I was thinking up ways to introduce this gentleman next to me. Um, I thought long and hard on it, you know? I, at first I thought I was going to bust his chops a little and, uh, call him Big Book Chadwick. Then he, uh, then he wears a button saying that. And, uh, then I was gonna, then I was gonna, you know, introduce him as Don C., considering his, uh, preferences on anonymity in these rooms, but that wouldn't work. But the, uh, way that I do want to introduce him is I want to introduce him as a friend. I want to introduce him as a f- as a person who cares about another alcoholic. When I first walked into these rooms, I was brand new, and he gave me his time, and I know there's a lot of guys from the Keating Center here tonight, and he gives you his time also. He, uh, just said he's got 35 years, and he continues to help the fellow alcoholic. You know, I, I always get a lot out of what he says in his comments and his leads, but I also get a lot out of what he does and what I, I was was. He is a very, very active alcoholic, recovering alcoholic. With that, I'll introduce Don Chadwick from Saturday mid-morning. They tell me I need this microphone, and I don't think so. Can you hear me in the back? Yeah. Okay. Uh. You know, I, I warned the guys at Keating Center Thursday morning when I did group. I said, "Don't go to Merrymont. They got the biggest jerk that ever walked through the doors of AA late." And, uh, some of them showed up. But six months ago, I snapped on the radio just in time to hear a disc jockey say, "You'll never be a wealthy person until you have something money can't buy," and I jumped out of my chair, because what's being offered in these rooms money can't buy. And I got two living brothers. One's an engineer, has traveled the world, considerable financial success. The other, a scientist, retired now, considerable financial success. I never finished the eighth grade, and I don't have as much as I coulda had, but I got a lot more than I ever dreamed I would have. You're not gonna agree with what I say tonight, and if you talk to your sponsor after this meeting, they're gonna tell you, "The guy's a nut. Don't listen to him." And they told us a long time ago, learn to disagree agreeably. And they said, "Don't try to take the whole meeting home with you. Try to take one little statement." And you might hear one, something in the comment, but our minds are not capable of taking the whole meeting home. Take one little statement. And m- somebody might get up and say something that means something. As John said, my name is Don Chadwick. There's no doubt in my mind tonight I am an alcoholic. Hi, Don. For those who care, will you join me in the Serenity Prayer? God- God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen. To clarify something with the new people, the younger people, uh, when they put us in treatment, they used to keep us on booze for three days. And they had a booze called Cobbs Creek, and they had one thing in mind when they made Cobbs Creek: to make your last drink the most miserable experience of your life. It was the world's worst-tasting whiskey. And I'm in Rosemead. It's my third day there, and the nurse came in with that glass of Cobbs Creek, and she made the most stupid statement I ever heard in my life. She said, "I hope this is the last drink you ever take." And I laid in that bed and I said, "Why can't these people understand why I'm here? I'm not here to quit drinking. I'm here because I got back trouble." The cops were on my back. The judges were on my back. The bosses were on my back. My family had long ago stopped speaking to me, but the furthest thing from my mind was to never pick up a drink again. And I made a deal with myself. I was in trouble in every area of my life, and I would give these old men six months of my time, and then I could go on the granddaddy of all drunks, and everybody would say, "He tried," and the pressure would be off. And I gave them the six months, and I had six months, and nobody had taken a punch at me. I had six months, no jail cells, no handcuffs, and I said, "Maybe I ought to give these guys a couple more weeks, and a couple more weeks, and a couple more weeks." And by the time I reached 14, I had been through at least 22 different boarding homes, attended at least 14 different schools. And I was to go to school and made my rights, and a man offered me a job. He said, "I'll lock you in my store at night. You won't have to go back to school." And I sure didn't want to go to school. And he locked me in that store at night, and immediately, every time anybody the next day would come in that