The checkered tile floor rose and fell like rough ocean waters. The ceiling seemed to hang just above my head. The room spun as if I were in one of those evil, gravity-defying fun rides that whip you around at breakneck speed until you are pinned to the wall.

My co-workers stared as I staggered and lurched. Their faces seemed far away, as if I was peering at them through a thick fog. Panic shot up my spine. I was out of control and perhaps beyond the point of saving myself. I clutched the back of a barstool and stabilized, offering a half-assed smile, as if to say: "Just kidding, guys, really, I'm not that fucked up."

But I was. Bad. We were at the old Cherry's bar on Seventh Avenue in Ybor City. I was underage and drinking cocktails in a bar for the first time. Vodka and cranberrys. Not a very hip or manly drink, but what I can I say? I was barely 19 and seriously lacking in libation experience.

My parents didn't drink when I was growing up, so there was no bottle of wine at the dinner table, no dad's beer to sip when he wasn't looking, no liquor cabinet to pilfer. In high school, I drank with friends at field parties and whoever else's house didn't have any parents there. But I usually stuck to beer because it took only a few to turn my world upside down.

One time when we were about 16 years old, my buddy Jason and I were going to meet friends at a carnival thrown by a local Catholic church. I drank half a quart of Olde English 800 on the way there — at his insistence. That's the equivalent of only about two or three beers. But I was wrecked. I leaned on a temporary fence shortly after entering the midway and knocked it down. Laughed like a fool, made a horrible scene in front of a crowd of church-going families. I recall a security guard coming our way, my buddies hustling me back into Jason's car and us getting out of there in a hurry.

My alcohol tolerance improved some by the time I graduated high school, but I was still years away from being able to drink heavily and still function. Yet that didn't stop me from getting a fake ID when I was 18.

The guy who made those IDs had become legendary in North Tampa especially among people born in 1978. He would alter the 8 to a 3; then scrape away the part that read "Under 21" and resurface it so it didn't look doctored. Lauren G. or Tina arranged a meeting with him. I tagged along. He knew me well enough to let me come into his apartment, although the deal had just been for the two girls. If memory serves, he charged us $50 for all three IDs. They worked. Nicely.

Cherry's was the first real bar where I'd used my new, high-quality ID. At the time, I had just graduated from Gaither High and was working at an after school/summer program. My co-workers Oscar and Betsy had graduated from Gaither a couple years before me. They invited me to meet them at Cherry's. Oscar and Betsy and a few other Gaither grads were there when my buddy Matt and I joined them. Matt was my age, but a much more experienced drinker.

Every time Oscar ordered a rum and coke, I ordered another vodka and cranberry. The night went great. I remember feeling good about myself in that young, naïve way that a kid does while entering manhood. There I was, at a bar in Ybor, knocking 'em back with the cool kids who were high-school seniors when I was a sophomore. Everything had been fine — I thought — until I stood up to use the restroom. Suddenly, I had the motor skills of a newborn and the vision of a seriously twisted acid freak.

I made it to the men's room, where I looked into the mirror and gave myself The Talk: "Don't lose your shit, man. Keep it together until you get out of here. Make a peaceful exit. And then you can get sick in the alley or something and never drink vodka ever again!"

I returned from the restroom, whispered in my buddy Matt's ear that we had to leave that very instant, told Oscar and Betsy we had some girls to meet and bade farewell.

They probably knew I was full of shit and just making an excuse to leave, but at least I didn't get sick at the bar. That nastiness happened after I got outside and out of view of any lawmen. It happened about four more times on the drive home.

This article appears in Oct 3-9, 2007.