Northern Japan, 1981. A man sits on a barstool, drifting toward a total collapse. Sterling H. describes himself as a "weird kid" from the South Bronx who grew up in the projects, far from the split-level lawns of television sitcoms. He speaks of a "maelstrom" in his head that only a tall can of Colt 45 could quiet, eventually trading the Bronx for the Air Force—a move he calls joining the "Department of Defense" because they had nuclear weapons.
The wreckage is concrete: kerosene money spent on drinks while his wife and daughter froze in the house, and a "dance of death" in a marriage fueled by a rapacious creditor that takes everything. Sterling admits he didn't see the light; he felt the heat. After a stint in the Philippines and a brush with the "doorknob on the other side" in a psych ward, he found a Higher Power through the grit of sponsorship. No fairy dust, just a sponsor who forced him to wear a tie and mow the lawn to kill his self-centeredness.
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