store with a suit on, I thought it was the truant officers looking for me, and that's when I started living in fear. At the age of 14 or 15, I could not hold a two-minute conversation. I lived in a shell. I would work that grocery store at night. Randall Mall was a racetrack, and in the wintertime, my dad had fighting cocks in every third barn. My job was to go feed the roosters, and then I would walk, uh, back to the house, throw a ball against the w- uh, wall of the building, and be anybody I wanted to be. But I couldn't hold a two-minute conversation. That spring, the racetrack came to town, and I'm throwing the rubbish out one morning. So one of the racetrackers says, "You know, it wouldn't hurt if you threw that rubbish out, you threw some booze with it, wine and beer." And the next day, I threw the rubbish out, and out went some wine and beer. And, um, guy says, "Why don't you come over and have a drink?" And I went to that barn, and I took my first drink of booze. I don't know if it was the first drink, the second drink, but all of a sudden, I found myself going from a 15-year-old kid that couldn't hold a two-minute conversation to a 15-year-old kid that you couldn't shut up. I went from a 15-year-old kid that had mentally been beaten in the ground so badly he was convinced he was a total idiot to a 15-year-old kid that thought he knew all the answers. I went from a 15-minute, uh, year old kid that was afraid of everything that walked to a 15-year-old kid that would challenge anybody that come down the street. And I made a decision that I would stay drunk the rest of my life, 'cause this was the way I wanted to live. The doo- booze did for me what I couldn't do for myself. Walking the barns one morning, and the race trainer said to me, "I'm gonna lose with my horse today." I said, "That's nice." He says, uh, "Go back there to that grocery store and tell them it's gonna win." And I said, "Dutch, I don't understand what you're telling me. If the horse is gonna lose, why do I tell people it's gonna win?" He said, "Bring the money back to me." And I found out gamblers are no smarter than drunks. I walked in that grocery store. I said, "The Dutchman gave me a horse. He said it's not gonna lose," and the money come up in bundles. And I took the money back to him. And between 15 and 18, I had more money in my pocket than I did any time in my adult life until I come through the doors of AA. One day he watched me drink a whiskey. A hundred and seven pounds, baby face. And he said, "Boy, I'm gonna make some money on you." And the next morning, I walked up to his barn, and he cooked me a big breakfast. He said, "Let's go make some money." And we walked into a little bar on, uh, Henry and Northfield, and, um, guy come in with a load of money, and he said, "I'll get you a couple hundred dollars. That punk cannot drink you." And the guy looked at me, hundred and seven pounds, baby face, and he made the bet. We won the bet. Pride in that capacity. Nobody could put away as much whiskey as me. And we continued to make these bets, and we continued to, uh, win these bets. And I had that pride and that capacity. At that time in my life, the ability to handle your booze meant you were a man. And at the age of 15, I was a man because I could handle my booze. And for three years, I'm running these bets back and forth to the grocery store, and the manager of the store caught on to what was going on. He weighed about 260. I weighed in at 107 pounds. He took a swing at me. I grabbed a meat cleaver, missed his head by a couple inches, and, uh, the law was called. Korean War just broke out, and they told me, "You got a choice. You join the Army or you go to jail," and I choose the Army. Basic training, no different than basic training for anybody else. 12 weeks without a drink. Basic training, when I went into the Army, I was in such bad physical shape, I put on 30 to 40 pounds in basic training. When everybody else was taking off the fat, I was putting on the weight like mad. And I heard the guys talking. Much the youngest in the outfit. They said, "Let's take the kid out and get the kid drunk." And they took the kid out, and it was like the old Andy Griffith movie, No Time for Sergeants. The kid walked away, and everybody else got drunk, and everybody else got in trouble. Fight in that capacity. Nobody could drink as much booze as me. And then we got lucky. My whole division got shipped to Germany. We didn't have to go to Korea, and I became captain's radioman, and the captain had a drinking problem, and his jeep driver had a drinking problem. And I was his radioman, and we'd be on