It’s May of 2013, and I am the best man at Anthony Guido’s wedding.  Unfortunately, Natalie can't make it and I am making the trip alone. I am very honored that he has chosen me, and I am taking my job very seriously. I have been given many different jobs and responsibilities, and I know that for me to be at my best, I will have to be sober. Not drinking is easy because my drinking has reduced significantly with all the working out I’m doing. I am now only drinking for special occasions because I realize that after a night of drinking, my workouts suffer the next day, and that’s no longer acceptable.  

Anthony’s wedding is big and traditional. All of us in the military are wearing full dress whites with our officer swords. Before the wedding, we wander around the French Quarter before going to the church. People have a few drinks, but I have sworn to Jessica, Anthony’s soon-to-be wife, that I will be responsible and make sure everyone gets to the church on time. I am nervously checking my watch, and when it’s time, I corral the group toward the church.

Anthony and Jessica are getting married at the Immaculate Conception Jesuit Church, and it is absolutely breathtaking. We learned at the rehearsal last night that there will be absolutely no funny business. This church is strict and run with military precision, so I am relieved when we arrive on time with everyone well behaved. The ceremony is beautiful, and standing up there next to Anthony after all we have been through, while he marries the love of his life, is one of my proudest moments.

After the formal wedding ceremony, we head to Latrobe’s on Royal for the reception. I try to stay useful as the best man, mostly following around Jessica and Anthony to see if they need anything. The wedding reception goes through all the usual stuff: introducing the wedding party, dinner, and cutting the cake. After all that is complete, my duties as the best man are over.

Almost.

The DJ is desperately trying to get people on the dance floor and get a party started, to no avail. It’s empty.

I know what I must do.

I rush to the bar and request tequila shots. I down them in rapid succession, and I am a ticking time bomb. Moments later, as soon as the first bit of alcohol hits, I triumphantly march onto the dance floor to embarrass myself. Not long after, I am joined by a few people, and eventually, it turns into a proper party. Once it gets a little momentum, I head back to the bar and take a couple more shots to really unlock some of my more advanced dance moves.  This is a special occasion after all, my best friend just got married, and I need to celebrate.  

It doesn’t take long to realize this is a mistake. The first batch of shots hasn’t even run its course yet, and now this second barrage is definitely not required. All at once, I’m drunk. Not buzzed, not tipsy, but totally and completely drunk. Still, I am proud of my efforts and believe I am fulfilling my duty as the best man. I am not a skilled dancer, but if I have any amount of alcohol, I am not afraid to humiliate myself on a dance floor completely alone. I have learned that every proper party needs that one fearless person.

The whole rest of the wedding, I am time traveling. I have lost my uniform jacket but found a pair of light-up glasses, and I dance like I am on a mission until the wedding reception ends and I am the last man standing on the dance floor.

When we go outside after the reception, I can’t believe it’s still light out. It’s not even dinner time, and I am already on the verge of blacking out in the French Quarter.

This isn’t good.

After everyone gathers outside of the reception, the decision is made to continue the party and head to Saints and Sinners. We embark on a short walk toward Bourbon Street and end up at the bar.

Saints and Sinners is a restaurant that transforms through the evening into more of a club, but since the night is young, that transition has yet to happen, and most people are enjoying a nice dinner. I am still on a mission to dance the night away, and I’m seeking out some space to highlight my gyrations.

While on my makeshift dance floor, in between people enjoying their meals in peace, I notice there is a pole in the middle of the establishment. I work in a couple of dance moves with the pole, and one of my friends challenges me to make it to the top. It’s a pretty high ceiling, but I assess that it’s doable.

I take to climbing the pole, and moments later, the bouncer is telling me to get down and threatening to kick me out. I decide it’s time to lay low for a bit.

Soon after, one of the locals informs me that they are going to a bar down the road where there is a dance competition for men and that I could win some money. I’ve had enough of this lame bar where they have stifled my creativity, so I tell Anthony I’m going to win a dance competition.

I’m still wearing my light-up glasses, a white tank top, and my white uniform pants that are stained on the bottom from all my activities. My uniform jacket and sword are long gone. I head out into the unknown on Bourbon Street, pitying whatever dancers are about to be defeated.

We arrive at the new bar, and it appears to be some Coyote Ugly-type situation where the bar is a dance floor. I am escorted to the announcer, given a fictitious name, and entered into the competition. I study my audience: mostly bachelorette parties and middle-aged women. I watch a couple of routines from the competition, and I am unimpressed.

