A cold April morning in a parking lot, standing in the rain outside a dry cleaners. Larry T. watches his mother work and waddles in with drunken mud and dirt to bleed her for a few bucks, while a childhood photo of him in Little League slips from her wallet.
He describes a life spent "slithering around," from a childhood shaped by a speed-using mother and a father who was a "happy drunk" until he climbed through bedroom windows. For Larry, alcohol was a "welcome mat to the head," a safe place that eventually led to forged prescriptions, a stint in the state pen, and being found curled like a dead dog at a gas station. He speaks of the "baffling simplicity" of the program and the danger of seeking "relief" in non-AA approved obsessions.
After 30 years, he warns that he is only sober because he stays "divinely inconvenienced" through service, knowing that he must work for his sobriety because the program doesn't just work—he has to work for it.
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