maneuvers, and he'd say, "Chadwick, can you hear anything on your radio?" I said, "No, sir, I can't hear a thing." And he said, "If you can't hear anything on that radio, we might as well get a drink." And I'd say, "That's brilliant leadership, sir. Let's go get a drink." And I stayed drunk m- my year in Germany. Captains make good money, and the captain bought a lot of drinks. But the captain got transferred, and they put me back on a light weapon platoon, and I was told to do what everybody else was doing, and I slugged an officer. And I'm up for court-martial. Captain got a hold of me, and he said, "You're gonna get five years." And I said, "What can I do about it?" He said, "Sign papers for Korea. I got the papers here. Sign the papers for Korea, and, uh, the papers will come through before the court-martial." And I don't know how many people in this room never been to Korea. You can smell it before you can see it. They use the human waste for fertilizer, and they got a thing called kimchi that you bury in the ground, and they eat it when it comes out, and it stinks worse than the human waste. And then they had the thing I feared the most in my life, the biggest rats I had ever seen in my life. Then I got shipped up to frozen Chosin, the Chosin Reservoir. Eisenhower's running for president. My best friend Eisenhower come to Korea. My battalion was his first command. He came to my battalion. My best friend pulled honor guard for him. Eisenhower came back to the States, and the kid was as far from me as John is right now when he got killed. An article in papers, "Corporal has dinner with Ike and then death," and they had quotes from me about what happened. And my dad cut every article out. And I got back to the States, and I'd walk into… My dad gave me the articles. I'd walk into a saloon, and somebody'd say, "What was it like in Korea?" And I'd say, "You wanna hear a war story?" Then I'd give them the clip- clippings. "Give Chadwick a drink." So the battle got a little bigger. "Give Chadwick another drink." And all of a sudden, what was a minor scrimmage that day became bigger than the Battle of the Bulge. "Give Chadwick another drink." And, um, I finally, I get a job, and I'm working with explosive gas, hydrogen gas. They didn't have the safety restrictions. And I found a little saloon down on the corner, and I'm working rotation shift. And I could straight stoke my furnace, run down to this little saloon, get a couple drinks, come back, 18 minutes. Stoke my furnace, back down to the saloon, 18 minutes, come back. But the woman on second shift started talking about my drinking. Then they came to me, and they s- Says, "Ethel Mae's husband used to be a big drunk." "Oh? Well, Ethel Mae's husband quit drinking, and he don't drink anymore." I said, "That's wonderful." And they said, "Why, he used to be a big drunk." I said, "You told me this. What has it got to do with me?" Well, Ethel Mae went home to her husband, and he knew me, and, uh, she told him my story, and he says, "I know the jerk. You're gonna have to let the clown finish his act. He's not ready." Ethel Mae's husband died a couple years ago, a week short of 50 years in AA, and one of the greatest AAs to ever walk the face of the earth. His name was Joe German. Anybody that ever did much time in the penitentiary would've heard of Joe German, because he attended every penitentiary gone. But he knew I wasn't ready. And I'm working with this explosive dash. And I'd come in on third shift, and I'd bring wine and beer, and I'd throw the empties on top of the shipping office. And the company would come in in the morning, and they couldn't figure out why I'm leaving work drunker than I came to work, and they can't find no empties. And they tore down the shipping office. And for the next three years, I'm on the bum. Busboy in the saloon, stacking bottles in this grocery store that I worked in before I went in the service. And a man walked, walked… In the meantime, my kid brother comes home from the service. He said, "Don, I gotta go to Germany next week." I said, "Get married." He said, "What?" I said, "Don, they got this thing called allotment. If you get married, you send the money home to the woman, you get almost double your pay. When you get out of the service, you divorce her, and, uh, she gives you the money, and you got a nice little savings." He said, "Don, I've been away. I don't know any girls." And I says, um, "I'll find a girl to marry you." So we went to The Shadow Inn, and, uh, there was a girl sitting there, and I said, "Would you marry my brother?" And she looked at me like I was a nut. And I