Yes, I am

I am going to take the lazy way out and quote a section of "Pass It On" in which Bill describes in detail the insanity of the first drink from his own experience. It is very apropos this section of the Big Book and is one of my favorite stories

Bill was to have one last great battle with booze. It would be a running, bruising battle. It started on Armistice Day.

"The fright was getting hazier. I didn’t have to exert myself so much to resist. I began to talk to people about alcoholism, and when offered drinks, I would give the information to them as a defense and also as a justification for my former condition. Confidence was growing.

“Armistice Day, 1934, rolled around. Lois had to go to the Brooklyn department store where she worked. Wall Street was closed down, and I began to wonder what I would do. I thought of golf. I hadn’t played in a long time. The family purse was slender, so I suggested to Lois that I might go over to Staten Island, where there was a public course. She couldn’t quite conceal her apprehension, but managed to say cheerfully, 'please do. That would be wonderful.’ I soon crossed on the ferry and found myself seated on the bus beside a man with a flying target rifle. That brought back memories of that Remington single-shot piece my grandfather had given me when I was 11 years old. We started talking about shooting.

“Suddenly, a bus behind us collided with the one we were in. There wasn’t any great shock, neither too much damage. My friend and I alighted on the pavement to wait for the next one to come along. Still talking about shooting irons, we noticed something that looked like a speakeasy. He said to me, ‘What about a little nip?'

“I said to him, 'Fine, let’s go.' We walked into the place. He ordered a Scotch. With ease, I ordered ginger ale. 

‘Don’t you drink?' he said.

“ I said. 'I’m one of those people who can’t manage it.’ And then, I dwelt on the allergy and the obsession, among other things. I told him all about the terrible time I’d had with liquor and how I was through with it forever. Very carefully, I explained the whole illness to him.

“Soon, seated in another bus, we were presently deposited in front of a country inn quite well down the island. l was to go to the golf course nearby; he was to take another bus to the rifle range. But it was noontime, so he said, ‘Let’s go in and have a sandwich. Besides, I’d like to have a drink.’ We sat at the bar this time. As I have said, it was Armistice Day. The place was filling up, and so were the customers. That familiar buzz which rises from drinking crowds filled the room. My friend and I continued our talk, still on the subject of shooting. Sandwiches and ginger ale for me, sandwiches and another drink for him.

‘We were almost ready to leave when my mind turned back again to Armistice Day in France -- all the ecstasy of those hours. I remembered how we’d all gone to town. I no longer heard what my friend was saying. Suddenly, the bartender, a big, florid Irishman, came abreast of us beaming. In each hand he held a drink. ‘Have one on the house, boys,’ he cried. ‘It’s Armistice Day.' Without an instant’s hesitation, I picked up the liquor and drank it.

‘My friend looked at me aghast. ‘My God, is it possible that you could take a drink after what you just told me? You must be crazy.’

"And my only reply could be this: 'Yes, I am.'

"Pass It On," pp. 109-111

Copyright © 1984 by Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc.