Bill Wilson’s Last Drinking Spree

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 though of golf. I had not 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 could not quite conceal her apprehension, but she managed to say cheerfully, “Oh, please do. That would be wonderful.” I crossed on the ferry and took a bus. I found myself seated beside a man with a target rifle. That brought back memories of the Remington single-shot piece grandfather had given me when I was eleven years old. We go to talking about shooting. Suddenly our bus collided with the bus ahead of us. There was little shock or damage. My friend and I alighted on the pavement to wait for the next bus 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, “Fine, let’s go.” We walked into the place. He ordered a Scotch and I ordered ginger ale. “Don’t you drink?” he said. “No,” I said, “I’m one of those people who can’t manage it.” And then I dwelt on the allergy and the obsession and the whole business of alcoholism. I told him about the terrible time I had with liquor and how I was through with it forever. I carefully explained the whole illness to him. We go onto another bus and presently found ourselves in front of a country inn well down on the Island. I was to go to the golf course nearby, and my new friend was to take another bus to his rifle range. But it was noontime and he said, “Let’s go in and have a sandwich. Besides, I’d like to have another 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. There was the familiar buzz which arises from drinking crowds. My friend and I continued to talk, still on the subject of shooting. Sandwiches and another drink for him, sandwiches and ginger ale for me. My mind turned again to Armistice Day in France, to all the joy of those hours, to the great celebration. I no longer heard what my friend was saying. Suddenly the big Irish bartender came up to 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!” he cried. “Is it possible that you can take a drink after what you just told me? Your must be crazy!” And my reply was, “I am.”

AA Comes of Age, pages 56-57.

And so started Bill W’s last drinking spree.

So on this Veteran’s Day (in the US), in addition to our military veterans and those currently serving in our troubled times … I’m also thinking of our veterans of alcoholism. Those who have ‘come home’ through our program of recovery … and those who I hope and pray have gone on to a ‘better home,’ where their suffering is ended, forevermore. Knowing, one of them could have been me. I give thanks to those ‘veterans of alcoholism’ who walked the road of recovery before me, leaving but a ‘simple set of directions’ I could choose to follow. To them I say “Thanks.” Tony C.