At eight-thirty I went over to St. Paul's, walked once around the block
and returned to my hotel without entering the basement meeting room. I
made myself stay in my room. I felt like a drink, but I'd had two beers
and I decided that two drinks a day would be my ration. As long as I
didn't exceed that quota I didn't see how I could get in trouble. It
didn't matter whether I had them first thing in the morning or last
thing at night, in my room or at a bar, alone or in company.

....

I thought if I went to bed sober I'd have one day. I decided, what the
hell, I'd do that. After the meeting I went over to Polly's Cage instead
and had my two drinks. I got into a discussion with a guy and he wanted
t buy me a third drink, but I told the bartender to make it a Coke
instead. I was quietly pleased with myself, knowing my limit and
sticking to it.

Thursday I had a beer with dinner, went to the meeting and left on the
break. I stopped in a Armstrong's but something kept me from ordering a
drink there and I didn't stay long. I was restless, I walked in and out
of Farrell's and Polly's without ordering a drink in either place. The
liquor store down the block from Polly's was still open. I bought a
fifth of J. W. Dant and took it back to my room.

I took a shower first and got ready for bed. Then I broke the seal on
the bottle, poured about two ounces of bourbon in a water glass, drank
it down and went to sleep.

Friday I had another two ounces first thing when I got out of bed. I
really felt the drink and it was a good feeling. I went all day without
having another. Then around bedtime I had one more and fell asleep.

Saturday I awoke clearheaded with no desire for a morning drink. I
couldn't get over how well I was controlling my drinking. I almost felt
like going to a meeting and sharing my secret with them, but I could
imagine the reaction I'd get. Knowing looks, knowing laughter. Holier-than-
thou sobriety. Besides, just because I could control my drinking didn't
mean I was justified in recommending it to other people.

I had two drinks before bed. I barely felt them, but Sunday morning I
woke up a little rocky and poured myself a generous eye-opener to start
the day. It did the job. I read the paper, then checked the meeting book
and found an afternoon meeting in the Village. I went down there on the
subway. The crowd was almost entirely gay. I left at the break.

I went back to the hotel and took a nap. After dinner I finished reading
the paper and decided to have my second drink. I poured two or three
ounces of bourbon into my glass and drank it off. I sat down and read
some more but I couldn't concentrate very well on what I was reading. I
thought of having another drink but I reminded myself I'd already had
two that day.

Then I realized something. I'd had my morning drink more than twelve
hours ago. More time had elapsed since then than had separated it from
my last drink the night before. So that drink had long since left my
system, and shouldn't properly be counted as part of *today's* drinks.

Which meant I was entitled to another drink before I went to bed.

I was pleased with having figured that out, and decided to reward myself
for my insight by making the drink a respectable one. I filled the water
glass to within a half inch of the top and took my time drinking it,
sitting in my chair with it like a model in one of those Man of
Distinction ads. I had the sense to realize that it was the number of
drinks that was significant, not their size, and then it struck me that
I'd cheated myself. My first drink, if you could call it that, had been
a short measure. In a sense, I owed myself about four ounces of bourbon.

I poured what I judged to be four ounces and drained the glass.

I was pleased to note that the drinks hadn't had any discernible effect
on me. I certainly wasn't drunk. As a matter of fact, I felt better than
I'd felt in a long time. Too good, in fact, to sit around the room. I'd
go out, find a congenial spot, have a Coke or a cup of coffee. Not a
drink, because in the first place I didn't want any more and, just as
important, I'd already had my two drinks for the day.

I had a Coke at Polly's. On Ninth Avenue I had a glass of ginger ale at
a gay bar called Kid Gloves. Some of the other drinkers looked faintly
familiar, and I wondered if any of them had been at the meeting that
afternoon in the Village.

A block further downtown I realized something. I'd been controlling my
drinking for days now, and before that I'd been off the sauce entirely
for a week, and that proved something. Hell, if I could limit myself to
two drinks a day, that was fairly strong evidence that I didn't *need*
to limit myself to two drinks a day. I'd had my problems with alcohol in
the past, I couldn't very well deny it, but evidently I had outgrown
that stage in my life.

So although I certainly didn't *need* another drink, I could just as
certainly have one if I wanted one. And I did want one, as a matter of
fact, so why not have it?

I went to the saloon and ordered a double bourbon with water back. I
remember the bartender had a shiny bald head, and I remember him pouring
the drink, and I remember picking it up.

That's the last thing I remember.