Christmas. . .In the Place for Drunks
AA Grapevine® - Our Meeting in Print Online August 1954 Vol. 11 No. 3
Christmas. . .In the Place for Drunks
Selected for reprinting from December 1949 Grapevine by Al S., editor Dec. 1948-Dec. 1951
ON Christmas morning the man woke up in the Place for Drunks and his wrists were tied down by the bed. His soul turned over with a retch and shrank away from any certain knowledge of time and place that waited beyond his closed eyes.
Overhead he knew without looking {for the man had been here before) was a spreading stain in the plaster. Lath would be showing through like broken bones--and a single bit of mortar dangling by a hair. He had filled his eyes for two days with that sight only, last visit. That was in springtime. It was winter, now. Sleety rain had turned to snow last night. The window glass would be frozen in saloon mirror designs behind the iron bars.
In a few minutes doors would begin banging in the hall, announcing the new day. Water taps would squeal and sing; toilets flush one after another. Then the trays would come--cereal bowls clinking rims with coffee mugs in witless joviality. Ah God! He was back in his old room in the Place for Drunks and it was Christmas Day. His clothes were gone, he knew; his wrist watch, his ring, his pocket book, papers, keys, glasses. The man locked these little images in his mind to shut out the picture of bigger things.
Memory began to work behind closed eyes.
"For God's sake don't come home drunk on Christmas. Don't do it!" Year after year the same bitter refrain from the mother of his children. As always, the man would mutter an angry promise and push out of the house.
But this year everything was going to be different. His faith had been pinned on two little initials; two words. Alcoholics Anonymous. Yeah--AA. Bitterness welled up and choked the man. He wanted to pound his head against the gray iron bedpost in a futile rage.
Three months ago neighbors from the nearby AA group came to call. Sick, scared and shaken, the man was an easy convert. Sure he was alcoholic; ready to admit it, why not? The man went to meetings, read the pamphlets, made new friends. Slowly, he began the build-back to an alcoholic's "normal." No miracles happened except the daily one that lasted twenty-four hours. He didn't' drink. Sobriety stretched for weeks; then months. Thanksgiving came (holidays were always big drunk days for him)--the man sailed through it!
Confidence grew as Christmas approached. Even the family felt it. "Pa, this year c'n I have the skates, like you promised?"
"You bet you can have the skates, boy!"
Oh, it was going to be a good Christmas, this time! New ornaments to replace the broken ones; tree lights that all lit; safe again to ask the relatives over! Come back, you lost years; gather 'round the green branches!
Christmas Eve day, the man awoke with a strange tension. It was a hangover from a senseless argument. Always with anger, a confusion stepped in between the man's hearing and mind. Speech and action were in subtle conflict.
The man "hung-on," doggedly. He sat through a boozy lunch that started the office party without taking a drop. Everyone (it seemed) was passing a bottle. When the party grew so noisy he wouldn't be missed, the man sneaked his coat and parcels and hurried out the back way.
A light snow was falling. Cold air hit the man with a heady exhilaration. Thoughts spun faster than swirling snow. Unreasonably, now that he was safe, the slush of self-pity welled up. Everybody was privileged to celebrate a glorious holiday except him! "Mix Yourself a Bowl of Merry Christmas," begged gorgeous lithography from every saloon window. The man's mind began stirring a bowl of resentments, spiced with the fruit of imaginary good times. A compulsion gripped him, tight as fingers around a glass. He felt he had to drink or die. A saloon beckoned from across the street. He hurried to it.
Blocking the way stood a woman with kettle and bell. The man swung out to avoid the charity and bumped into a sidewalk sign, waist high. It was a Navy recruiting poster. His bare hand touched the icy metal frame. Then the man gripped tight, for sickness of soul swept from head to foot and held him there.
With a clarity never known before, the man saw the beginning and the end of what he was about to do. A hopeless panic shook him. He grinned fatuously at the woman and fumbled for a quarter, hoping that no one would speak to him. Warm air came from the saloon door, opened. Juke records spun 'round and around. The bar was packed four deep; singing gushed fitfully from the rear. Tiny glasses quivering with amber light slid down the bright mahogany.
Crystal sharp now came his vision of the wrecked Christmas! The fragile ornaments spinning, smashed on the tree, and every one had mirrored a bright promise. A dustpan full of pine needles. "Skates for the kid--don't make me laugh!" Tears came into the man's eyes because lie knew the compulsion to drink was stronger than he. When his hand stopped trembling and his legs were safe, he would push his way to the bar and set the terrible cycle in motion.
Suddenly, he remembered a way out! That first meeting his sponsor had said: "If you're ever hanging on the ragged edge and you haven't strength to light off getting drunk, stand right where you are and pray."
The man held tight to the sign and breathed into his woolen muffler, "Our Father, who art in Heaven." It was the prayer at the end of every AA meeting, but it didn't seem quite right for now. "Christ," he whispered, "take me home on your birthday. Help me home for Christmas. Amen."
The words swirled away on an updraft of snow that was rising instead of falling. It was dark in the sky. . .the man couldn't remember what happened, then. His deep, vivid impression of Christmas Eve ended there.
Now consciousness was returning. It was another day.
Wondrously, the man who had awakened so many mornings in the Place for Drunks lifted his arms from the side of the bed. He folded his hands together, eyes still closed.
