A blond-headed kid on a barstool in a beer garden, watching his father play the quarter slots while he sipped a Coke and soaked up the attention. That was the seed. Don S. spent years chasing that high, transitioning from the "cheerleader type" women to a life of bourbon supremes and a blur of marriages. He describes his descent as a physical crossing: the moment he hit the Pennsylvania-Ohio line, he became an alcoholic.
The wreckage was concrete—Naugahyde furniture, cedar bedroom suits, and a yellow cooler that held twelve cans and a lifetime of excuses. He lived the paradox of the "PK"—a preacher's kid singing gospel music on Sunday mornings while nursing a hangover and a crushing guilt trip, believing drinking was a sin that had finally exhausted his chances with the Higher Power. It took four DWIs and a basement apartment smelling of mildew to break him. After one final Budweiser and a cheeseburger with tomato, he cashed in his last chance at a treatment center.
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