February 16, 1994: Gary T. is sick in the toilet at noon, wondering for the first time if this isn't normal. He spent years as a "rifle and bell tower kind of guy," just waiting for the snap. He entered AA convinced the rooms were full of homeless people with no bank accounts, while he clung to his $7 in savings and a car held together by wire. He describes his drinking as a prize fight where booze always leaned down after a lucky punch to tell him, "Come on, you can take me."
Through a series of sponsors—a cranky carpenter and a few ex-cons—Gary learned the grit of direct amends. He recalls the wreckage of stealing money from his father's wallet the day he died, a debt he eventually repaid by slipping cash into his mother's Bible so she would believe her father was still taking care of her. He warns the new arrivals that there is a world of difference between saying "sorry hun" and making a direct amend.
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