This week’s HTYH is a continuation of Bud’s story: With one magnificent exception the entire corporation that I worked for was filled with idiots, especially my boss the professional rat. I was the lone genius who had to show them everything; step aside, let me show you the correct way to perform that task. By Thursday morning I was at last healed from the previous weekend’s war with alcoholism. By Thursday after work I returned home and served notice to the little woman that tonight the master is taking subsidence; lamb chops, broiled. The next day is Friday, it’s high noon and I have that feeling again, the anticipation of money and freedom, nobody’s going to push me around. At last, I’m on my way home, but not totally devoid of any appreciation to the little woman who kept the household going while I recovered.
The house is immaculate the kids are scrubbed and shining, nice dinner on the table. So, his majesty the alcoholic perfectionist goes from room to room looking for the one household chore that didn’t get done and I say, “What happened?” She answers, “I was busy with other things.” And then I really pour it on. “You, busy, didn’t you see me, a dieing man, leave this house every single day to keep a roof over our head and food on the table? And you can’t take care of a simple detail like that?” This type of interrogation eventually evokes a response and as soon as she answers the fight is on. “You don’t appreciate me, I’m out of here.” I get cleaned up, immaculately attired and walk two blocks to the gin mill. I sit on the same bar stool between the same people and pontificate about the same things.
Since I just pulled off another masterful performance and escaped from the little woman with paycheck in hand, for this, I must be congratulated. But somewhere inside of me a little voice says, “She didn’t deserve that treatment and you’re a phony bum.” But this voice I can’t afford to listen to fugetabotit, a few more drinks and I’ll figure a way to square it with her. I say to myself, “Remember last Monday. Don’t do that again, stick to beer, and go home at a reasonable hour, why must I always stay until the last shot is fired?” This is the plan at the beginning of the weekend, but it fails, the weekend ends except this time it’s different; it’s much worse.
This is my case history and it’s the same with every other chronic alcoholic, it gets progressively worse; never better. It all too soon became impossible to work on Monday and then it became impossible to work on Monday or Tuesday and then on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. As it happens with every practicing alcoholic I had to be put under strict supervision, the Bastille. It was under this court-ordered circumstance that I was given my first direct contact with Alcoholics Anonymous. I stood before a magistrate who said, “I’m going to put you where you can’t drink alcohol and when you get there I strongly suggest that you contact Alcoholics Anonymous. I said, “What is that?” He wrote an address on a piece of paper and said, “If you write to this Post Office Box you will find out.” I had the last word, I said, “Yes, Sir.” And all the while I’m thinking, “You should drop dead.”
When I found myself living in cell block six, I was most unhappy. I did not care for the cuisine, the accommodations or the associations. So, I wrote the letter to the Post Office Box the judge had given me. I thought at any moment the warden would surely realize that society had wrongly incarcerated a genius and that he would set me free? Those clowns who ran the Bastille had no appreciation for intelligence or culture. But I stayed and stayed until my wife finally relented and allowed me to be released to her custody. To be continued.
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