Someone posted about drinking with dad and someone posted about licorice and that all means I have to tell you a story.

I was a shot drinker. What I drank depended on who I was with and what bar I was at. Sometimes it was fruity, too sweet shots like kamikazes and Alabama Slammers. If you drink enough of those, you can loosen a few teeth. I once drank 18 of each. In twenty minutes. But that’s another story.

There was the bar next to the funeral home, where we would pound back enough shots of 151 rum to set our stomachs on fire. And the place with a thousand names where we I did so many tequila shots they would have a bottle with my name scrawled on it with magic marker on the bar every Friday night. And you know how that goes. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila….floor. Though I would usually get to ten. Maybe twelve.

And then there was Vinny’s. I don’t remember the exact name, I just know that Vinny was the owner and he was a friend of ours and shots flowed the like fountain of fucking youth on weekends. Anything we wanted. Just as long as we bought a round every once in a while and tipped Vinny’s brother/girlfriend/whoever was tending that night good, Vinny was generous with the shot glasses. I drank a variety of stuff there. Really, whatever Vin picked out for the night was what I drank. Play a game of Defender, do a shot with Vin. We drank some real crap there. Goldschlager, Jagermiester, Rumple Minze -that shit was deadly. It tasted like Kaopectate. But whatever gets you through, right? Well.

I used to hang out with my dad. He’d drop by Vinny’s sometimes and while it may have freaked out most people to have your dad show up in the bar you where were hanging out, it was ok with me. My friends loved him. Vinny worshiped him. Dad laid a wad of cash down on the bar, gathered us all around and we drank and laughed and watched hockey. It was cool. Until that night.

Friday night, dead of winter.

Hockey on the tv on mute, Eddy Grant’s Electric Avenue on the jukebox. Dad, me, Vinny, my younger sister and four or five friends at the bar doing shots. Dad starts telling stories about me.

Don’t do this, dad. Please. I just know he’s going to tell the story about Florida and me getting lost in St. Augustine and them finding me clinging to some guy dressed like Ponce de Leon, hysterical crying, my hand clinging to Ponce’s crotch. I think they have a picture of it. I think I might have also wet myself. Hey, I was little. And scared.  Anyhow, with my sister there egging him on, I know this story is going to be told and I start getting agitated. Dad says he’ll make a deal with me. He won’t tell the story if I do some shots with him, but his choice. Fine. I’m not going turn down shots. He whispers something to Vinny, who looks horrified. Vinny walks to the end of the bar, grabs something off the shelf, dusts it off and brings it back.

Sambuca.

Fuck me.

Ever had Sambuca? It’s like drinking liquid licorice. It’s sweet and powerful and thick and nasty. It burns going down and it scars your throat coming back up.
And trust me, when you have done enough of these shots, they will come back up. Hardcore. Especially when you had already been sucking back Jager. Ok, I can do this.

One shot. There you go.

Dad grins. You think you’re getting away with one? Come on, you know me better than that. Yea. I do.

Vinny lines up twelve shot glasses. 12. Loads them up with Sambuca.

Everyone in the bar is watching. This isn’t even about the story anymore. This is about me being able to do this. Some people try to please their fathers with good grades or a clean room. I try to do 13 shots of Sambuca. I’ve got something to prove here.

One. Two. Three. They go down kind of easy. The mistake I made was in stopping. I should have gone straight through without even breathing. Getting that fourth down was tough.

Someone kept playing Electric Avnenue. Over and over. My head started to feel fuzzy. My stomach was churning. My esophagus was on fire.

We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue

Another one down. My teeth ached. My tongue was numb.

And then we’ll take it higher

Another one. I lost count. I refused to look my father in the eye until this was done. People pounding their fists on the bar, shouting something. More? Maybe. Whore?? No, it was more. They wanted more.

Oh no

This was weird drunk. Not a rum drunk. Not a tequila drunk. More like a stomach turning, clammy hands, sweating profusely, what the fuck am I doing this to my body for drunk. I knew I was going to puke. The sambuca was heavy, like an oil slick in my throat.

Another. Another. Must not disappoint dad. Gotta do these shots. I had flashbacks to sitting at the kitchen table, my father telling me I couldn’t get up until I ate all my Brussel sprouts. And now I can’t leave the bar til I’ve drank all my Sambuca. That’s all kinds of fucked up.

Finally, my father said I could stop. I was at 11, I think. Maybe ten. But I knew I must have been turning 18 shades of green. I wasn’t finished with the shots yet and they were on their way back up. I never really puked from drinking. And I’ve had some nasty shit in my time. But this, well, I hate licorice. Hate it. And now I’m drinking it in alcohol form? Yep, I’m gonna hurl real quick here.

But I had to finish first. Eddy Grant starts in one more time. Now in the street there is violence. I finished what was left on the bar. Wiped my face with the back of my hand. My father started to say something to me. I turned and walked out of Vinny’s. Went around the back, behind the dumpster and just let all that Sambuca fire its way out of me. I swear, I projectile vomited that crap about five feet away and lit some rats on fire in the process. I didn’t bother going back in the bar. I just walked home and crawled into bed stinking of puke and licorice.

At about 5am my sister came home. Woke me up out of a near coma.

Hey. He told the story anyhow.