Not-God (14 page)

Such or a similar conclusion, Wilson felt understandably, might move a few readers to jump up and shout “Amen.” It was hardly likely, experience had taught, to induce many to try the program. In that realization, however, gleamed the light of a solution. “Experience had taught” that what made the program work was the telling of their stories by now sober alcoholics. In the weeks during which Bill Wilson wrestled with the problem of how to conclude, he was reading what he had written to those who gathered at his home each Tuesday evening. From this practice and experience emerged the obvious solution of “the story or case history section” which not only concludes but comprises well over half the bulk
of Alcoholics Anonymous
. The main criticism that his hearers offered Wilson was that there was not enough “evidence in the form of living proof that the program did indeed work. The decision to include a segment, “The Doctor’s Opinion,” in which Dr. Silkworth set forth his understanding of alcoholism and his endorsement of Alcoholics Anonymous was one step to meet this concern. But this piece, too, when submitted, ended by speaking of prayer and “mental uplift,” and so it ultimately served as informal preface rather than substantive conclusion.
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Meanwhile, the telling of stories emerged in another, less direct, fashion as the best “evidence in the form of living proof” and — more — the very thing that made the program work. As the weeks of Bill’s manuscript reading wore on, a division arose which seemed to threaten the unity of the New York group itself. The “oldtimers” who dated from 1936 and early 1937 shared Bill’s enthusiasm for publication. They looked forward each week to hearing the work-in-progress and to discussing if not arguing over Bill’s ideas and presentation. Those more recently arrived and savoring the glow of new sobriety longed to share this experience with their former drinking companions — and besides, they were being told that this, indeed, was the only way in which they could keep their own sobriety. But to bring some drunk quavering in the early stages of withdrawal, or even someone recently discharged from Towns Hospital and half-hopefully seeking the “new way of life” of which he had heard, all the way over to Brooklyn to hear arguments about a book “just didn’t work.” Nobody else was getting sober, and according to what they had been taught, their own sobriety was being endangered.
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And so story-telling took on two sharper functions: as a reinforcement for “Remember When,” especially useful when the “when” experience wasn’t vividly present to them in the person of some still-shaking sufferer; and as both the bait to attract and the means to convey the message that “this program works” to whatever suffering contacts they could “scoop,” in their colorful term. Even after they had left the Oxford Group, the nameless members of the fledgling fellowship continued to receive word of mouth referrals and requests for help. They responded and each told his own story, but each also experienced the frustration of alcoholic exceptionalism. Whether the response was phrased, “But you’re different” or “But I’m different,” these “Twelfth Step calls” which attempted to carry the message even before the formulation of the Twelfth Step produced few new recruits. From this experience derived one specific of later A. A. practice: Twelfth Step calls were always to be made by at least two people. From this experience also came powerful impetus in a direction already marked out, the centrality of each drinker’s story, especially at open meetings. Inclusion of a “story section” in
Alcoholics Anonymous
was, therefore, not a mere afterthought, but an experiential lesson learned in several diverse ways. While “How It Works” might contain the heart of the program, “How do you get it to work?” was a prior question, and one which could be laid hold of only by having the ex-drinkers tell their stories.
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Given the announced intention in each of the three editions of
Alcoholics Anonymous
to demonstrate through the story section the variety of people who had found sobriety in A.A., the limits to the diversity actually portrayed is instructive. In the first edition, eighteen of the twenty-eight stories were furnished by “Akronites who had substantial sobriety records for testimonial materials.” At the time, of course, there were hardly enough “recovering alcoholics” to allow Wilson — and the others concerned with the breadth of the program — to choose among them. The problem was met by editing to accent different phases of the drinkers’ common experience.
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For example: only thirteen of the twenty-eight stories indicated anything of childhood religious background, but of these, ten revealed very intensive training. Similarly, of the fifteen who mentioned education, eight clearly testified to college attendance, while the remaining seven stressed the fact that they did not even “finish school.” Twelve — nine of these
not
having indicated early religious training — recalled their initial cynicism that any religious approach could help them.
