Jones would have six months of sobriety before he took another drink. Physically, he put on weight and had never looked healthier. People in his AA group commented on his appearance and how much progress he had made, as did his parents and family. He liked hearing this, and he knew what he saw in the mirror these days, yet Jones was always aware of the almost daily difficulty in keeping up appearances. For that's what it had come down to after six months at home. Inside, he wasn't so self-assured; in fact, there were days when he despaired of ever "adjusting" to a life considered "sane"; it seemed that those voices wouldn't let him. He felt like a boxer on the ropes and it was all he could do to come up with the smiles for everybody involved with his daily routine. There were many hours alone (something that wasn't encouraged in his groups) when he felt like Mr. Hyde stewing in his private poison, a true monster, and then did the craving for something hit him. Yes, the urge to smash everything that was "good" about him, to let everybody see the real Jones, even briefly, the Jones behind the salesman's façade. For he had indeed been a salesman of sorts over the past few months, "selling" his new image.

The AA program called for complete honesty, and yet there were days when Jones felt anything but honest and true to himself. He felt like a phoney, and yet he was considered to be one of the success stories in his group, asked by other members in the group to give helpful tips and encouragement to new members. He was expected to pass on what he had learned to the newcomers, to welcome them into this new way of life with his own newfound positive attitude, and you couldn't do that by looking gloomy. He was supposed to look as upbeat, and at the same time as serene, as some of the leaders in the group, the long time members. He had to show that he had faith now. And that was the catch. For Jones was still without a Higher Power, if he was to be completely honest about it.

He had been told, as a newcomer to the group, that his Higher Power didn't have to be God that it could be anything he chose to give his life over to, as long as it kept him sober. It was suggested that he use the AA group itself as his Higher Power, but that he had to put the control of his life in other hands besides his own. For he had to realize that he was powerless to run his own life; he had failed at that.

Yet after six months in the group, Jones, though sober, still hadn't given his life over to the group. He honestly didn't think he could give his life over to anything, he was stuck with it. Besides, he had grown tired of the meetings anyway, the same speeches and talk, all too similar stories, the twelve step readings from the Big Book, his group "sponsor", an older man who seemed to live for AA and nothing else. And maybe, Jones was willing to concede, that's what it took to succeed in the program. Perhaps he just wasn't ready for what was necessary, and hadn't hit his "bottom" that they talked about at the meetings. Though when it came right down to it, Jones didn't feel completely a part of the group; there was always that part of him that looked at it from a distance, just as he had always looked at any kind of human activity. He had never been able to throw one hundred percent of himself into any group or organization; he always distrusted something about it. There was always that question of whether people could be completely honest and genuine in a group setting, and Jones still wasn't convinced of that, he didn't have that much faith.

Perhaps it was that lack of faith in the group and a lack of faith in himself, in the end, that led to his drinking again; maybe it was boredom and depression and a yearning for excitement, or most likely a combination of all of that, but a day came when Jones got drunk, and he did so with enthusiasm. It happened one particular day, but Jones had seen that day coming - if he was honest about it. The people in AA who stayed sober for years were careful never to let their guard down, to always be ready for the temptation to drink. They saw that temptation as something that would always be there with the potential to take over their lives again; they couldn't afford to be arrogant in their sobriety. Or, as in Jones's case, they certainly couldn't afford to be indifferent; sobriety meant too much to them.

Apparently, enough time had elapsed between the period of Jones's suffering and the day he drank that the memory of that long bus ride wasn't as painfully vivid as it had been, or should have remained. There had been a few quiet, relatively peaceful and healthy months in between. Jones remembered reading a book by a writer who had had a fondness for drink and drugs, and who regularly "put a hurting" on himself so that he had to detoxify himself for periods of time, flushing the poisons from his body, "getting healthy" so that he could resume his habits again. To him, it was all part of living, the ups and downs, and he accepted both.

Jones could identify with this way of thinking, as long as the downs in his life were only temporary sicknesses and didn't lead to an early death. For Jones also recalled that the writer didn't make it to forty.

Jones had a "slip" now and then, but he didn't start drinking every day. He didn't want it to become noticeable to his parents, particularly. They still thought Jones had months of sobriety under his belt, as did the AA members he saw regularly. Yet Jones was now finding excuses to miss meetings, when perhaps he should have been attending more of them. Or that is what the group members would have told him. They would have looked at his recent "slips" as a crisis period for him, and time to work the program harder than ever, time for prayer and humility to combat the temptation looming over him. Nothing brought the arrogance back like a few drinks, they would have told him. Jones knew the words and phrases he would have heard had he told anybody in the group about his drinking, but he kept it to himself. Life went on, he told himself, and as long as he didn't get careless, his would go as smoothly as it had been for the past few months. He could have a little fun every now and then to let off steam, to let off the pressure he never told anybody about. There were some things he would never talk about at AA meetings, he knew this now. Some things were just too private to share with a roomful of people.

