute as I finished the beer and proceeded to put the remainder of a bottle of Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey out of it’s misery. This, however, added to mine.

A quick survey of my refrigerator, cupboard, counter, bedroom, closet and car yielded no alcohol. A more thorough search had the same result. An even more thorough search left me feeling a little dizzy so I sat down and contemplated my options. Option 1: make alcohol. I had water and sugar. I had no yeast, and I didn’t have a couple of weeks. Option 2: go out and by more alcohol. I desperately hoped for a third solution, which presented itself. One word: vermouth.

I do not consider vermouth an acceptable alcohol for human consumption. It can be added to gin, but by itself it is abhorrent. Perhaps, I thought, I can get by with drinking vermouth. I weighed the options before me: drink the vermouth or head to the store. Considering that the store would be full of people (fewer people than a bar, to be sure, but still far too many for my taste), I drank about ½ of the remaining vermouth. On the rocks, just like suggested on the bottle (apparently the makers of vermouth are not happy with the dry martini craze and have tried to get back at us sinners by suggesting that we drink it on ice). After choking down my "taste treat", I decided that the number of people at the corner store was, indeed at an acceptable level.

I made the ultimate sacrifice. I put pants on. I buttoned up my shirt and laced up my boots (no socks, however – I was screwing The Man.)

Part II The Purchase (or was it?)

I am a lucky man. I live less than a block away from a 7-11. If I need a Big Bite at 4 in the morning I’m covered. By the way, I never need the bakery sticks. Sure there are difficulties, but I get to feel like a professional running back spinning, diving, and faking out the assorted bums, junkies, and transvestite prostitutes. Clad in the aforementioned boots, pants, and shirt, I felt secure in my turf. It was my 7-11 and I was ready for commerce.

First, a word about entering a 7-11 at 1:30. There is no need to hide your drunkenness, because you are not alone. In fact, your far straighter than the majority. If you are like me (of legal drinking age), you can walk up to the cop whose buying a cup of coffee and tell him/her, "I’ve been drinking, but I need more beer, and probably cigarettes, and hey, those are pretty cool sunglasses" (in an unrealted note: see my eBay auctions). Most of the rest of the crowd is kind of shifty, so you can sort of swagger past them singing "God Bless America." I often do.

The strange thing about walking into a 7-11 at 1:30 is that there is absolutely no way in heaven or hell to prepare yourself for the amount of light that will greet you. You think you’re used to it when you walk past the outside signs, but outside it is isolated and safe. When you walk in you are enfolded into the all powerful and soul extracting glow of fluorescent light. It is…disorienting.

I felt a little out my element with all that light. The looks on the faces of the others (for at this moment, they were all my brothers) made the experience more of a bonding moment than a feeling of losing my precious dignity or whatever. Despite the distraction of the glossy magazines, I pressed on. I had a goal.

A walked past the entire refrigeration case once. I got a little distracted by the Funyons and pork rinds, then I turned and attacked. The ½ cases were far too much. Sure I could have used more than a 6, but they looked so heavy and imposing. They were best left for another time, preferably a time with friends that I could sucker into carrying the goods for me. The wine was too déclassé. Then I saw it, my personal water from the stone, the champagne of beers: Miller High Life. Perhaps on another occasion I can explain what s so wonderful about this brew. Right now, please bear with me, it’s just that important to me.

Finally, I had focused on my goal and it was there. I contemplated for a moment the importance of hard work and all those values I was brought up with. Until that moment I always thought that no matter what I did, The Man would drag me down. I knew at that moment that all that was a mistake on my part. I could have anything I wanted. See that High Life? It was hope. It was generations of immigrant blood finally vindicated. "God bless America" I exclaimed as I reached for the handle on that refrigerator door.

It was locked. I was, understandably, confused and irritated.

A word about the Commonwealth of Virginia. It is my home state. I am proud to say that I was born in this fine state. I defend it and it’s obsession with its checkered past to my friend from other areas. I make a conscious effort to support Virginian businesses. But, I cannot stomach its ridiculous blue laws. Apparently, someone decided that our problems would be alleviated if alcohol could not leave the premises after midnight. No one in the state I love will give me alcohol to take to my own home.

This was explained to me by a fine, fine figure of a woman. I had nearly ripped my arm out by trying to open that door and she calmly explained that they lock them at midnight. I was in love with her. I vigorously tried the door many more times. I was impressed by her moral insight. I nearly proposed to her, but she left to buy cigarettes for her underage friend who was shooting up in the alley. She shoved some easily hidden items into her pocket and walked out of my life.

I was dejected. The Man had crushed my hop-filled dreams.

On the other hand, this guy outside the store was impressed with my boots. He asked if they were jump boots. I tried to show him they were a little short for that, and I nearly fell over. I regained my balance by doing a little dance outside the 7-11. That was nice. I went home, drank the rest of the vermouth and did my best to fall asleep.