A Victorian house in Santa Ana, 1960s: a room full of "rat-faced bastards" on acid and malt liquor. Halfway through a can, Charlie C. felt the safety catch on his pistol click off. For the first time, the world stopped being a threat. He wasn't drinking to get drunk; he was drinking to get "there"—that frictionless place where the grinding anxiety of demanding approval from a human race he loathed finally ceased.
Charlie describes his life as a mask that grew to fit his face, a facade supported by a scaffolding of lies. He speaks of the "torque" of his existence and the wreckage of a marriage and family cut away like healthy organs removed to give a tumor room to grow. After years of peeing blood and driving the wrong way down freeways, a woman with only 22 days of sobriety 12-stepped him in a car. He found a Higher Power not in a penthouse, but in the basement, learning that being active is the only way to stay out of the wreckage.
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