Horror into Happiness

THE bartender was mixing a Silver Fizz for friends and, by mistake, dropped the yoke of the egg into the mix. Result, I got a Golden Fizz on the house. A fancy start to a drinking career which eventually embraced the shoddiest bars, the cheapest whiskeys, and dirty glasses that trembled violently as I tried desperately to raise them to my mouth. When I had that first drink, I should have sensed danger because something happened. I didn't get drunk nor did I crave more, but something secretive entered my life. Something in me changed forever, like that first faint variance in the picture of Dorian Grey. For I was, I now think, born an alcoholic. But let's take it from the top, from that innocent period before the dark shadow of guilt had started to spread.