It was my usual routine when I was away from home on
business: finish work, and park myself at a restaurant with
a friendly bar. Start with a series of double martinis, order
up dinner, then back to the bar for some after-dinner Scotch.
Return to my motel for a decent night's sleep, off on my
rounds the next morning, and repeat the restaurant-bar scene
that night. My company covered travel expenses, and what
portion of my liquor bill couldn't be hidden under the food
and lodging budget could become part of something else. I
did well for the company on the road. I kept my expenses
within reason so no one looked too closely at them.
It was a warm summer evening, but the air conditioning
made the bar comfortable. The circus of a national political
convention was playing out on television. Dinner was over
and I sat at the bar, sipping Scotch. A stranger ("Tom" I
think he said his name was, when we finally got round to
introductions) sat on the stool next to me. We struck up
conversation starting with politics but moving hap-hazardly
through the topics of man-talk. The 11 o'clock news came on,
and I got ready to leave. Tom and I said goodbye to one
another. I noticed he had a strange look on his face.

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"May I say something to you?" he asked.
"Go ahead," I replied after a moment, not knowing what
to expect.
"Do something about your drinking before it's too
late."
I can't remember what I said. Perhaps I just turned and
stormed out. But I remember my rage at him as I drove back
to the motel. I cursed and swore out loud even though the
car windows were down. How dare he tell me anything about my
drinking? Who the **** did he think he was? Who gave him
the ***** right to tell ME anything about my drinking?
Wasn't he drinking too? Why doesn't HE do something about
HIS drinking? My rage had subsided a bit by morning, but I
remained angry all that day. I went to a different bar that
night to find comfort in martinis and Scotch.
My drinking continued for two more years. Finally, I
had to do something about it, or die. Tom's wish had come
true. I stopped before it was too late.
I have thought about Tom a lot since I've sobered up.
I owe him a lot. On that hot summer's night, he did what no
one had done for me before, confronting me about my drinking.
I was enraged at him because his words verified what I knew
but did not care to acknowledge: I had a problem with booze.

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Wife, friends, business associates had never said anything to
me about my drinking, and in their silence my denial was
nourished. I might think I had a problem with booze, but if
no one else apparently thought so, maybe I was mistaken. Now
this stranger had spoken the words my own inner voice would
sometimes speak to me, at least before I threw yet another
drink at it to keep it quiet.
Tom gave my denial a body-blow that night. Because of
his words I couldn't easily sustain any longer my myth of
being mistaken about my drinking. So I thank Tom for the
truth he spoke, which helped bring me to recovery.
I remember Tom, as well, whenever I don't think I'm
getting anywhere with twelfth-step work. In my business and
personal life I meet many people for whom drinking appears to
be a serious problem. When it is appropriate to do so, I may
speak about my own alcoholism and recovery; at other times, I
may speak about the dangers that alcohol poses to individuals
who use it, and to society at large. Does what I say do any
good? Once in a while, something I said may lead someone to
take a serious look at his drinking. A lot of the time,
though, and especially when I really want my words to be
heard and taken seriously, they don't seem to do any good at
all. It's easy for me to get despondent at those times and

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to wonder whether I shouldn't give up on twelfth-step work,
leaving it to others who seem to be more successful at it.
Those are the times that I also remember Tom. I still
don't know anything about him. I doubt that I would
recognize him after these many years. I'm sure he wouldn't
remember me. Why should he? I was just another man in a bar
-- a man whose out-of-control drinking had caught his eye.
How could he know that his truthful words helped bring me
into the program. But they did; and so I'm grateful to him
not only for helping to save my life, but also for showing me
that you can do great twelfth-step work and never know you're
doing it.
Thanks, Tom!

Jamie C.