Was his prayer and the answer a dream?
"Thy Will Be Done," whispered the AA man, accepting the thing he could not change.
The dream faded. He opened sober eyes on the wallpaper and windows of home.
It was Christmas Day and Christ was born again.
Les D.
Overhead he knew without looking {for the man had been here before) was a spreading stain in the plaster. Lath would be showing through like broken bones--and a single bit of mortar dangling by a hair. He had filled his eyes for two days with that sight only, last visit. That was in springtime. It was winter, now. Sleety rain had turned to snow last night. The window glass would be frozen in saloon mirror designs behind the iron bars.
In a few minutes doors would begin banging in the hall, announcing the new day. Water taps would squeal and sing; toilets flush one after another. Then the trays would come--cereal bowls clinking rims with coffee mugs in witless joviality. Ah God! He was back in his old room in the Place for Drunks and it was Christmas Day. His clothes were gone, he knew; his wrist watch, his ring, his pocket book, papers, keys, glasses. The man locked these little images in his mind to shut out the picture of bigger things.
Memory began to work behind closed eyes.
"For God's sake don't come home drunk on Christmas. Don't do it!" Year after year the same bitter refrain from the mother of his children. As always, the man would mutter an angry promise and push out of the house.
But this year everything was going to be different. His faith had been pinned on two little initials; two words. Alcoholics Anonymous. Yeah--AA. Bitterness welled up and choked the man. He wanted to pound his head against the gray iron bedpost in a futile rage.
Three months ago neighbors from the nearby AA group came to call. Sick, scared and shaken, the man was an easy convert. Sure he was alcoholic; ready to admit it, why not? The man went to meetings, read the pamphlets, made new friends. Slowly, he began the build-back to an alcoholic's "normal." No miracles happened except the daily one that lasted twenty-four hours. He didn't' drink. Sobriety stretched for weeks; then months. Thanksgiving came (holidays were always big drunk days for him)--the man sailed through it!
Confidence grew as Christmas approached. Even the family felt it. "Pa, this year c'n I have the skates, like you promised?"
"You bet you can have the skates, boy!"
Oh, it was going to be a good Christmas, this time! New ornaments to replace the broken ones; tree lights that all lit; safe again to ask the relatives over! Come back, you lost years; gather 'round the green branches!
Christmas Eve day, the man awoke with a strange tension. It was a hangover from a senseless argument. Always with anger, a confusion stepped in between the man's hearing and mind. Speech and action were in subtle conflict.
The man "hung-on," doggedly. He sat through a boozy lunch that started the office party without taking a drop. Everyone (it seemed) was passing a bottle. When the party grew so noisy he wouldn't be missed, the man sneaked his coat and parcels and hurried out the back way.
A light snow was falling. Cold air hit the man with a heady exhilaration. Thoughts spun faster than swirling snow. Unreasonably, now that he was safe, the slush of self-pity welled up. Everybody was privileged to celebrate a glorious holiday except him! "Mix Yourself a Bowl of Merry Christmas," begged gorgeous lithography from every saloon window. The man's mind began stirring a bowl of resentments, spiced with the fruit of imaginary good times. A compulsion gripped him, tight as fingers around a glass. He felt he had to drink or die. A saloon beckoned from across the street. He hurried to it.
Blocking the way stood a woman with kettle and bell. The man swung out to avoid the charity and bumped into a sidewalk sign, waist high. It was a Navy recruiting poster. His bare hand touched the icy metal frame. Then the man gripped tight, for sickness of soul swept from head to foot and held him there.
With a clarity never known before, the man saw the beginning and the end of what he was about to do. A hopeless panic shook him. He grinned fatuously at the woman and fumbled for a quarter, hoping that no one would speak to him. Warm air came from the saloon door, opened. Juke records spun 'round and around. The bar was packed four deep; singing gushed fitfully from the rear. Tiny glasses quivering with amber light slid down the bright mahogany.
Crystal sharp now came his vision of the wrecked Christmas! The fragile ornaments spinning, smashed on the tree, and every one had mirrored a bright promise. A dustpan full of pine needles. "Skates for the kid--don't make me laugh!" Tears came into the man's eyes because lie knew the compulsion to drink was stronger than he. When his hand stopped trembling and his legs were safe, he would push his way to the bar and set the terrible cycle in motion.
Suddenly, he remembered a way out! That first meeting his sponsor had said: "If you're ever hanging on the ragged edge and you haven't strength to light off getting drunk, stand right where you are and pray."
The man held tight to the sign and breathed into his woolen muffler, "Our Father, who art in Heaven." It was the prayer at the end of every AA meeting, but it didn't seem quite right for now. "Christ," he whispered, "take me home on your birthday. Help me home for Christmas. Amen."
The words swirled away on an updraft of snow that was rising instead of falling. It was dark in the sky. . .the man couldn't remember what happened, then. His deep, vivid impression of Christmas Eve ended there.
Now consciousness was returning. It was another day.
Wondrously, the man who had awakened so many mornings in the Place for Drunks lifted his arms from the side of the bed. He folded his hands together, eyes still closed.
Was his prayer and the answer a dream?
"Thy Will Be Done," whispered the AA man, accepting the thing he could not change.
The dream faded. He opened sober eyes on the wallpaper and windows of home.
It was Christmas Day and Christ was born again.
Les D.
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