Joe K., sober since September 12, 1990, opens with a Zoom-era joke about leopard-skin thongs and Miami Vice fantasies before dropping into a brutal drunkalog. He calls himself a 'bitter ender' and a 'grave emotional and mental disorder' alcoholic — he doesn't stop, he gets stopped. He describes the Don Johnson years running a South Beach bar, and how the time between binges shrank from months to hours as he aged.
The center of the tape is September 11, 1990, in a Skid Row motel room in Fort Lauderdale with his two-year-old son in filthy diapers and watered-down milk in a bottle. He describes cracking his eyelids open thinking 'damn, I'm not dead,' walking to the crib, and hearing a voice say 'yes, you are' when he swore he'd quit. That night his younger brother knocked — no lecture, just horror in his eyes and a phone number offering to watch the boy if Joe got help. Joe entered a six-month indigent treatment center on his 40th birthday; of fifty men, only two finished.
After treatment he moved home to Lady Lake, Florida (pre-Villages), where an old retired mailman named Frank — socks with sandals, married 50 years — idled in the driveway every night and drove him to meetings, teaching Step 1 ('you're screwed') and Step 2 in the front seat of a Buick. Joe got custody of his son, remarried Miss AA, took a big car-dealership job in South Florida, abandoned his support group, and at five and a half years sober was divorced, fired, and driving across town to a bar called 'Bar' to drink at his wife.
A broken-down van with a license plate reading 'Have You Prayed Today?' stopped him at a red light. He walked into a meeting, raised his hand for a September anniversary, got behind the podium, and sobbed out 'I'm lost, I need help.' Two men walked him off the stage. He did a second surrender — this time of his life, not just the alcohol — took a 'crummy job' so he could coach his son in Little League, eventually remarried the same woman, had twin boys at 48, and just retired from the business that crummy job became.
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