Drinking by Phillip Hoyle

Socially speaking—like at most Friday night happy hours—

• the first beer numbs my lips,
• the second beer elevates my vocal volume and brings on laughter, 
• the third beer helps me become very friendly.

Which leaves me wondering about my friend Little T who years ago was so freaked out when, in such a friendly moment, I slid my bar stool in behind his and affectionately put my hand on his shoulder. Within minutes he left the bar all upset. I followed him out to see if he was okay. He claimed to be okay but wouldn’t afterwards answer or return my phone calls. A mutual friend intervened and paved the way for Little T and me to begin talking again. She encouraged him not to turn down a friendship with me and warned me not to call him for a couple of weeks. When Little T and I later talked about the event he said he assumed I was sex addicted like so many other gay men he knew, whereas he was a love and romance guy. I had thought at the time I was playing a love and romance move so to speak. But in the ensuing months of our relationship by getting to know him much better I found out much more.

Little T was addicted to drugs, an assortment of marijuana, mushrooms, and probably more. He had long before given up using LSD, but a couple of years after that reconciliation between us he started using crystal meth with his boyfriend. By then Little T and I had developed a wonderful, supportive friendship sharing our loves of music, literature, and wide-ranging conversation.

Then he disappeared. Finally, several years later he told a friend to give me his phone number. I waited a number of weeks—or was it months?—and finally contacted him to discover he was living out of state. Eventually he moved back to Denver. Of course, I remained understanding in the light of his challenges. I loved the man, still do, appreciate our friendship, and look forward to it continuing many years. I accept his addictive personality. I applaud his quitting the drugs. I want the best for him.

Still when we are together I can get confused. Sometimes Little T encourages me to drink more, even a third beer. I wonder silently, “Don’t you recall the night I so freaked you out? Surely you don’t mean for that to happen again.” I tell myself either he has a bad memory or I am just not going to “go there.” I guess I just don’t know. I do recall another friend, Big T, saying to me, “Oh Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.” Now I pay attention but cannot for the life of me figure out what behaviors are meaningful enough to respond to. This drinking stuff always seems to leave me uncertain. Perhaps I should just stick to the Coca Cola I was weaned on although they don’t even make that kind anymore. © Denver, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot