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President Severance half-forgot him and was actually sorry when the man finally had to resign under pressure both from below and lateral, partly owing to accumulated rage over his treatment of Severance and similar power-abuses—had thought of writing him a note, desisted when he could see no way of avoiding a graceless and cruel note of triumph he didn’t actually feel, though he did feel some vindication and was happy to see that domain of the University delivered from tyranny. An able scholar too; normal corruption of office. No, forgiveness was not his sweat, and a lucky
thing; he could see himself, located there, being very very hard. As for guilt, the vast business of that he’d worked through, and survived, at Howarden, in the first four or five days and nights after he was transferred from Intensive Care.
    He went off, after two hours in his room on Step One, to First Step Prep at four o’clock in high spirits with a sinking heart, determined to Bear All. But when names had been admitted around the circle of eight or ten victims, he found Gus regarding him with unexpected friendliness. ‘Alan, it hurts my old heart to see you back’ (Gus was twenty years younger than Severance) ‘but I’d rather see you back than dead. There’s always hope, as the man says. What do you think happened?’
    Severance took a deep breath. ‘Hell and shit happened, Gus. I went out cocky and never had a prayer. Six or seven slips in the first two months, all faithfully reported —practically every week—to both Dr Rome’s Encounter-Group and my AA squad, AND I got hell and hell over again. Never missed a meeting. I figure now the slips not only let me drink but kept me the dead-center attention of both groups. I never enjoyed the drinking, and in fact I didn’t even want to drink. It was whim-drinking. I remember one noon maybe six days out of hospital—Vin had me still coming to Group—I was walking down Barsnet afterward and I found myself wondering whether I would turn off right towards the University and the bus home or whether I would just continue right on to the Circle and up right one block to the main bar I use there, and have a few. Wondering. My whole fate depending on pure chance. If that happened now, I would turn straight around and back to the hospital and sign in for more treatment. My God. Well, a few days later, of course, I took a bus to Ashville and had two or three drinks. And so on. Then after two months of this, I put my foot down. I decided I would rather die than walk in on Wednesday
night and look at Dr Rome and confess another slip. No No, not for Baby. So I went two months, and that included a trip to Mexico far from easy. I sweated in the plane—my wife and daughter were in seats together behind me—and I sweated in the airports, especially San Antonio, and I sweated the week in Mexico City. It was no Programme whatever, it was pure pride and rage that kept me sober. Then I went on a trip East—trips are hard on me—and drank six days; shacked up in the end with an Arab girl here in town, totally out of touch and entirely out of my mind; formed a perfectly satisfactory suicide plan for yesterday morning as soon as the gun-stores opened, for no reason at all changed my mind, had the girl drive me home and here I am. It must have been the First Step, though God knows you seemed satisfied yourself, and brother, I’m at it.’
    â€˜Well,’ Gus said amiably, ‘there’s no hurry about the First Step. But why do you think this time will be any different from your previous treatments?’
    â€˜I had a heavy diminution the other morning of: self-pity, rage, resentments—a load so great I’ve spent two well-known volumes on it. I don’t depend on AA, I went every week and drank almost every week for those first two months. A new view and practice of Steps One and Three. I pray a good