explained the circumstances to her, and she got patriotic as hell. She said, "Yeah, I'll marry him." Good thing he never married her, because he did 24 years in the service, and she would've had a nice little savings. And we took off to get married, and we got picked up for drinking intoxicating beverages in a m- moving vehicle. They let the girls go, and they threw my brother and I in jail. And I had an older brother trying to get away from his past. Western Reserve for eight hours a day, Republic Steel for eight hours a day. Few weeks previous, I had borrowed 100 bucks off him. I said, "You'll have it on a Friday night." He came up to the green thirst cell, and I said, "All I got is 20 bucks." I gave him the 20, and he stormed out of the bar. Nobody seen him give me 100. Everybody seen me give him 20. And the bartender says, "What's wrong with your brother?" And I says, "I'm trying to help him through college, and he don't appreciate it." And he said, "Give Chadwick a drink. Give Chadwick another drink." And again, I had another excuse. And I called him up at work, and I said, "Bob, we got a big problem." He says, he give you that typical groan. He said, "What's the problem?" I said, "Tom got himself thrown in jail, and he's gotta be in Germany next week." And he said, "Okay. Where are you at? I'll pick you up, and we'll go get him." And I said, "Well, I'm in jail, too." He come out. He put the money up. My brother had a left hand on him. We probably fought 500 times, and he won 500 times. And I knew when we left that jail cell, there was gonna be a fight. And he said the magic words to me. He said, "Don, I had to write a bum check. I gotta run back into Cleveland, get money out of my savings account, and put it in my checking account. Why do you do these things?" And I went to the cops, and I said, "You better do something about that guy. He wrote you a bum check." And we didn't speak for the next 10 years. And I'm stacking shelves in this grocery store one day, and a man walks in, and he says, "I know your childhood. I know your history. I'm willing to give you a break. If you promise me to show up to work sober, I'll give you a job." And I said, "You got my word for it." And for the next six years, if I showed up in that plant sober five times, it was a miracle. I went to work drunk and mad one day, and I caused a wildcat strike. Had everybody out on the street. At that time in my life, I'm wear, I was wearing shop uniforms seven days a week. My drinking capacity is down to a shot in a beer and my face in a puddle of beer. Wake up, shot in a beer, face in a puddle of beer. Totally lost my capacity for eating. Lost control of all my facilities. Don't know when I'm gonna puke. Don't know when I'm gonna go to the bathroom. And I read the ob- obituary a couple years ago of Kurt Cobain. And in the obituary, it says, "When day is done or the party's over, and everyone goes home, you're stuck with yourself," and that's the way I was living. If I was alone or I was with 100 people, I'm stuck with myself. And they gave me a lot of room in them bars because I stunk. And the only bar I'm allowed in, the bartender made a mistake. He told a bookie to give me credit, and I bet every football game going. I didn't have 10 cents in my pocket, and I won every bet. And I got a bundle of money in my pocket. It's on a Sunday night, and I went into the bar where Johnny Brinza got locked in the cooler, and they didn't know me. I'm trying to buy the house a drink, and they're trying to get rid of me. And a man by the name of George Mogosi walked in. He come over, and he sat down next to me, and I said, "I haven't seen you for a long time. Where you been?" He said, "I'm in AA." He said, "The only reason I'm here is I'm sponsoring the barmaid's husband." And I went into a blackout. And to this day, I don't know whether it was a week from that Monday or the next day. I walked into personnel, and I said, "What do you know about AA?" And the personnel manager looked up at me in disgust, and he said, "The only thing I know about AA is you need it." Then he softened, and he made a call. But the man that owned that shop, the man that hired me, had become my enabler. And I hear people get up there and condemn the enabler. I get my paycheck on Friday, and I say, "I hope I worked at least four days last week. I need the money." And this man took on the supervisors and everything to keep my job. My enabler did not prolong my drinking. My enabler prolonged my life. Personnel manager put in a call, and a man started taking me to meetings, and I went to my second meeting, and I'm coming to pieces. And