Campbell wasn’t a social drinker. He didn’t drink because
carrying around a glass of merlot among friends made him jolly.
A clear plastic cup filled with foamy keg beer didn’t make his
jokes any funnier and it certainly didn’t make those of his
friends any better either. He saw no need to attend a beachside
bonfire. He never held a desire to be popular. Campbell cared
very little for small, meaningless chit-chat around a pitcher of
margaritas or a fancy martini shaker.

   Campbell was simple. He didn’t wear beer goggles, ever.
His wife was beautiful. Alcohol didn’t make him a love-maker
and he had no need to use it to soften up an attractive woman.
He was a handsome man, a good catch. Dancing was not his
style and no cocktail would ever change that. He danced at his
wedding, but that was encouraged by love, not the bottle. That
was so long ago.

   Nope, Campbell didn’t drink like other people. The Super
Bowl was just another meaningless game. New Year’s Eve was
amateur night. St. Patrick’s Day: just a poor excuse to drink
beer, even if it is green. Campbell made no excuses to drink.
He needed no artificial event to mask a reason to indulge.

   Campbell never drank alone either. Nobody drinks alone;
they always have their demons to keep them company.
He certainly didn’t partake of the spirits because of a
loss on the stock market. His wife left him, but that was no
reason for Campbell to drink. Many people drink to drown the
skeleton of depression, but not this man. He didn’t drink
because he was unemployable. And he didn’t drink because he
lacked a left leg below the knee. It was hard when it happened,
but his memories faded over time.

   The poor man didn’t drink to get a buzz— that high had left
him long ago. At that point, he didn’t even get drunk anymore.
You wouldn’t find a shot glass in his home, but he never used
them anyway.

   Silencing his demons was no reason. Addiction wasn’t either.
Campbell might have thought that the drink could remove
the pain of suicide, but no one can really know for sure.
He lost a child at an early age, but that wasn’t why he
drank. He didn’t drink to forget reaching back behind the seat
to grab the pacifier for his crying little girl. He crossed the
double yellow; but he didn’t drink for that thin, endless line.
He thought about it often, but that’s not why he drank.

   Sitting in his unfinished basement, Campbell couldn’t think
of one single reason why he didn’t drink. They all seemed like
good enough reasons to him, every one. But none of those
reasons were why. For hours in his basement, he couldn’t think
of one reason; he just drank. To strangers it seemed like he
was always a drunk; he certainly looked it. But those who knew
him before knew otherwise. Campbell just ran out of reasons,
plain and simple. In the foundation of a broken house of dreams,
he set himself to finishing what he started so long ago.


After serving in Iraq with the U.S. Army, Bryan Catherman now
lives in Utah with his wife and two Labrador Retrievers. To pay
the bills, he removes the hopeless writer hat and dons his
Realtor cap. He enjoys motorcycling and drinking, but not at the
same time.

"Bryan's website, the Hopeless Writer, can be found at
http://www.xmission.com/~catbry