The Crack of Dawn

Volume #540

1/3/24

Newsletter #540

The Crack of Dawn

Today is my fourth anniversary of sobriety from alcohol.  So far, I give it two thumbs up.  I have written more in the past four years than any previous four-year period in my life.  I’ve completed two books (published one; about to publish the other) and I’ve written over 1,000 pages, 450,000-words, of Crack of Dawn newsletters.  Even if I’m not writing well, and have nothing to say, at least I am writing a lot.  Being prolific counts, too, I think.

During my years of alcohol abuse, I never thought I’d ever be sober again.  The idea of sobriety seemed absurd.  I would think, “Sobriety just doesn’t suit me, that’s all.”  During the five years (2015-2020) it took me to quit – in and out of rehabs and jail; the same dull story that’s been told innumerable times before – I never truly believed that I would ever get sober.  Never.  The court forced me to be sober and take random piss tests for seven years, but even still I was not sober – I wasn’t drinking, but I wasn’t sober (AA calls that a “dry drunk”).  I was required to go to literally about a thousand AA meetings over the course of five years.  I always participated in the meetings, found some enthusiasm for the process, and I always knew that as soon as I could I would start drinking again.  Alcohol is a severely addictive drug, and I was deeply addicted to it.  I was so well and truly addicted that I didn’t believe I was addicted.  I was so addicted that it still escapes my full understanding.

After a decade of heavy drinking — basically, a quart of vodka a day — plus a couple of years of jails, testing and rehabs, to my chagrin I found myself celebrating my 60^th birthday in Oakland County Jail.  At that point, if you bothered to add it all up, meaning a three-month sentence; a one-month sentence; another ten days; another week; then another two weeks, I did six months at OCJ for three DUIs.  I’m not proud.

So, here it was my 60^th birthday and I went to jail.  When you first come into jail, you are frisked, then all your shit is taken away, including your shoelaces.  Then you are booked.  Then you’re put in a strange long thin cell that just accommodates one long bench that can hold about 12 guys.  This is a temporary holding cell.  From there you will slowly be processed, given a photo nametag bracelet, a blue uniform, and bright orange sandals.  Then, when they get around to it – there’s no hurry in jail – you are put in the main holding cell called R-9, or the Bullpen.  R-9 is the size of my living room, entirely constructed of concrete, and they manage to jam up to 40 inmates in there.  It’s like a can of human sardines. 

Upon first being put in the cell, you are confronted by a writhing sea of men wrapped in blue blankets, lying on the hard cement floor, all deeply uncomfortable, intertwined with each other out of sheer necessity, and with absolutely no floor space remaining.  I stood there holding my two blankets, some paperwork, and a cellophane-wrapped, stubby toothbrush surveying this writhing mass human puzzle pieces completely covering the floor.  There was no available space to lie down.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true: there were three areas that were available.  Discouragingly, all three are located directly underneath stainless-steel urinal/toilet combos.  Surprisingly, jail inmates are bad shots at hitting the urinals, and all three were festooned with discarded toilet paper.  I sighed deeply.  I was seriously tired.  I had spent the previous 24 hours on a cement floor in jail the West Bloomfield jail, the folks who arrested me drunk in my car in a CVS parking lot.  The CVS that’s directly across the street from the church where I attended most of those aforementioned, 1,000 AA meetings.  I had to lie down, or I was going to fall down, which would be on top of other people who wouldn’t like it and no doubt cause a commotion.

It tiptoed through the bodies covered in blue blankets, trying as hard as I possibly could not to step on anybody, which was impossible.  Having crossed this minefield, I happily took the available space beneath one of the urinal/toilets.  I put my two blankets down on the floor, covering the mess, and lay down on top of them.

And then I did the hardest thinking of my life.  “What,” I finally thought, “is the possible connection between all of the bad shit that’s been happening in my life for years?  Umm . . .  Wait.  Hold on.  Could it be drinking?  Naw, that’s too obvious.  Maybe it’s because God specifically doesn’t like me, or I just have the worst luck, the crappiest mojo.  Or maybe it was because I was sexually abused by my priest when I was a kid . . .  Hey!  Wait a minute, I’m Jewish, I don’t have a priest!

No, I was a miserable drunk, now with three DUIs.  They could easily send me to prison for a year.  And right there under that combo urinal/toilet I said, “I have to stop drinking and I have to hire the best attorney in Oakland County, Michigan.”

I did both.  I only served 14 more days in jail.  But I’ve been sober for four years, as of today.

L’chaim!