Originally published in the July 2001 Grapevine Magazine
From Section 2, Living History
IT WAS A Saturday evening in April 1964, and usually I would have been uptown at a bar. But I was home suffering from the flu (for a change it was something other than the "brown bottle flu") when a man named Hartley came to visit. My wife reluctantly admitted him to our apartment, believing he'd come to take me out drinking. But Hartley had a different purpose.
He'd seen me at a Lincoln, Nebraska, AA meeting more than a year before, and he wanted to know if I was staying sober. I told him no—"I guess I'll always be a drunk." Then he dumped...
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