The Human Story. . .

I CRAWLED out of the aloe bushes at the Bowling Club where I had slept. I sat down on the beach and tried to control the finest attack of the "shakes" I had ever had. Two years ago an army psychiatrist had said that within two years, if I carried on drinking, I'd either be dead or land in the gutter as a hobo. Well, I'd arrived at the hobo part all right--and I wasn't so sure that she wasn't right about the death part either.