I walked in the old club on Broadway and Harvard. Guy gave me a laugher ticket, and he said, "We got a laugher tonight." He handed me the ticket, and I hit the panic button. I was shaking too much to sign my name. And a man come out of the back, and he wrote me. He said, "You want me to sign that for you?" I said, "Please." And he put my name on the ticket. He come back, and he said two words, two words that means more than all the educated minds, all the professionals, all the books put together. He said, "We understand." They understood how I had three brothers and a sister and never, never got invited to their weddings. They understood how I woke up in a jail cell, laying in my own waste, my own puke, my own blood, and wasn't worried about getting out of there and getting a shower but was worried about getting out of there and getting a drink. They understood. I didn't. It reminds me of a drunk staggering down the street, and he falls into the gutter. And the social worker comes by, and he throws some pamphlets down. He said, "Read these. You'll get up." He reads the pamphlets, and he's still stuck in the gutter. The preacher comes by. He throws him some books. He said, "Read these. You'll get up." He reads the books, and he's still stuck in the gutter. The AA sponsor comes by. He jumps down in the gutter with him, and he said, "Come on, I'll get you out." He said, "If they couldn't get me out, how are you gonna get me out?" He said, "I've been here before. I know the way," and that's what we understand. I went to a meeting the next night. Billy Hughes is sitting there. Billy had watched the last 15 years of my drinking. And I walked up to him. I said, "I guess you're surprised to see me." He said, "Surprised to see you? Why would I be surprised to see you? Who in the hell else would have you? You have no place else to go." Then I went into the meeting, and I said, "Well, Billy's mad." And I came out of the meeting. He said, "I want to talk to you." I went out, and I sat down. He said, "You're gonna have trouble." I said, "Yeah?" He says, uh, "You're not gonna like the word serenity," and I said, "I don't." And he said, "You're gonna have trouble with the God bit." I was an atheist when I walked through these doors 35 years ago, and I have never found a God. I'll be forever grateful to them old-timers who says, "We only have two kinds of prayers anyway: prayers of guidance, prayers of understanding. Anything else is a give me prayer. And if you want what we have, you better get on your feet and earn it." And then they took me to hear Moe Yoder. And Moe Yoder said, "You're gonna pray for potatoes, you better get a hoe." And Moe Yoder said, "It's not what you say on your knees. It's what you do while you're on your feet," and I could buy that. And I met some of the first 100 members of AA. And I hear people get up here and talk about how tough they were, and I never met one yet. And, uh, the toughest sounding old-timers I ever met in my life were the kindest, most compassionate, most caring people that ever walked the face of the earth. And I went with these individuals. We'd put a guy in Rosemary Hall, and they'd go back, and they'd fill that icebox up with groceries. Marty Welch tells the story of Bud O'Brien stealing the utility bills out of the house and go and pay the utility bills, 'cause you can't give a drunk the money. He'd spend it. And he told Marty, he says, "I didn't do this for the drunk. I did it for his family." We sat up all night with a drunk and poured him a drink every hour till we get him a treatment, because the only way we knew how to handle a drunk was keeping them boozed until you could get them to the hospital. They were the kindest people that ever lived. I don't know how they got the tough reputation. But they also put me up against the wall, and they said, "If you want to stay sober, we'll go to hell and back with you. If you want to get drunk, go to hell by yourself." And that's the way they treated me, and that's the way I feel you should be treated. That's right. They took Johnny Benza and I to meetings. Neither one of us had two nickels to rub together, and we'd walk into the club, and they said, "We're taking you guys to dinner tonight." Oh, boy, we're going to get food. They took us to an anniversary. And they walked us to, to the front of the line. And they said, "You, these two guys go first," and we got our plates full of food. Don't tell me them old-timers were tough. They weren't. Frank Leslie became my sponsor. Frank was one of the first 100. Ask the old-timers about his flower shop. If it was 10 below outside, it was 20 