Yorkville, New York, post-WWII. An eleven-year-old Brian M. sits on a stoop, watching a war hero make cigarette smoke vanish into thin air. He follows the lead, gulping free brewery kegs until the street waves and he is throwing up on the pavement. For Brian, the alcoholic life was a series of "human shrugs"—the casual, collective indifference of a neighborhood where a man could beat his wife or lose his car as long as he went to work.
He lived in the grip of the grape, a round-the-clock drinker who forged papers to go to sea and woke up in a Singapore jail with a mohawk of blood and stitches. He worked as a dynamiter in the New York tunnels, eventually suffering an alcoholic seizure that left him flopping on a flatcar while the bomb squad looked on. He mocked the "AA Quasimodos" until a Higher Power finally caught up with him on April Fool's Day, 1972, when he was carted off to detox wearing a vomity T-shirt and pee-stained pants.
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