When the Bank Meeting Ended in a Truck Bed

“I walked in as the youngest manager in the bank’s history… and crawled out of a pickup truck hours later.”

When I was eighteen, I thought I had life figured out. My parents had divorced when I was four, and I grew up watching my mother rebuild everything while my father drank himself into oblivion. He lost it all to the bottle—marriage, money, dignity. From a young age, I knew two things: alcohol ruined lives, and I was probably carrying its curse in my DNA.

So I worked instead. At eighteen, I was a teller at the bank, counting other people’s money with precision. Within two years, I was running the checking department. At twenty, I became the youngest department manager in the bank’s history. That kind of thing swells your ego—makes you think you’re in control.

Then came the meeting.

It was a Friday, and I was told department heads had to stay late. Mandatory. My first one—I assumed it was serious business. Everyone else left for the weekend, even the branch manager, which confused me. The accountant cheerfully called out “meeting,” and instead of gathering at her desk, the others marched straight into the break room.

Inside, seven chairs were arranged in a circle around the table like we were about to hold a séance. The teller supervisor poured water into a jug. Another dumped potato chips into a bowl. Glasses clinked onto the table. It was an oddly rehearsed ballet of snacks and supplies. And then the general manager walked back in carrying a bottle of rum.

She slapped a deck of cards on the table. “What’s the game tonight, ladies? And Tate?”

That “and Tate” hung heavy. I was the only man, the youngest by far, and the only one not in on the secret.

They laughed at my face, twisted in confusion. “Welcome to the real department head meeting,” the manager explained, shuffling cards. The accountant lined up shot glasses around the rum like soldiers.

“One more—for Tate,” someone said.

And just like that, I was in.

I had never touched alcohol—not one sip. Not because I was a saint, but because of my father. I’d seen firsthand what dependence looked like, and I wanted no part of it. But this was an initiation. To refuse would’ve been to stay the outsider forever. So I sat down, determined to win every hand.

Spoiler: I didn’t.

Every loss equaled a shot of rum. I lost a lot. The first burned, the second was worse, the third blurred into the fourth. After the sixth, I stopped tasting anything at all. Everyone else was laughing—at the game, at me, at how I seemed fine. But then I stood up, and the world turned sideways. My head floated somewhere above me, my arms and legs went on strike.

“Sorry, ladies, I think I lost ten too many,” I slurred, then collapsed into hysterical laughter at my own joke before falling flat on the floor.

The next thing I knew, I was in the back of a pickup truck, cool night air rushing past as the accountant’s husband drove me home. In my mind, I leapt out gracefully like a movie star. On Monday, they told me I’d crawled over the edge and flopped onto the pavement like a dying fish.

I staggered to my girlfriend’s house—just a few doors down. She’s my wife now, but that night she opened the door, sniffed, and told me I stank of alcohol. The look on her face cut deeper than the rum ever could.

That was my first time drunk. My last, too. One night of bad decisions, ten too many shots, and the humiliation of flopping out of a pickup truck taught me everything I needed to know. I hated losing control. I hated the way alcohol hollowed me out. Maybe it was my father’s shadow hovering close, maybe it was just my body revolting.

Either way, I walked away certain: the path my father chose would never be mine.