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Social or economic class was less easily masked, for a common “bottom experience” was the loss of livelihood. Nineteen of the twenty-eight stories clearly revealed at least middle-class status: one doctor (Smith), three engineers, five in managerial or executive positions, two editors, six who owned their own businesses, plus a driver of Cadillacs who had supported “playgirls” and a woman who had frequented “teas” and “bridge parties.”
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A special facet of the “bottom experience” of most alcoholics who successfully got the A.A. program was the painful awareness of dissonant behavior, that is, behavior under the influence of alcohol that clashed with ideals derived from social, educational, and religious background. Beyond being fired or losing their own businesses through drinking, five reported serious automobile accidents; eight, asylum hospitalization; and four, family break-ups. Also recounted were one suicide attempt, one case in which the drinker intentionally set fire to his own home, and instances of missing one’s own engagement party, one’s mother’s funeral, and the birth of one’s child.
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The almost perfectly typical story of Bill D., “A.A. Number Three,” was not included. His “credentials,” in fact the usual ones for “getting the program” in these early years, were apparently too blatant: highly respectable upper middle-class background, above average education, intensive youthful religious training which had since been rejected, and former social prominence recently nullified by such behavior as his assault on two nurses. Despite the omission of Bill D.’s story, Wilson and the others surely did wish to convey in their book the important point that such people could be alcoholics. The program of “Alcoholics Anonymous” would attract few customers as long as the term “alcoholic” evoked only the stereotyped image of a Skid-Row bum with a few days growth of beard, half-empty bottle of muscatel protruding from the torn pocket of his ragged, too large overcoat, as in baggy trousers and outworn shoes he rummaged through a trash-barrel in search of the newspapers that would furnish that night’s mattress and blanket. In the future, however, an even more troublesome problem would arise. Granted that the respectable, middle-class types portrayed could be alcoholics, were such the only type able to profit from the therapy of Alcoholics Anonymous? This concern, only latent in 1939, provided one motive for expanding the story section in succeeding editions of the book,
Alcoholics Anonymous
.
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By the end of January 1939, Wilson was ready to rush the book to press. Then, mindful of the dual origins of the program, “someone sounded a note of caution: alcoholics could be awfully critical people. What if the book contained medical errors, or — worse — proved offensive to some religious faith?” So, four hundred multilith “loan copies” went out for evaluation. Comments were offered, but the most significant result occurred within the group itself.
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Wilson had written on the cover page of the multilith printing
“Alcoholic’s Anonymous” [sic]
but many in New York — and more in Akron — found this unacceptable as a title. True, after leaving the Oxford Group in 1937, the New Yorkers had begun referring to themselves as a “nameless bunch of alcoholics,” and by October 1938 some informally used the term “Alcoholics Anonymous.” But from the time of the early 1938 financial endeavor, the search for a happy euphemism had led the non-drinking alcoholics to refer to themselves in writing as “The One Hundred Men Corporation,” calling attention to the point that this was not a fluke enterprise — that the number of recoveries was substantial.
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A majority of the group in New York — and just about all in Akron — also felt it most important to transmit hope, and so the title
The Way Out
became very popular. For a time, Bill Wilson later confessed, he was attracted to this title because he contemplated expanding it to
The Way Out: The B. W. Movement
. Vigorously slapped down by the few on whom he tested the idea, however, Bill began leaning toward
Alcoholics Anonymous
, in time carrying most of the New Yorkers with him but totally failing to convince the Akronites. Finally, a New York oldtimer, visiting his family farm in Maryland, was asked to investigate titles in the Library of Congress. He responded by telegram: “Library of Congress has 25 books The Way Out 12 The Way … None Alcoholics Anonymous.” All agreed that they deserved a better fate than being the thirteenth “The Way,” much less the twenty-sixth “The Way Out,” and thus the book — and eventually the society — received its name.
