William F. Buckley, Jr

Up from Misery

A friend of long standing who has never asked me to devote this space to advertising any enthusiasm of his has now, diffidently, made the exception. He does not want to do anything less than what he can do, through his own efforts and those of his friends, to pass along the word that, within walking distance of the great majority of Americans, there is help waiting which can lead them out of the darkness, as indisputably as an eye surgeon, restoring sight, can lead someone into the sunlight.

Kenneth (we’ll call him) is a cocky feller, something of a sport, tough-talking, an ace in his individualistic profession, who remembers getting drunk at college in the late ‘20’s on the night he won an important boxing match, but at no other time during his college career. Emerging from college into the professional world, he revved up slowly, hitting in his late 30’s his cruising speed: two or three martinis per day. These he was dearly attached to, but not apparently dominated by: He would not, gladly, go a day without his martinis, but neither, after the third, did he require a fourth.

Then in the spring of 1972 his gentle, devoted (teetotaling) wife had a mastectomy, the prognosis optimistic; but with a shade of uncertainty. So, to beef up his morale, he increased the dosage just a little. When, later that year, the doctor called to tell him the worst, he walked straightaway to the nearest bar. After she died, he began buying a fifth each of bourbon and gin on Saturdays, a week’s supply to eke out the several martinis he had been drinking at and after lunch. Fascinated, he watched himself casually making minor alterations: «Make that quarts» was the modest beginning. Then the resupplying would come on Friday; then Thursday. In due course it was a quart a day.

In the morning he would begin; one, then up to five snorts before leaving for the office — later and later in the morning. Before reaching the door he would rinse out his mouth. But always — this fascinated him, as gradually he comprehended the totality of his servitude — he would, on turning the door handle, go back: for just one more.

At night he would prepare himself dinner, then lie down for a little nap, wake hours later, go to the kitchen to eat dinner — only to find he had already eaten it. Once he returned to a restaurant three hours after having eaten his dinner: he forgot he had been there. Blackouts, he called the experiences.

On the crucial day it was nothing special. He walked home from the office, full of gin, and vomited in the street (this often happened), struggling to do this with aplomb in the posh backdrop of the East 60’s. On reaching his apartment he lurched gratefully for the bottle, sipped from the glass... and was clapped by the hand of Providence as unmistakably as any piece of breast was ever struck by a lance.

He heard his own voice say, as if directed by an outside force, «What the hell am I doing to myself?» He poured his martini into the sink, emptied the gin bottle, then emptied the bourbon bottle, then went to the telephone and, never in his life having given a second’s conscious thought to the organization, fumbled through the directory and dialed the number for Alcoholics Anonymous.

One must suppose that whoever answered that telephone call was as surprised as a fireman excitedly advised that a house was ablaze. Kenneth would like to... inquire — but perhaps A A was too busy tonight, perhaps next week sometime?... What? Come today? How about tomorrow? Do you have a meeting every week? You have 800 meetings in New York a week?.. Scores every night?... Okay. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be the first of 250 meetings in ninety days with Alcoholics Anonymous. AA advises at least ninety meetings in the first ninety days. Kenneth had assumed he would be mixing with hoi polloi. Always objective, he advises now that «on a scale of 1—10» — incorporating intelligence, education, success, articulateness — «I would rank around six or seven». He made friends. And he made instant progress during those first weeks, quickly losing the compulsion for the morning drinks. But for the late afternoon martinis he thirsted, and he hungered, and he lusted. He dove into a despair mitigated only by his thrice-daily contacts with AA. His banked-up grief for his wife raged now, and every moment, every long afternoon and evening without her, and without alcohol, were endless bouts with the haunting question: What is the point in living at all?

And then, suddenly, as suddenly as on the day he poured the booze into the sink. Twenty-seven weeks later, he had been inveigled into going to a party. Intending to stay one dutiful hour, he stayed five. On returning, he was exhilarated. He had developed anew the capacity to talk with people, other than in the prescribed ritualisms of his profession, or in the boozy idiom of the tippler. He was so excited, so pleased, so elated, he could not sleep until early morning for pleasure at re-experiencing life.

That was two months ago, and every day he rejoiced at his liberation, and prays that others who suffer will find the hand of Alcoholics Anonymous. And — one might presumptuously add — the hand of the Prime Mover, Who was there in that little kitchen on the day the impulse came to him; and Who, surely, is the wellspring of the faith of Alcoholics Anonymous, as of so many other spirits united to help their fellow man.

Joseph Epstein