Hubbard Beach

 in 1989 on my 21st birthday, I woke up face down in one of those lawn chairs, the kind with alternating blue and white rubber webbing which folded out completely flat and you had to wrestle with it a hundred different ways to finally get it right and even then it was never right.  I lived in the middle of a group of six row houses where each apartment had a tiny patch of grass in front.  I guess I didn't make it inside the night before.  My next door neighbor had set up matching chairs as if this patch of grass was floating on a luxury cruise ship .  We called it "Hubbard Beach," after the brick side street.  Anyways.  She came out mid morning in a bathing suit, nudged me awake and handed me a pair of sun glasses.  She proceeded to cover herself in oil and spritz all over with a spray bottle. I struggled to prop the chair in a bit of a sitting position, fully dressed from the night before; my face still streaked with imprints from the plastic, rubbery lawn chair.  The sun was very bright.  We laid there awhile.  In sunglasses.  No one said anything for a very long time.  I broke the silence when I said for the first time in my life:  I think might be an alcoholic.

 I didn't attempt to get sober for seven more years.