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T
he death of my brain came two weeks later. By accident. There were only seven of us left from the original group and we were van-driven four hours north for a weekend retreat at a place called San Antonio Seminary in the hills, thirty miles inland from Santa Barbara. Rolling horse-ranch country.

What I learned about San Antonio was that for a long time it had been a training compound for novitiate Franciscan brothers in long brown robes. Polished concrete floors and twenty stark, single rooms, with Jesus photos and religious statues and God paraphernalia everywhere. The place turned into an AA retreat house by accident when one of the senior brothers needed help with his booze problem. The guy who drove up from L.A. to get him and deliver him to an inpatient treatment program in L.A., where he got sober, was looking for a weekend facility for himself and his AA buddies to go over the steps and talk about recovery and hang out. Now, ten years later, San Antonio had become an AA oasis for recovering drunks. Their only business now was holding retreats two
weekends a month. A bare-bones staff of brothers remained to oversee the place.

The guy leading our thirty-man retreat was named Bob Anderson. He was seventy years old. A former biker and barroom pugilist with a huge belly and a bad temper, turned AA guru.

For the first two hours in front of the group that Friday afternoon, in the small library hall with folding chairs, old Bob talked only about himself and his alcohol history. He talked about what it was like to be his kind of drunk and juicehead. But he also talked about pulling guys out of their cars on the freeway, even after years sober, to punch them out. About his ex-wives and lost jobs and brutal life. Sober. I’d never heard this kind of AA recovery story before. The party line was, you get sober then tiptoe through the tulips for the rest of your days. This guy was very different.

In a way what Anderson said sounded like pretty standard stuff, but there was an honesty about him and a deliberate effort not to impress anyone. He wasn’t ranting about higher powers or being saved by AA from booze and a past life of destruction. He was talking about something different. He was talking about his life sober, about still being crazy after years off booze. That got my attention.

But the other thing that impressed me about Anderson was what one of his friends—a guy named TJ—told me when we finally had a break: Seven years before Anderson had been given a death sentence from cancer after a five-hour surgery to remove his esophagus. He’d been told he had a 3 percent chance of living out the year with his stomach now attached to his throat. Time went by but Anderson didn’t die. Instead, he began leading AA retreats and speaking at meetings all over L.A. He always talked about the same thing: how to apply the steps to treat what he called
the Disease of Alcoholism.

He did this twice a month. The old guy stood in front of the room smiling and talking about himself while strapped with a chemo pack to his waist. The thing loudly hissed a dose of Drano into his system every two minutes, 24–7. And Anderson wasn’t selling Jesus, he just talked about himself and how he had changed his life.

According to what TJ told me, Bob would speak on the AA steps, on his feet, for eight hours today, Friday, then twelve hours on Saturday, then another five on Sunday. The guy was such a medical oddity that a team of filmmakers had even done a TV documentary on him. There were only a half dozen people in the world who had survived his kind of cancer and surgery. And most of them were in hospitals, dying.

After the first four-hour session in the library, where old Bob never even sat down and answered written question that the guys passed forward, the group of us filed into dinner in the big retreat mess hall. A ninety-minute break.

More statues and Jesus stuff. A big woven banner above the tables on the wall depicted St. Francis feeding a sparrow. The words sewn into the cloth beneath it read:
You have not chosen me—I have chosen you.
All of us, including the three brothers in robes who ran the place, began our meal by joined hands and parroting the Lord’s Prayer. But the food was okay.

After the meal, while a lot of the guys were outside smoking and petting the four adopted stray dogs that roamed the grounds, I pulled TJ aside to ask him if it’d be okay for me to speak with Anderson privately. He said, “Sure, Bruno, I’ll talk to Bob and set it up.”

Twenty minutes before the next session Anderson and I sat down in the library alone. The old man had been a line mechanic for Lincoln-Mercury for thirty years. I could tell by his manner that he wanted to be friendly, but he was an impatient-type person and his interpersonal skills weren’t too good.

