workingfortheman.com

Working at the healthcare company wasn't going well. A couple of promotions were shot down and my reputation as a drinker was catching up to me.

My boss finally questioned me about my problem. He tried to seem concerned. "Danny, I've seen a lot of "weekend warriors" drink all weekend and then do a little cocaine on Monday morning to get them to work."

He paused for effect, so I knew where this was going.

"They would have heart attacks," he finally said.

I don't do that. I never did such a thing, I lied to myself. And then, out loud, and perhaps not quickly enough, "So then where is my heart attack?"

Got him. Or so I thought.

Shortly after, I was written up for my typing errors. I didn't proofread my work after some other idiot had supposedly already proofed it. But that fat moron apparently wasn't catching all the typos. The manager and supervisor held a meeting with me in which they gave me a 30-day "be good or be gone" probation term. They said I wasn't "pulling my weight." I was sent home for three days without pay so that I could think things over and get myself together.

At this time I was living with an old friend named McManus. The property, located on the lake, is owned by a horticultural foundation that has a committee. The "committee" was a garden club for aging, bored rich housewives. But the land was fabulous and the view of the lake made you want to drink all weekend and do fat gagging lines on Monday morning just to get you to work.

On my three days off from work, I drank 30 packs of beer with brief departures to the whisky. I invited the local street toughs to bring underage girls and more booze and cocaine. I was using this time wisely like I was told by my bosses. Thinking things through. And really enjoying myself. I certainly wasn't considering my employment or future. These bastards owned the best years of my life. Twenty-nine years old with my friends getting married and pregnant and buying homes, I ran towards the direction of being shit-canned and evicted from my apartment by the mother-fucking bitty committee.

Saturday night the kids showed up and my roommate and I built an enormous bonfire right in the middle of the foundation's property. We placed large stones in a circle and put logs and branches in the middle of this temporary fire pit. Then I dumped gasoline on it, struck a match, and POOF! The fire was on its merry way. Drinking with the "I don't give a shit crew" progressed as far as fun can go with the likes. The high school girls they brought pranced around like little brainless bunnies. Tight jeans and kickball asses.

I do a shooter of toot and the next thing I know, I am being pulled out of the fire by my roommate and old friend McManus.

"What the fuck!!? Dude you just did a face-plant on the rocks."

My lip was split open, bursting blood everywhere. My white shirt stained red. I yelled, "GO IRISH!" and numbed the pain with Irish whisky.

"You were dancing around the campfire, tripped and took a nose-dive on a rock," said McManus.

I held my shirt to my lip and continued dancing, but not for long...

I lost about a gallon of blood and woke up on my mattress with wads of bloody paper towels. My mattress also had blood on it. I did not care, because I found the mattress in a pull-out couch in an old pig barn. A temporary bed I can leave behind in my wake of debauchery. As I searched the lawn for beer cans with some beer left in them, I felt like I had really gotten things together. A quick snort and I'd be ready to get back to work no problem.

Danny McFadden is the author of The Christmas Hall of Fame. "Fire In The Garden" is an excerpt from the book, which is published by Medium Rare Publishing.

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