Grass Roots Opinion

TO at least one gibbering idiot in the usual third-rate hotel room, a call to Alcoholics Anonymous for help meant the first good night's sleep in upwards of three years. No sweats. No shakes. No hallucinations. The little people, regular visitors at 3:30 a.m. for too many years, went about their various businesses. Heavenly first aid administered by a high school science teacher (strictly an intellectual job, was my first drunken reaction) and an Irish railroad worker, whose firm handclasp and sparkling eyes require no embellishment on my part. These were God's messengers.