below inside. Coldest place in creation. And he looked at me when I got out of Rosemary Hall, and he said, "You're chairperson." I said, "I'm what?" He said, "You're chairperson. You get the leads." And I, uh, says, uh, "Frank, I don't know anybody." "Oh," he said, "I'll give you names." So I figure he's going to give me their names, their addresses, and phone numbers. Debbie, Saturday Night Live. I had to go to the meeting to get her the lead. So and so, and another meeting. And, uh, but no phone numbers, and I had to go to that meeting. For the next 17 months, I was chairperson every week. Greatest thing that ever happened to me. I'm up there pitching a moaning one day, and he threw me in his car. He said, "Take a ride with me." And he took me out to Crown Hospital, the veterans hospital, where they'll never get out of a bed, and marched me through a ward. We walked outside, and I said, "Frank, why'd you do this to me?" He said, "You still feeling sorry for yourself? The only problem you got is you can't have a drink today, you pitiful SOB. Do you know how many guys in them beds would love to change places with you?" And I needed that kind of lesson. Wow. In that flower shop, I'm sitting up front chairing a meeting, and a cat come out and killed a mouse. Coffee table sat in the back of the room. Cat ate the mouse, jumped up on- The coffee table, started drinking the cream, and I said, "Boy, am I glad I drink coffee black." Joe Corrado was my other sponsor. Joe told me, he said, "The only promise we give you: walk in our footsteps, you'll never be sick from drinking again. We don't keep you out of jail. We don't save marriages. We don't save your job. If that happens, all well and good, but the only promise we give you: walk in our footsteps, you'll never be sick from drinking again." And, um, they told me the biggest enemy I would ever have in my life would be the great me. When, uh, there was no more warrants for my arrest, everything was going okay on the job, the bosses were off my back, and my pockets would jingle, and the great me would jump out of the bushes, and the great me would say, "Who needs AA? I'm okay. I'm cured." Seven years sober, the great me jumped out of the bushes, and the great me met a girl 20 years younger than himself. And the girl told me, "Don't fall in love with me." And I go, "Don't worry about a thing." But one of us fell in love, and it wasn't her, and I stayed sober by habit. I stayed sober by stopping in a restaurant, "Do you care for anything from the bar?" And I said, "No," but I was walking on thin ice. Guy by the name of Clint Kensky got ahold of me and got me going back to Roseville, going back to meetings, but I was on ice because of the great me. I met a man by the name of Lenny Coleman, kindest man that ever lived. Sober six months and I said, "Lenny, this AA won't work for me." He said, "Why not?" "I'm on vacation, money in my pocket." And I said, "Lenny, I don't believe in God like you people." He says, "Can you answer a question for me?" I said, "What's that, Len?" He says, "You gotta go to work?" I said, "No, Lenny, I'm on vacation." He says, um, "You got any money on you?" I said, "Yeah, how much do you need?" He said, "I don't need your money." He said, "But you're drinking coffee, getting ready to go to a meeting with me. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" And, um, it meant something. Two weeks went by. I'm getting ready to go back to work. And I'm standing with Lenny, getting ready to go to a meeting, watching the softball game, and my thoughts are, "I'm gonna go to work tomorrow. They're gonna call all the employees out. They're gonna sing How Great Thou Art." And, uh, "Boy, everybody's gonna be so proud of me." Lenny says, "The band stops playing." I said, "Lenny, I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about." He said, "You're not gonna get no pats on the back." He said, "They found somebody new to worry about." I think it's very important at six-month period of time, we tell people the band stops playing because it does. They find somebody new to worry about. Lenny was one of the greatest helps to me to ever happen. I hear people get up here and talk about the itch. I don't know why the hell you gotta worry about something you never did. The agains will put me in a gutter that I'm totally- … incapable of ever crawling out of again. You want to talk about the itches? I lived in an apartment on 88th Street. Come home one night, I heard ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. And I walked in my apartment, phone drink. Guy says, "Anything going on in your life?" And