A concrete floor, a Vons bag, and no hope. Larry T. was sitting in a holding tank in Torrance, California, waiting for a two-year hit, when a Scottish refinery worker walked through a lime green door to pull him out. Larry describes himself as a "hostile loser" who spent decades as a "something-for-nothing guy," doing average things while expecting standing ovations. He recalls the wreckage: stealing a custodian's cart to drive through library doors, living as a public nuisance in downtown L.A., and the "hide-behind image" of the lowrider or the wino.
He speaks of the "Wonderland" of the first few drinks that quieted the grinding in his gut, and the "divine inconvenience" of a Higher Power that forced him to grow up. From the image of his mother in a stinky muumuu snipping jigsaw puzzle pieces with toenail clippers to the act of massaging her feet in a hospital bed, Larry traces the cost of an ego that once robbed his family of peace.
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