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Old Bob was smiling again. “Every time you look for the time and have to remember that you switched wrists, I want you to say,
Thank you, God. Thank you for my life.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Pretty soon you’ll get it. After you’ve done it ten or twenty times a day you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He reached into his pants pocket and then handed me a business card. I looked at it. The card read simply,
Bob A.
There was a phone number underneath.

“And call me tomorrow. At home. Like we said. You call me every day at seven a.m. We’ll talk some more. Deal?”

“Okay, deal,” I said. “So…what will we talk about?”

“The steps, Bono. We’ll talk about how you’re going to change your life. We’ll start from Step One.”

“Bruno. It’s Bruno. And I’ve already done Step One. We did it and the other ones at Charles Street.”

“Not with me. You didn’t do no steps with me.”

“But what’s the point? I mean, if I already did it?”

“Are you arguing with me?”

“No, I’m not.” I said.

“Good. Because I don’t argue. I talk—you listen. I answer questions but I don’t argue or debate. Understand?”

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good. Look, the meeting’s getting started. We gotta go here. Any more questions?”

“Yeah, about a hundred.”

“Good. Call me tomorrow morning. Seven a.m. Every day—seven a.m. If you want to change your life I’ve got all the time in the world. And keep that watch on the other wrist.”

The old guy patted me on the back. “Look, kid, you just do what I tell you and everything will start to change. See, if you want to, if you listen, one day at a time I’ll show you how you’ll never have to take a drink again.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”

“And Bruno?”

“Yeah.”

“You made a good start. Keep going. Keep going for more. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“You’ve got that right. I have nothing and I have nothing to lose.”

T
hat Sunday in the early afternoon, after the retreat ended, and everybody had had a chance to stand at the podium and talk about their experience with sobriety, the seven of us from Charles Street were on our way toward Orange County in the van with Armondo driving. It was a quiet ride. Nobody said much.

About an hour down the freeway, in Ventura, Mondo decided to pull off so we could use the bathroom and all get sodas and he could get something more to eat.

We found a shopping center with a big, new Ralphs market and drove into the parking lot.

When it was my turn at the deli counter, I ordered an iced coffee. The girl behind the glass was pretty. Early thirties with big, bright eyes. A light-skinned black woman. Her name tag read “Maria.” She was smiling. A pretty smile on a pretty face. “So how ya doin’?” she asked.

“I’m doing okay,” I said. “Actually, I’m better than okay. I’m having a good day.”

“You up here for the weekend?”

“Yeah. There’s a group of us. We were at a place above Santa Barbara in the hills. Horse-ranch country. Nice. Very pretty.”

Maria was still smiling. “So, you don’t get up this way much?”

“Not much,” I said. “But I want to come back.”

She was looking down, her eyes fixed on the counter. “Well, here’s your coffee,” she said. “And next time you’re up this way, stop in and say hi. Okay?”

“I’d like that. That’s a grand idea.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Bruno. It’s Bruno.”

“I’ll be right here, Bruno.” Maria said, now looking at me.

Walking away from the counter with my coffee I realized that something was different. People looked the same. The guys from Charles Street looked the same and the people in the store looked like regular people and pretty Maria was probably the same, but I felt different. Then I noticed something—the voice in my head—
Jimmy’
s voice, was gone—or asleep.

Back in the van Mondo started the motor. We pulled out of the parking lot and back on to the freeway. To our right was a hundred miles of Pacific Ocean. There’d been a storm and the sea was choppy. I began counting the sets of waves as they crashed in on the shore. We headed south back toward Los Angeles.

Ayrin Leigh Fante, my wife, who from the day we first met, has kept the faith, stayed for the ride, never looked back, and managed to keep her seat belt strapped tight.

Bruce Fitzpatrick, my good friend, for his support, humor, and ownership of a cell phone.

Mark SaFranko, author, musician-performer, poet, songwriter, actor, fiction editor, astrologer, etc., and the god-damndest best example I know of a man who presses forward and refuses to quit—no matter what.

Tony O’Neill, without whose generosity of spirit this book may never have seen print.

Michele Weisler, for her swarming brilliance and friendship and her unapologetic devotion to my work.

John Fante, who missed the boat yet managed to land on top of the mountain, and continues to inspire and amaze me.

Amy Baker at Harper Perennial, for supporting and publishing my stuff and for her kindness.

Bettye LaVette, for changing my life with a single blues song.