I said, "Oh, somebody's in the parking lot shooting people." He said, "Oh, that's nice." Then we heard boom, boom, boom, boom. He said, "Chad, what's going on?" I said, "I'll go outside and check." I walked outside, and the cops screamed at me, "Get back inside. You want to get killed?" Man hadn't had a drink for two and a half years. Got in a visitation argument with his wife. She was living with a cop, his ex-wife. That night, he killed a cop, killed a tenant. He's sitting on death row now. Never had as much as a traffic ticket. But in my life, I don't have to invent any new games. All I gotta go back to do what I was doing 35 years ago, not gonna be in a gutter that I'm totally incapable of crawling out of. That's wonderful. Amends. Amen. I don't figure amends means digging up the dirt. I don't have to go and tell somebody I cared for, "I stole $20 off you. I want to make amends." All I have to do is undo the wrong. If I stole 20 off John, our relationship is reestablished. All I have to do is go back and say, "Hey, John, you know, when I was out there, you did me a lot of favors. I had some luck on the lotto. Here's 30 bucks. Take your wife to dinner on me." The amends are made, and the hurt isn't dug up. I don't have to dig up hurt. My, but, um, my oldest brother that I turned in on a bad check charge, amends had to be made. His wife called me from Miami one time, and she said, "You know, if you came to Miami, Bob would talk to you." And I got on the plane, and I'm thinking, "What do I do? What do I say to somebody I never did nothing but steal off of?" And I got off the plane, and I knew the amends were made. I walked down the aisle, and he's standing there with his wife. They had a date for me, and he's roaring at the top of his voice, "I haven't talked to my brother in 10 years. Nothing but the best." And he said, "Don, we're going to the best restaurant in Miami." And I said, "Boy, that's great." And, uh, we got to the best restaurant in Miami, Sizzler Kabob on a Flaming Sword, and he kept yelling, "Nothing but the best." And they had the fanciest drinks going. They had them fancy desserts. The waitress brought the bill over, and he said, "I waited 10 years for this," and he handed me the bill. We got a beautiful relationship today. Resentments: I resented things that happened from before I was 14, before I picked up that drink. Man threw me out of his house when I was 12 years old, a night like tonight. Told me if I didn't have money, I couldn't live there, and I walked the streets. And I swore if I ever seen this man, I'd give him the beating of his life. And I heard Anne call a meeting one night, and Anne says, "How do you get rid of a resentment?" And she got a sneer on her face. She said, "You get even." She said, "But they told me if I want to get even, I better get even with the people that help me." And the guy sitting next to me looked at me, and he said, "You look like somebody hit you." And I ran into this man. He was seated down. He was crippled. No idea in the world who I was. And I said, "You're looking for revenge against him?" And I had to take a group of people to dinner, and I went up to the bar, a restaurant where I'd been busboy, where the waitress used to give me a couple drinks, begged me to eat, give me a couple dollars so I had a fix the next day. And she come up and give me a hug, and she said, "Don, I'm so glad for you." That's getting even. Went to a meeting, and a guy got up and he says, "AA comes before my family. AA comes before my job. AA comes before everything in my life." And I told Lenny Cohen, I said, "This guy's a total nut. My family comes first." And Lenny says, "Your family don't speak to you." And I swore if they were speaking to me, they'd come first. And he said, "You don't understand what he means. What he means is without AA, he has nothing else." Going to a meeting with Lenny, and a guy got up and he says, "I'm sober 20 years. I need AA more than I ever needed it." And I told Lenny, I said, "That guy's a jerk. If I was sober 20 years, you'd never see me in the doors of AA again." Lenny says, "You don't understand what he means. He's got more to lose." I just touched 35 years. I need AA more today because I got more to lose. When I walked through the doors of AA, I had nothing to lose. Today, I got everything to lose. They tell the newcomers, "Take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth." I gotta go along with Ray Michel. He says, "Don't drink. Go to meetings and bitch." Get rid of that garbage. Too many of us get upset when the newcomers complain. Let that newcomer complain. They call my meeting