Jones got a part time job within walking distance of his parents' house. He worked afternoons and evenings at a deli, running a cash register and slicing meats. It was a fairly easy job for he had worked with the public before, and the hours weren't long and stressful. Jones gave most of his checks to his father for rent and savings, for it was assumed that he would buy a car in the near future. He was on his way to a more accepted and better life. His parents, who at first had been sceptical of his "recovery", now could barely conceal the thrill they felt at his improvement. And they weren't the only ones in Jones's life who felt the same way. His friends at AA were all behind him of course, as were his employer and co-workers who knew about his AA affiliation.

Yet because of this backing from people, Jones felt like more of a phoney than ever by keeping his secret to himself. He wasn't completely sober and now that he was working and had money, he thought about drinking more often, especially when he got off of the job. It was that old familiar way of looking at things, or that "stinking thinking" that they talked about at the meetings: what was he working for if he couldn't unwind a little bit after work? It was a fairly easy job, but every so often he had an asshole to deal with, and then he was ready to go through the ceiling. He needed something to calm his nerves, just a little help in taking the edge off. It wasn't an unusual desire when you worked for the public. Most workers would tell you they needed a little "medicine" from time to time, whether it was drink, pot or cocaine. It kept everything running along in the end (the show must go on), or that's the way it was supposed to work.

With his job, Jones now had a "legitimate" excuse to cut back on his AA attendance, until it was only a two or three night a week thing. He told members of his home group that he was trying different meetings around the area, which was a common thing in AA. He did go to some of these other meetings with his sponsor, to make it look like his interest was still high in the program. It was all a show, actually, but he didn't know how to break it to these people who had welcomed him into their group when he was hurting a few months before. He didn't want to let them down.

Of course, Jones was too smart not to realize there was only one person he was really letting down, and he looked at that person in the mirror every day. Most of his AA friends would continue on with their program whether he drank or not. Jones would come back to the group when he was ready was the way they would look at it.

Finally, after avoiding calls from his sponsor and missing more meetings, Jones couldn't take it anymore. He decided to be honest and come out with the truth, which he did when his sponsor visited the store. They went for coffee and had a long talk, with the older man trying to convince Jones not to give up the program.

"No one ever told you it would be easy, did they?" he asked.

No one ever had. In fact, many people told him just the opposite that it would be the biggest challenge of his life. And it undoubtedly would be if he ever chose to take it up again. But at this time, his heart wasn't in it. Though he did tell his friend that he would think about continuing on with the program.

"Remember, you're not the first one to have a slip," the man said. "I've known guys who have had ten or more years sober go out on a bender."

Jones had been telling himself that for weeks, but this went beyond the fact of the drinking itself. He had lost his "fire" to stay sober. Rather, he had gotten a taste for getting "fired up" again.

Jones sat in his usual shaded place behind the liquor store, appreciating his first few minutes in amongst the trees that bordered the store property. Listening to the birds and watching the squirrels as he sat on his log seat and enjoyed the first warming effects of the drink. It was something he had looked forward to for hours and now he savoured every minute of that initial glow. It didn't get any better than this for him these days; it was these times behind the store, "getting happy" that he would remember most about the time afterwards. These solitary times away from the job, the family and friends, away from schedules and obligations, away from any human contact at all, if briefly. These hours - for that is what they eventually added up to - reminded him of the many similar ones he spent in the city the year before; hours spent getting quietly drunk, thinking on all kinds of subjects, talking and laughing to himself, and sometimes singing (he had a radio headset with him most days). In the city, these solitary drunks had become a daily ritual for him, but they hadn't become that for him here, yet. Still, he had an impressive collection of empty bottles and cans near his log seat to show that he spent a considerable time "communing with nature", as Jones jokingly called it. And the store owner now greeted him as a regular, having his pint bottle of booze waiting for him on the counter as Jones came through the door. The owner knew where Jones worked, and the two men made small talk about business in town, along with anybody else who happened to come in. Jones got a kick out of being "one of the boys" around town, someone with a stake in the community. It was a far cry from his days of living on the streets the previous year. He belonged here. He didn't want to get too excited, but there just might be a decent future for him here in this small town.

Jones's employer gave him a warning about smelling of booze on the job. "I thought I noticed something the other day," the man said. "But I let it go. I know you've been going to those meetings, and you seemed to be doing good. But there's no doubt about what I smell today."

Jones lied to the man, saying that the smell came from his clothes and the night before, denying that he had imbibed before punching the time clock - though he had; just as he had nipped off the bottle on other days prior to his work shift. When the warning did come, Jones wasn't surprised, but he was a little upset with himself for not being more careful. He was also a little mad at his boss. What had he really done wrong? Had he made a mistake on the job? Had he come in late? Had there been any customer complaints about his "cologne" or his job performance? No. So why was the guy being picky about this?

After that day, Jones never looked at his boss in a favourable light again. The man became "the enemy" overnight, someone to be duped whenever it was necessary. For after all, the man seemed to be watching him closely now, sniffing around after him. The employer went from being a "decent guy", in Jones's words, to "one of those guys you had to be careful with", a boss who pretended to care, but really didn't give a rat's ass about his employees, a phoney.

