I screwed up again. Monday is my umpteenth ‘first day sober’ (it would’ve been Sunday, but mom put a shot of vodka in my orange juice to “help with my hangover.”) We’re going to visit her hometown for a week. From experience, I can tell you that small town North Dakota is the worst place to be when you’re trying to stay sober.

My grandpa used to be in recovery. I remember when he’d drink O’Douls. Now I pour him three Coors a night. Six frosted mugs in his freezer, always ready for happy hour. My mom tells me that he used to be a different person when she was a kid. 

“He used to drink… a lot.” She ends it there. 

I often wonder what he did but never ask.

“Ask Grandpa if you can drive the pick-up again,” she whispers to me while he’s in the washroom.  He’s already had two beers and we’re going out for supper.

“What? Why can’t you just drive?” 

I hate driving the pick up on gravel roads.

“It makes more sense if you ask.”

We stare at each other for a second.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, though. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t feel fine. I end up offering. But he responds just how we expected.

“What? You don’t think I can drive?”

I sit in the back seat. Nothing bad happens.

Grandpa’s not the only one, though. Everybody drinks.

My favourite cousin Callie asked me why I’m not drinking after I declined a vodka soda. I told her I had a bit of a rough time at college. 

“It was your first year though, right? Everyone drinks a lot then.”

I smile and nod. 

“Just had too much fun, I guess.” 

She takes another sip of wine. I was silly for thinking she’d understand my vague words. I decide it’s not her fault.

Mom called her cousin Sally and asked her where she was.  

“Day drinking at Bonnie’s!”

We laugh. When we arrive, Sally’s slurring her words. It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

I walk into the garage to get a drink (soda), and see my uncle Leroy with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. 

“How old are you?” he asks me and I tell him.

“That’s legal age in Canada, isn’t it?” 

“But not down here,” I respond, showing him the red can of cola in my hand.

“By the book, I like it.”

I laugh.

“Can I give you one piece of advice? Don’t always let your best intentions get in the way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Little does he know, my best intentions rarely enter the picture.

Callie’s new husband, Alan, was wasted while trying to play cornhole. He is an irritable drunk, looks like he’ll fit in fine with us. I just wish it wasn’t still day time. But, I guess I should be grateful. The funeral was at half past ten and people didn’t start drinking ‘til noon.

I’m driving to the cemetery when a woman stumbles onto the road. I slam on my brakes and curse her from inside the car. She’s drunk, you can tell. 

“It’s Friday afternoon,” my mom says. “What did you expect?”

People are pretty open about their DUIs in this town. A stranger admitted to having one at the bar. My cousin has two. You can’t come up to Canada if you have a DUI. My mom is worried that Grandpa will get picked up and won’t be able to cross the border anymore. I just cross my fingers. She tells me that in this town DUIs are like a rite of passage.

My aunt’s late husband died about 15 years ago. Drove home from the bar and fell asleep in the garage with his car still running. He was dead by the time the sun was up in Montana.

Another uncle fell asleep at the wheel in ‘97. Many stories they tell, funny and upsetting, involve alcohol. Drinking is what we do.
We go to see Grease the Musical in Roosevelt park. My cousins all buy buckets of booze. Alan is talking too loud. Sally and Leroy are getting up to leave because she’s had a little too much. Callie is singing “Hopelessly Devoted To You” terribly off-key. Poor Sandy. We barely even heard her solo. Maybe there’s a reason we got seats in the back.