1987, a basement church in New Jersey. Tim H. arrives broken, blubbery, and bleeding from his esophagus every morning in the shower. He tries to look cool, but a muscle spasm sends his first cup of coffee flying against the wall. He is a "hopeless disaster" with the reverse Midas touch, having burned his life to the ground despite a good upbringing. He describes his drinking as a "quality" pursuit, from breaking into a gangster's garage at age ten to driving a refrigerated milk truck as a college beer promoter.
Recovery isn't a zen garden; it's "full contact." Tim recalls the "ABC's"—ashtrays, brooms, and coffee—and the grit of New Jersey diners where he learned to stop being a "loophole guy." Through a Higher Power and the heavy lifting of a fearless inventory, he moved from living in his car to surviving stage four cancer and a collapsed quintuple bypass. He warns that the graveyards are full of men who thought they could get sober "next time."
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