After a couple of substandard routines, I am called up on stage. I’m not sure how this competition works or what the rules even are, but I am totally committed. I strut on stage and immediately Hulk Hogan-rip my tank top in half and throw it into the crowd.

It feels like a strong start and gets the people going.

After that, I just let the music take me and dance like it’s the last chance I’ll ever have. A few of the bachelorette parties throw dollars at me while I’m up there, and I appreciate the encouragement. Soon, my song ends. I wave to my adoring fans, collect my hard-earned twelve dollar bills on the bar, and set out to depart.

The whole time, I am thinking that I can’t wait to tell Natalie this story, and I wish she were here because she would have been my number one hype woman.

I notice that I haven’t drunk a whole lot since the wedding, and at this point, I’m beginning to sober up. I know I need to get back and find Anthony, so I go to leave, but I am stopped by a woman on my way out.

I expect her to tell me how fantastic my performance was, but she doesn’t look too stoked. She looks down at my dirty white shoes, then looks up at me and says, “My father was a chief in the Navy for 30 years, and he’d be very disappointed if he saw you.”  I say nothing and walk off. It hurts me pretty badly, but luckily, I still have just enough alcohol in my system that I don’t let it ruin my night.

Now I am on Bourbon Street, with no shirt and separated from the group. I consider meeting up with them but realize I won’t be able to go anywhere anyway with my current clothing situation. I decide to call Natalie and tell her about my adventures.

I tell Natalie the whole story and how I made twelve dollars, and luckily, she finds it all funny and wishes she could be there with me. I also explain my predicament of being shirtless, out in the wild, and starting to feel the painful blisters I have developed from dancing.

I decide it’s probably time to call it a night because I am leaving fairly early the next morning anyway. Anthony is letting me stay at his house, but I have no idea how I’m getting there. I don’t want to take a cab shirtless, and I definitely don’t want to take one of the carriages pulled by mules. Natalie checks the map, tracks my location, and says it’s only a 30-minute walk.

This is my best option.

Natalie helps me navigate. I am walking shirtless through some questionable areas and limping badly because of my fully developed dance blisters. I talk with Natalie the whole walk home, mostly because I miss her, but also in case I get kidnapped. The walk seems to take an eternity, but I finally make it back to Anthony’s house. I thank Natalie for her help, take a shower, and pass out.

The next morning, I wake up with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. I have blisters all over my feet, and my legs are sore. What hurts more than any of that is the sense of regret as I replay last night’s antics in my mind. I immediately think back to the stranger in the bar with the disappointed father, and I feel awful.

She was right.

I was an embarrassment, and her words sting way more today.

I think about how I started the night in my dress whites and officer sword, and how proud I was that I was the responsible one who got everyone where they needed to be on time.  Anthony and Jessica trusted me and I took it seriously, but somewhere along the way, and a few shots later, the wheels fell off. 

I think back to walking back to Anthony’s house, shirtless, through some questionable areas, and all the things that could have gone wrong. I remember how I made a fool of myself at Saints and Sinners and then left my friends. I feel an overwhelming sense of dread.

I realize that I no longer want to be the person people call when they need someone to laugh at. I no longer want to be the sloppy drunk there for everyone else’s entertainment. I certainly don’t want to be the one disappointing strangers’ fathers.

I want to be the person who looks out for others, the person people call when they need a hand, and the person who is mature and responsible.

I had spent years thinking alcohol made me more fun, gave me confidence, and made me feel alive. Now all I can see is what it could cost me. I don’t need another warning, another morning of regret, or another missed workout. I realize in this moment that I never want to drink again.

Last night on Bourbon Street was my last call.

Author’s note:
I haven’t had a drink since that night, and I’ve been sober for over 13 years.

I didn’t really make a conscious choice to never drink again. It just happened. I realized I never wanted to wake up hungover, feeling regret, or needing to apologize. More than anything, I didn’t want to entertain people at my own expense. There has not been a single instance since that night on Bourbon Street where I have wanted to have a drink because it no longer aligned with the person I wanted to be. The only things I miss are that I never get invited to anything anymore, I can’t dance as well, and it’s much harder for me to make friends sober.

Quitting drinking didn’t magically make all my problems disappear. I still had loss, grief, fear, and trauma that I needed to work through, and I still didn’t know how, but life was somewhat easier without me drinking and making a fool of myself.

Looking back, I wish I could thank that woman in the bar because she changed my life. She gave me some honest feedback, forced me to take a look at myself in the mirror, and I didn’t like what I saw.

That night was embarrassing, and it still hurts to look back on it, but it became one of the most important turning points of my life.