New Year's Day, 1961. A 23-year-old doctor's son with a habit of writing bum checks is offered a deal: join AA, and the bills get paid. Bill L. enters the rooms not as a seeker, but as a mercenary. He spent five years spilling more booze than he drank, yet managed to hit the wreckage of jails and garnishments with a speed that baffled the veterans. He viewed people as the problem, treating alcohol as his only loyal friend while he cycled through thirteen jobs in eleven months.
The bottom wasn't a crash, but a bed at the Salvation Army. There, amidst the "social outcasts," Bill found his mirror. He watched men with defects that "stood out like a sore thumb" and realized he owned every single one of them. He stopped running the show and surrendered to a Higher Power, trading the chaos of skid row for a life of service. Now, he finds the true mark of sobriety isn't the meeting, but how he handles the "nuts" at the meat-packing plant.
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