New Orleans, 19 years old, weighing 132 pounds and looking like a picked crow. Tom B. is lying under a palm tree in Jackson Square when a cop nuzzles him with a toe.
He’s just been bagged for cluttering up Bourbon Street, a place already thick with bodies. For Tom, the booze was never about the taste—it was an anesthetic for a coward with a stutter and a desperate need for approval. He recalls the first two beers his father gave him at fourteen; suddenly, the giant of a man shrunk, and Tom could finally speak.
He describes the "image" drunks wear—the glued-on smile and the dead eyes that hide a deep hatred for oneself. After years of the geographic cure, bouncing from Vancouver to Houston with a case of scotch, he found that the stuff that once made him comfortable eventually made him miserable. Now 31 years sober, he credits a Higher Power and a fellowship of "dinghies" for keeping him off the floor.
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