Fraternity of the Water Wagon, by Clem Lane, Coronet Magazine, November 1943 When someone whom you have known as a ringnailed lush suddenly ceases to drink, chances are he has come under the influence of Alcoholics Anonymous. In November, 1934, a New York investment analyst went on the last of a series of sprees that had marked 17 years of his life. Seven months later he sat at the bedside of an alcoholic physician, fresh from a barnburner of a binge, and fed him his last drink. From this bedside session in Akron, Ohio, has come a nationwide movement—Alcoholics Anonymous—which has restored to serene and useful lives thousands of men and women whose alcoholic excesses had been the despair of relatives, friends and employers. Some weeks ago I sat at dinner with the New Yorkers, whom we shall know as Bill. Toward the tag end of the evening I questioned his estimate of the group’s membership, which he put at some eight thousand. Actually, it seemed low after hearing of the five hundred members in the armed forces and the thriving groups that dot the nation from coast to coast. “You know, we alcoholics are world-champion liars. One of these days some organization such as the American Medical Association is going to make a survey. Wouldn’t it be better if our claims showed up on the bearish side—that instead of eight thousand members, we had hundreds more?” That Bill can’t whip out a report showing the exact membership is due to the movement’s informality. Alcoholics Anonymous can hardly be called an organization. There are no officers and no dues. Each group is completely autonomous. Expenses are met for the most part by passing the hat or parking “the kitty,” a slotted tin can, near the exit of the meeting place. However, a national office, The Alcoholic Foundation, is maintained in New York, where the movement’s book, ​Alcoholics Anonymous​, and other literature is published. In addition, the foundation channels inquiries to the home groups, and carries on a brisk advisory correspondence with its leaders and with individual alcoholics in spots where units have not yet been formed. Alcoholics being what they are, Bill points out with a smile, four of the foundation’s board of trustees, must be non-alcoholics. After early struggles, in which John D. Rockefeller Jr. proved a powerful friend, the foundation, which derives the large part of its funds from sale of the book and group contributions, is at least nearing solvency. Now with the growth of AA, the ultimate plan is for the foundation to devote more of its resources and energies into research in the problem of alcoholism. Since alcoholism is no respecter of persons, no matter on which side of the tracks an AA group is started, it is not long before all strata of society are represented—the executive, the laborer, the society matron, the housewife. Despite this democracy, AA has one exclusive requirement, set forth in the first of its 12-step-program of recovery. “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.” Which is merely another way of defining an alcoholic. And just how does a person determine whether he is an alcoholic?

AA has two favorite tests. First, that a man drop in at his favorite bar and each night for a week straight have just three drinks—no more. If he can do that without getting drunk at least once, the odds are against his being an alcoholic. Second, after having had a few drinks, can be WILLINGLY—not because of business compulsion, a social engagement or the arrival of the police—leave a bottle, a party or a bar room before getting drunk? Armed with these tests and other material, the AA’s go forth to call on a likely “prospect.” There’s some preliminary conversational shadowboxing and then one of the visitors opens: “First time I ever got drunk was at a high school dance.” And he goes on from there. Group experience shows there’s a definite pattern about an alcoholic’s drinking career. An occasional binge progresses to the frequent binge. Then come attempts at controlled drinking—imbibing only after sundown or just on the weekends. When the control slips, the alcoholic “goes on the wagon.” for a short time his affairs straighten out, so he has another try at controlled drinking. More sprees, marital difficulties, job losses and trips to sanitaria follow, interspersed by periods of sobriety and fervid announcements of “Never again.” By now the alcoholic begins to doubt his sanity, his will power, and finally begins to despair. SO THE VISITORS sketch their history, in hopes that the recruit will recognize a fellow alcoholic and open up with his own story. Sometimes it takes a sly prod, as “Of course, if a guy is a sissy drinker, we don’t want any part of him.” Or perhaps a recital of the familiar rebukes of well-meaning friends: Why don’t you act like a man? Where’s your will power? Can’t you see the stuff is ruining you? Establishing the ​entente cordiale​, frequently within minutes of meeting, is part of the alcoholics’ group lore. AA’s grin as they recall an occasional wife who resents her husband drying up “for these strangers after the years I begged him to quit..” But it’s through understanding and lack of censure that one alcoholic reaches another. The physician, clergyman or other non-alcoholic, however sympathetic and helpful, rarely succeeds in hiding a natural touch of irritation or pity with its concomitant, condescension, and the alcoholic recognizes and resents the alien effort. Having encouraged the alcoholic to a recital of his own adventures, the AA apostles point out that once a man has become an alcoholic, never again can he drink in a controlled manner. This hits the prospect between the eyes. Despite the bouncing around he has taken over the years, he clings desperately to the hope that some day he will find the secret of drinking “like a gentleman..” But before he can protest, the AA’s speak up. “We know exactly how you feel,” they say. “Most of our pleasurable memories—parties, celebrations, anniversaries, vacations—were associated with drinking. But there’s an Irish proverb which says “Never bid the devil good morning until you meet him at the crossroads,” and that’s just what we do in AA. “You don’t sign any document or take any oath that you’ll never take another drink. What we do is to live on a 24-hour basis. We just stay dry for today and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”