Bob was sitting on the corner of a table. He rocked forward then faced me. “TJ says you’re sober a few weeks.”

“Right,” I said. “I’ve tried AA a few times, but it’s never stuck. Something always happens and that’s it.”

“What happens?”

“I usually get depressed or pissed off. My brother also died recently. That did me in. And I was in a job that I hated. But look, I heard you talking about your thinking, about being sober a long time and your mind still killing you. That rang my bell. I’m like that.”

“Look kid, I got alcoholism, see. My trouble with the law and all of that stopped when I quit the booze. Right? I mean, I thought I was okay. Right? I thought I was what in AA they call a
winner.
I mean I was sober, right? So how come my wife left me? How come I kept getting fired from jobs because of my bad temper? Here I was twenty years sober but I wasn’t no
winner.
See what I’m saying?”

“I do. A few weeks ago I tried to kill a guy. So I know exactly what you’re saying.”

“I’ve worked with four men that died from suicide, sober. Four. They were like me. Just like me. So what’s my problem? How come I’m a person who wants to do well—to do the right thing—but I can’t? How come I’m always mad at my boss and I still terrorize my kids? How come years sober, I’m still pulling guys who cut me off on the freeway out of their cars and punching them out?”

“Right,” I said. “How come?”

“Because I have to treat the mental part of my disease. Quitting booze is one thing. Living with my brain
sober
is another. But, see, today it’s all different. I have been at peace with myself for a long long time. That’s what I want you to hear. Not the war stories. We all got those. I want you to hear that today—right here, right now—I got a good life. My
living
ain’t always so great. I mean, I got cancer and I take chemo all day and every time I see the doctor he shakes his head and tells me I might cash in anytime. But that’s okay, see. Because, inside I’m okay. I’m at peace with myself. I got a good life. I’m not angry or pushin’ and shovin’ the way I used to. My brain’s okay, right now. I’m alive and happy, right now. This minute. And right now is all I got. Can you hear that?”

I nodded.

Anderson was smiling for the first time. “Your name’s Bono, right?”

“Bruno. Bruno Dante,” I said.

“So here’s the thing, Bono…”

“Bruno.”

“Right. Okay. So, see, unless you change how you think you’ve got zero chance at this deal. Guys like us—you and me—have to apply this thing as a way to live, as a treatment for a broken brain. AA meetings are okay—they’re good—but they don’t treat
thinking.
Your brain will kill you sober, Bono. Mine almost did more than once.”

“Bruno.” I said.

“Right.
Bruno.”

“So what do I do? And I’m sick of all the slogans and recovery-ese.
Let us love you until you can love yourself. One day at a time.
That crap. Right now I’m in a six-month inpatient program and I hate it.”

“What about a higher power? How you doin’ there? What’s your understanding in that way?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “Not so good, I guess. It’s pretty nebulous if you ask me.”

Anderson was glaring at me. “What’s nebulous? What’s that word mean?”

“Well, I guess what I’m saying is that I ignore Him and He ignores me. I try to avoid getting zapped. My opinion is
that God has zapped me a lot. God doesn’t like me much. That’s what I think.”

“Listen to me. You and me got to live with the disease of alcoholism for our whole lives. But we don’t have to die from it.”

“Meaning what?” I said.

“Do you want to get this deal? Do you want a good life? Are you ready to start to turn this thing around?”

“I am. I mean, I’ve got nothing to lose. My life’s morphed itself into a pile of dogshit. So sure. I’m ready.”

Anderson stuck a craggy old finger into my chest. “Then will you do something for me?” he asked in a low voice. “Will you do what I ask you to do without any argument or back talk?”

“Okay. If you think it’ll help. Sure.”

“Go back to your room now. Get up and do it. Go in and close the door. I want you to get down on your knees and I want you to ask God—whatever you think that God is—for help. Will you do that? Just say
God please help me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t go on like this no more.”

