A $3-a-week flophouse in a decrepit section of Louisville is where Bill W. hit his limit. He spent years blaming his mother-in-law and a string of bosses for his slide into the gutter maintaining the delusion that he wasn't actually a drunk even as he sold neckties and handkerchiefs on street corners for nickels to fund his bottles.
The wreckage included a broken marriage and a son who acted as a human messenger between parents who couldn't stand to be in the same room. The turning point arrived in September 1946 via a stranger—a gambling cab driver—who dragged him into a hamburger stand to call the people who help drunks. After a night of hot milk and black coffee Bill found a way out of the alleys and hock shops eventually reclaiming his family and his dignity.
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