Vicodin my vicodin tom chiarella and esquire

This article originally appeared in the January 1999 issue of Esquire. Upgrade your membership to All Access and read every Esquire story ever published.

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I couldn’t tell you how much money I made last year.

I lose my checkbook once a week.

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I have no idea where my passport is or my birth certificate or the photographs from my wedding. I can't remember where I spent last Christmas, But I know where all my Vicodin are. There's one Vicodin in the breast pocket of my black suit, six in my desk drawer at work, two in my golf bag, and thirty-three in the bottle in my medicine cabinet.

There’s a half of one in the bottle of Tylenol in the downstairs bathroom, four in the glove box of my black car, six in my white car, and one on top of a paint can in the basement.

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Last week, my wife vacuumed a Vicodin off the floor of our bedroom. She told me about it at dinner that night. “If you dig that out,” she said, “we’ll know you have a problem.” I haven’t. Not yet.