San Jose, 1965. A derelict on a park bench, smelling of filth and failure, becomes the image that almost kills Cliff R. As a high-achieving debate coach and school teacher, Cliff viewed himself as a "functioning alcoholic," a man who could teach honor and justice by day while kneeling at the "porcelain altar" by morning. He lived for the "eight minutes"—that brief window after a drink when the jagged black rock of self-obsession in his belly finally went quiet.
Between the "felonious blackouts" and the "suicide pact" of his marriage, the wreckage mounted until he lost the respect of his own son. Empty and out of excuses, he found a moment of grace on a filthy linoleum floor, surrendering to a Higher Power. He traded the arrogance of his degrees for the "loser's chair," discovering that the only way to keep his sobriety was to give it away through the laughter and raw honesty of the rooms.
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