At this point an occasional prospect is lost to the fold. He’s willing to do anything at all about his drinking except to quit. But others ask, “What’s the secret?” Now comes the Sunday pitch. “You’ve tried everything else,” say the AA’s. “Why not try God?” “I’m no church-goer,” the prospect returns quickly. “You don’t have to be,” the AA’s tell him. “We think you’ll agree that somewhere in the scheme of things is a Power greater than man. Call this Power anything you want. Form your own concept. But whatever it is, we know that this Power can and will help you to stay dry. We know because that’s how we quit drinking.” To this wide open spiritual approach only a hidebound atheist could object, says the group—and there are surprisingly few such among alcoholics. At this point the recruit is ready for the other 10 steps of the recovery program. He must first put his affairs completely in the hands of the Power. He is asked to take a moral inventory of himself—(“probably the first honest look you’ve had at yourself in years”). Then admit to God, to himself, and to another human being the exact nature of his wrongs. The next four steps call for the alcoholic to attack his character defects. He lists the persons he has harmed and makes amends “wherever possible.” The AA’s say that it isn’t the major catastrophe that turns an alcoholic to drink so often as the accumulation of small angers, petty resentments, minor jealousies. Thus the tenth step consists of a daily personal inventory—a sort of “never let the sun go down on your anger” rule. Another phase is aimed at holding fast to the middle of the road. For, say AA, a sudden stroke of good luck is as dangerous to an alcoholic’s continued dryness as a series of misfortunes. The eleventh step is to seek through prayer and meditation to improve conscious contact with God as the alcoholic understands him, praying only for knowledge of His will and the power to carry it out. The twelfth and last step is the one that sends AA’s out at all hours, no matter the time or temperature, on the business of snatching drunks back to a normal way of living. It is to this last step that much of the rapid growth of the movement can be traced. Helping another alcoholic to achieve dryness is the best sort of insurance for keeping an alcoholic dry. Hence AA activities range from work with men and women confined in institutions to educational efforts through which an increasing number of alert younger men are finding their way into AA before succumbing to alcoholic excess. How effective is AA? Bill says that immediate recoveries are about 50 per cent, with another 25 per cent stumbling about for a time before arriving at continued sobriety. The remaining 25 per cent disappear into the exterior darkness. Those figures, of course, disregard the psychotics, whose alcoholism is a by-product, as well as those who “join” AA under duress—threat of a divorce or loss of a job. Frequent meetings, parties (called “open houses”), and calls on prospects keep the AA’s busy and happy. They have an amazing readiness to laugh, particularly at themselves and their past antics.

They’ll even smile, albeit a bit knowingly, if a visiting fireman essays to rationalize their program. Now and again some such analyst holds that AA is simply a program of self discipline, a conscious group effort to effect a personality change. Call it what you will, declare the AA’s. We’re dry..