San Francisco, thirty years ago: the "Belle of Bush Street" in a fancy pad with the orchestra playing exactly how she wanted. Mary R. describes the high of the road show and the USO, where she was "democratic with her drinking," fraternizing with everyone from yardbirds to generals.
But the glitter was a cloak for a homicidal hatred of women and a desperate need for approval. The wreckage mounted—a court-martial for hitting a captain with a field telephone, a "suicide pact" marriage to a compulsive gambler, and three pregnancies spent in a blur of vodka and arrogance. She recalls the grit of the bottom: lurching down a main thoroughfare, hitting buildings with her side, and waking up in a cold gray dawn on the scrap heap of life.
After a period of total insanity and a plea to a policeman to be jailed, a young gay man from the clubhouse found her inhabiting a dirty moo-moo. He pushed her through the door of AA, where a sponsor finally spoon-fed her soul.
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