at, uh, Keating Center, CBS, Chadwick's Bitch Session. Get rid of the garbage. It's gotta go. Now I get into trouble. When it happened, how it happened, why it happened. All of a sudden, everybody's on first-name basis. They don't have a last name anymore. I just showed Demi a pamphlet. Dr. Bob says anybody that can read the English language knows if you give only your given name in these rooms, you're living below the steps. If you give your, only your gi-, uh, if you give your name, full name on the order of press, you're living above the steps. You know, a guy give… Friend of mine that's in Keating Center right now gave me his address book. Three Jims. I said, "How do you know which one you want to talk to?" And, uh, he said, "I don't know." You want to try looking Jim up in the phone book? Half the guys that give you their name Jim are gonna have James in the phone book. You're gonna have one hell of a time finding Jim in the phone book. They buy a raffle ticket, and they put their full name on that raffle ticket, and they're hoping to hell their anonymity gets blown to the high heavens. One nice summer day, North Randall had a warrant out for me. Cleveland cops arrested me, turned me over to North Randall cops. Put me in handcuffs, marched me out in front of all the neighbors. I got to North Randall Police Station, and they didn't settle for Don C. They wouldn't even settle for Don Chadwick, Donald Vernon Chadwick. They wanted the whole damn works. Most disgraceful moment in my life, being led out in front of all the neighbors in handcuffs, and I gave my name. When I got the opportunity to help somebody, I become Don C. People get up here- Ah, these AA say how great they are. My mother died and nobody came to the funeral. Nobody knew your name. My name's Don Chadwick, and I'm not ashamed of it. I went to a meeting early in sobriety, and I bitched about a sign being upstairs, AA meetings downstairs. An old man walked by me, and he said, "That's okay. You don't have to apologize for being sober." I'm 70 years old. I never once had to say, "I'm sorry I was sober." I don't know why we got so damn anoun- uh, anonymous. I'll get in trouble on this one, too. The Big Book. Big Book became the lazy person's way of sponsoring. A newcomer walks in. We tell them, "Go home and read the fifth chapter." I couldn't read the funny papers. There's thousands of people come in these rooms, can recite the Big Book word for word, and can't give you directions to a halfway house. Person comes in on a cold winter's night, "I don't have a place to stay," and they don't know what the to do because the Big Book don't tell them where to take it. It's a great book. Lot of knowledge in it, but if it's not put to where I work, it don't mean nothing. I got a tape. I gave John a copy. Bill Wilson, the day Dr. Bob died, he said, "We wrote the Big Book to make money." The Big Book was never meant to take the place of activity. What has the Big Book never done? Big Book never welcomed a newcomer. Big Book's never made a 12 step call. Big Book never went to a funeral home. It is a tragedy. Big Book never listened when somebody had to talk it out. It's a book. It's got tremendous knowledge, but knowledge put, not put to work don't mean a damn thing. Big moments in AA: when I go to bed at night, and I toss and turn all night because somebody I've been trying to help has a problem, and I don't know what to do. Big moments in AA: when somebody I've been working with AA, in AA, has an anniversary, and I'm glad for them. I sit here, 35 years sobriety. I'm more impressed with the person that got three months. I stand here with 35 years sobriety. I got a year. I'm tremendously impressed because they're still fighting. I, uh, I'm more impressed with the three months. I'm more impressed with the one year than I am the time. Neil Craven led a meeting for me this morning, 56 years. I'm more impressed with three months than I am Neil's 56 years. That might sound stupid, but that's the way I feel. How does AA work? No different to going to a vending machine. Put something in, and you're gonna get something out. Put nothing in, and you're gonna get nothing out. And I had a young man downtown one time, and he says, "My sponsor told me working AA is like trying to walk up an escalator that's coming down. Stop doing what you're doing, and you're gonna end up back where you started." And if I stop doing what I'm doing, I'm going to end up in the gutter I crawled out of 35 years ago. I'd like to thank John for asking, you for listening, and join me in a good large group. All right. I put you to sleep? No. Never.