I had to take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I don’t want to, but if you think it’ll help, I will. I’ll do it.”

“When we get back to town I want you to call me every day. If you do what I tell you, you’ll get what I got. I’ll give you a guarantee and sign it if that’s what you want. Fair enough?”

So I went back to my room and closed the door. I thought about what Anderson had said for a long time. Then the thought came:
fuckit. You’ve got nothing to lose.

So I got down on my knees and I looked up. There on the wall was a picture of some medieval angel or saint with a halo painted around his holy head. I had to close my eyes to remove the image. Then I said the words.
Okay, God, it’s me,
Bruno. I’ve really screwed things up. If you’re there, and can hear me, I need your help. I can’t do this alone.

That was it.

When I opened my eyes nothing had changed. I felt the same. The saint was still there on the wall and I didn’t feel any different.

Across the room in my suitcase was my cell phone. Before I went into the next meeting I wanted to make sure it was still working so I could call Anderson when I got back to Costa Mesa. So I went over to the chair and unzipped the side pocket of my bag, found the thing, then turned it on.

There were two more messages from Dav-Ko.

I was going to delete them but I decided to call back instead. I pressed
redial
and the number clicked in. Rosie Camacho answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Rosie,” I said, “It’s Bruno. You guys have left some messages for me.”

“Hiya, honey. Howz it going?”

“It’s going. What’s up? Why the phone messages?”

“Hang on, Bruno bambino, lemme check something. There was some mail—a couple of things. I put ’em in a box under my desk. Stuff that wasn’t a bill. They came three or four weeks ago. I left you those messages about it.”

“Right. I know. I didn’t listen to them. I just didn’t feel like any more bad news. Sorry.”

“Okay, here it is. Here’s a letter. It’s from—lemme see—Charter House Press.”

“Open it for me, will you?” I asked. I could feel myself holding my breath.

Then I heard Rosie tearing open the envelope and pulling the letter from inside.

“…Okay,” she said. “I got it. I’ll read it to you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, thaz good news, right Bruno?”

It took me a few seconds be able to answer. “Yeah, Rosie,” I said finally. “That’s good news. That’s damn good news.”

“Oh good, Bruno. I’m really happy for you…Oh, hey, there’s another letter here too from them. Same place. A thick one. Should I open it up too?”

“No, Rosie,” I said. “That’s okay. That’s their contract. Just do me a favor, will you?”

“Whatever I can, honey.”

“I’ll call you on Monday and give you the address of where I’m staying now. Put both letters in another envelope and send them to me, okay?”

“Sure will, Bruno.”

“And thank you very much. I mean it. Thank you very very much. For everything.”

“My pleasure, honey. Hey, keep your phone on, okay? You never know.”

“You’re right. I’ll keep it on, Rosie. That’s a promise.”

I caught up with Anderson in the dining room a few minutes before the start of the next session. “Hey, Bob,” I said, “can I talk to you a minute?”

“Okay, we’re about to get going again but I got a minute. What’s up?”

“I did what you said. I went back to my room and I got down on my knees. And then I said,
God, I need your help.
I prayed.”

“Okay, good. That’s good. That’s a good start.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened. I mean I made a phone call but nothing, you know,
happened.”

“What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what to expect.”

Old Bob was getting impatient. “Look, Bono, God ain’t a desk clerk or a bellhop. He don’t bring room service. It takes time—application. See what I mean? Steps and application.”

“Okay, I guess so.”

“You’re wearing a watch. I see you got a watch on.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve got a watch.”

“Good. Take it off and give it to me.”

I took off my twenty-nine-dollar Timex with the fake leather band and handed it to Anderson. He looked at it for a second then gave it back. “Put it on the other wrist—on your right wrist,” he instructed.

I did what he said and strapped the watch on my other arm. “Okay. Now what?”

“Keep wearing it like that until I tell you to stop. Can you do that?”

“Sure I can do it. But what’s the point? What’s the motivation?”