December 22nd: 37 bottles of whiskey, gift-wrapped for customers but earmarked for himself. John A. describes a life of high-functioning wreckage, from owning a door factory and a swimming pool to the humiliation of running down the street in Swedish flannel pajamas. He speaks of the "arrogance that protects our own deals," the mental gymnastics used to ignore the shakes and the "mortuary smell" of a waking hallucination—a twenty-three-foot white snake with three black eyes.
His bottom was a series of crashes: a wife’s suicide attempt via aspirin, a failed attempt to steal a pint of liquor for $3.57, and the realization that he was a "broken human being." He recounts the grit of early sobriety—hiding in a closet in a Brooks Brothers suit, weeping over $36,000 in debt. By surrendering to a Higher Power and the raw identification of one drunk talking to another, he traded his pride for a way to live.
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