With his prospects at the job having soured (or so Jones thought), his pleasant picture of small town life and a solid future lost its colour too. "A friendly, safe place to live" almost overnight became "a dead end hick's town" (How had he believed it to be anything else?). And there followed the thoughts that he had made a mistake ever leaving the city, forgetting, with his booze glow on, the condition he was in when he left it.

Jones hadn't been to an AA meeting in weeks, and now he couldn't tell himself that he was just "tasting" on occasion. He found himself sitting behind the liquor store almost every night after work. For a short time, his parents believed that he was still attending nightly meetings in town, but they soon smelled booze on him, despite his being as careful as he could be. No matter how careful he thought he was, he was always a little sloppy when drunk.

When his father confronted him about it, Jones was immediately defensive and angry. This led to a sharp exchange, with Jones's father threatening to throw him out of the house. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and so Jones just shrugged it off, thinking that it would all blow over in a day or so. He would just take it easy on the drink for the next couple nights and return directly home after work. He would keep pretending that he was going to the meetings, though his parents already suspected that he wasn't. The man who was Jones's sponsor had stopped calling the house.

Though Jones had a couple of "quiet nights", when all he had to drink was a few clandestine pops to keep his nerves soothed, he still had become a daily drinker again, and not all that happy about it either. He could see that things were fast changing for him in recent weeks and he wasn't at all convinced that he could handle it, though he liked to tell himself that he could. Don't let things play on your mind, he warned himself. Forget about what other people think. Be strong with some confidence in yourself.

There were moments when he did feel confident, when he had a few pops in him. He even had his devil-may-care moments, left over from his glory days, when drinking was new to him, a sport and pastime; when it seemed to work magic for him.

Now, more often than not, he found himself getting worked up with anger and frustration when he drank, telling himself that he wouldn't allow that to happen with the first drink, but then suddenly "coming to" in the middle of a raging fit. And what sickened him about this was that he sometimes didn't remember slipping into these states (it seemed they were lurking just below his surface persona, bombs waiting to be ignited by the alcohol). And no matter how he rationalized things, Jones still couldn't convince himself, even slightly, that he was having fun.

One afternoon, Jones woke up in the woods near his parents' house, and he could see right away that it was late in the afternoon, close to evening. The last thing he remembered before passing out was that he wouldn't even try to go to work that day; there was just no way he could pull it off. His boss had been more suspicious of his drinking than ever in the past few days, and Jones had been given a second warning.

"I don't want to do it," the man said, shaking his head. "You're a nice guy. That's why I've given you the benefit of the doubt. But I can't have that around here when you're slicing meat. I don't want you cutting a finger off."

Jones knew he had lost the job now, as he sat up by the trail he had been walking on. He was close to a pond, and now he remembered sitting on the bank and watching some people swim on the other side. He quickly noticed the pint bottle within reach, still half full. Vodka. The cheapest you could buy.

Jones had a drink to bring him to life. It was his life again. There was no denying it. He didn't care about his job or his place to live - not as much as getting that next drink. Listen to me, he said to himself, sounding very much like one of those Bill W. characters in the AA Big Book. Anything for that next drink. He was no different, except that even in this sorry state now, Jones knew he couldn't give over what little he had to a Higher Power. He simply didn't believe in it. And that's what it came down to in the end. What did he believe in? Did he really believe in any part of himself or his dreams? Or was it all futile in the end? Was there any higher spiritual level to be attained, or was it always a case of being painfully limited?

He drank some more; that was the only answer he had for the moment. He felt trapped in some way, in his own head, with no way out, and wanting out, badly. He was plain sick of himself and he knew the drink was only temporary medicine. Jones went through his parents' pill cabinet and decided on one prescription in particular, with the most pills still in it. He didn't know how the pills would react with the booze, but he knew you weren't supposed to mix any of these drugs with hard drink. And he had a fifth of vodka to dispense with. He'd even throw in some pills from other bottles to make sure he didn't wake up.

He had given up trying to make sense of it all; he was tired and hurting. And, what had brought him to this action, he simply didn't care about any of the answers anymore. It all led to sleep in the end anyway. After he had eaten almost thirty pills - three different kinds - Jones settled back with the bottle, tuning the radio in to the classical station. He wasn't in a rock and roll mood. No, cellos and violins seemed appropriate.

Jones next came to as they were putting him into the ambulance. He was made to drink some thick black liquid on the ride to the hospital - something to coat his stomach and neutralize the poisons. A medic looked at the pill bottles he had collected from the house. The other medic monitored Jones's pulse and blood pressure.

Knowing now that he wasn't dead, Jones wondered what had happened. He wondered what was in store for him now that he was brought back to life. He hadn't escaped, and felt a little sad about that. What could have possibly gone wrong? He remembered getting close to the end of the bottle and getting sleepy, and the small light on the radio dial the only illumination in the room.

He wished he could go back to sleep, but the medics kept forcing him to drink, telling him they would use a tube if he didn't. The liquid was thick like a shake and chalky tasting. Well, there was no choice but to go along with things now; he wasn't in control. He thought he had made his final decision when he was last awake, but he was wrong in that. What wasn't going wrong these days?