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The distributed multiliths returned, but the readers’ comments produced few alterations in the final text. One striking and significant change came at the suggestion of a New Jersey psychiatrist, Dr. Howard. Most of the “we haves” and “we trieds” that many new readers found so attractive after years of being preached at and ordered to were originally “yous” and “musts.” It was Dr. Howard who suggested that the insanity and death so vividly portrayed in the book as consequences of alcoholism were so persuasive that no further force was needed. Thus A.A.’s debt to the medical profession deepened.
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From “the world of religion,” Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick returned his copy without criticism, expressed deepest satisfaction with it, and sent a favorable review of the book which he encouraged A.A. to release as it wished. Morgan R., the group’s first Catholic adherent, presented the manuscript to a friend on the New York Archdiocesan Committee on Publications. That committee, Morgan reported, “had nothing but the best to say of our efforts. From their point of view the book was perfectly all right as far as it went.” A very few editorial suggestions understood as for improvement rather than as criticism were readily and gratefully incorporated, especially in the section treating of prayer and meditation. Only one change was requested: at the conclusion of Wilson’s own story, he “had made a rhetorical flourish to the effect that ‘we have found Heaven right here on this good old earth.’” The committee gently suggested changing “Heaven” to “Utopia”: ‘“After all, we Catholics are promising folks something much better later on!’”
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This reminder of his tendency to extremes and grandiosity made it easier for Wilson to accept a final change now more insistently demanded by the “radicals” among the New York group. These few, led by Hank P. and Jim B., became adamant in pressing their concern that there was “too much God” in the Twelve Steps. Bill had learned the dangers of his tendency toward “too much” from Dr. Howard and from Morgan’s Catholic contacts. He apparently also was aware that at least one Catholic priest in Cleveland, although happy to see his parishioners sober, had forbidden two of them to journey to Akron to participate in what was to him obviously a religious gathering not under Catholic auspices. And so, Wilson accepted the utility of compromise:

Having argued over virtually everything else concerning their book’s writing and publication, the newly sober alcoholics were hardly about to pass by in staid silence the one final opportunity for debate over their work: what price was to be charged for it? Stockholders Wilson and Hank P. argued for a price of $3.50. The book, in their view, was not only to spread the program, but to support its operations. Others, however, wondered — loudly — how many alcoholics needing the program would be able to spend that amount on a book in the spring of 1939. The prices they suggested ranged from $2.50 down to $1.00. Bill’s telling of the tale had Hank finally winning out, but a touch of the Wilson humor appeared in the final compromise: “As a consolation to the contestants, we directed Mr. Blackwell to do the job on the thickest paper in his shop. The original volume proved to be so bulky that it became known as the ‘Big Book.’ Of course the idea was to convince the alcoholic that he was indeed getting his money’s worth.”
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If, after this happy outcome, Bill Wilson, alcoholic author, needed further deflation, he received it. A presumably promised and implicitly relied upon supportive article in
The Reader’s Digest
did not come to be; the bank foreclosed the mortgage on the Clinton Street home, evicting Bill and Lois; all attempts through the summer of 1939 to obtain national magazine publicity for
Alcoholics Anonymous
failed; and despite a barrage of twenty thousand postcards unleashed upon every physician east of the Mississippi River and timed to coincide with the appearance of a New York alcoholic on nationwide radio, only two book orders materialized. Further, Hank began to manifest the first signs of his later paranoia, and the spreading suspicion that he had begun or would begin drinking again soon proved frighteningly accurate. Even Ebby —the man who had brought to Bill Wilson the seed of what was to become Alcoholics Anonymous — had gone back to drinking and showed no sign of interest in stopping, even for “a day at a time.” Through the hot summer of 1939, despite the fact that its program had finally been crystalized and published, the situation of Alcoholics Anonymous looked bleak indeed — and especially to its more inclined-to-enthusiasm and leaning-on-hope New York branch.
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