Moses grew up the ninth of ten kids in Beatrice, a small South Alabama town near Monroeville. His father was a deacon, his mother a piano player, and most of the family was in the choir. But the other side of Beatrice — the bootleggers, the Silver Moon club, his cousin Larry reporting weekend shootings every Monday — pulled him in just as hard. By sixteen he and his friends were splitting six-packs after school, and summers in Cleveland selling candy turned into drinking on the lake.
From there it was Tuskegee University, sugared-up daiquiris meant for the girls that he drank himself unconscious, then Concordia Theological Seminary in Fort Wayne, where a Russian professor named Kurt Markos showed up nightly with straight vodka and sausage. He left the seminary with his reputation intact and moved to Atlanta, where a friend's pro-basketball contract opened the door to ten years of rock-and-roll promoter life — clubs, cocaine, Grand Marnier, girlfriends, fights, and driving home with no memory of how he got there.
The end came at an Eastlake Golf Club Christmas party in 1992. A Crown Royal Gold night, a young woman, a dispute that pulled in the law, and an attorney who suggested AA meetings might look good before the judge. Moses went to 265 Boulevard for a seven-day detox, then a 28-day transition, then a 90-day program Sandy Page lobbied to get him into. He landed at a Napa 2 o'clock beginner's meeting in July 1993 and stayed. Sobriety date: November 10, 1992.
The through-line Moses repeats all night is one line from Bill's story: a Higher Power will do for us what we cannot do for ourselves. He credits that truth for surviving the crazy night drives, for the relief of laying down guilt and shame, and for old-timers like Stan — who called his Higher Power Sky Chief and told newcomers they could name a donut their Higher Power if they'd be loyal to it — and Joe Lewis, who counted his days out loud because he was still terrified. Moses closes as a vessel, grateful, still walking it.
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