An Old Snapshot: More than a One-Shot Deal

8:25AM I was right behind him when he put two items on the the cashier's counter. A pint of Smirnoff and a 20-oz Mountain Dew.

Over the back of his shoulder, I made eye contact with the cashier who's on first name basis with me, and rolled my eyes about the man in front of me making the purchase. 

He left with his brown bag of deliverance, and I said, "Wow, that's sad. Wonder if where he works is hiring. You know, drinkin' on the job?" Amber shook her head and woefully said, "Same thing every morning. He works construction."

Booze has kicked my ass. More times than I'll admit. Times I didn't remember at the time, nor do I decades later. I've embarassed myself with booze;  lost way too much money gambling under the influence; spent a Labor Day birthday weekend behind bars; another occasion I wrecked a car to the tune of $17,000 damage, miraculously stopping at the edge of a cliff in that episode.

In the early '90s, I'd had enough. And snuck into a men's 'open meeting.'  All of a sudden, I was surrounded by handshakes that became friends. Tony and Phil, guys like Bruce 'n 'Hwy-118 Mike,' 'Hell-spoused Steve' teamed-up to walk and talk some sense into how much self-destruction was occuring from the bottoms of shot- and old fashioned glasses. They're friends, today, still 'friends of Bill' although I'm only a passing acquaintance.

It worked. I'm scared shitless of frequent + voluminuous use of what to my system is a poison. I'm not what meeting-goers call sober or a tee-totaller, but you sure don't find me wacked outta my mind, thanks to God's grace, and the guys that grabbed onto my arms, ass and attention to keep me from drowning a hundred-proof death. I had bottled-up a deal with the devil, and they offered the means to shatter it.

I hope the guy in Walgreens gets out of it more unscathed than I did, and without killin' himself or anybody else. God help his wretched soul, because I'm convinced only he 'n God can bring him out of it.

I coulda...shoulda said something to him, but couldn't find the practiced voice of sobriety and decades-long voices of reason earned by my pals in California. God (still) help me. And him.

[A man whom I know only through his writing inspired this. You know who you are, Cob, but you don't know how grateful I am for the way you (always) lay it on in the lines.]