Four Letter Word Beginning With F - FIFA

I don't much care one way or the other about soccer. I know much of the world is fanatic about it to the point of violence. But this column by Ann Coulter about the 2014 World Cup is hilarious. The kicker is that I agree with her!

Following are some of the highlights from her column. The full article can be found at - http://www.anncoulter.com/columns/2014-06-25.html

Ann Coulter - June 25, 2014

AMERICA'S FAVORITE NATIONAL PASTIME: HATING SOCCER

I've held off on writing about soccer for a decade -- about the length of the average soccer game. But enough is enough. Any growing interest in soccer can only be a sign of the nation's moral decay.

Individual achievement is not a big factor in soccer. When baseball players strike out, they're standing alone at the plate. In soccer, the blame is dispersed and almost no one scores anyway.  

There's a reason perpetually alarmed women are called "soccer moms," not "football moms."

Everyone just runs up and down the field and, every once in a while, a ball accidentally goes in. That's when we're supposed to go wild. I'm already asleep.

Liberal moms like soccer because it's a sport that girls can play with boys. No serious sport is co-ed, even at the kindergarten level.

No other "sport" ends in as many scoreless ties as soccer. If Michael Jackson had treated his chronic insomnia with a tape of Argentina vs. Brazil instead of Propofol, he'd still be alive, although bored.

After a football game, ambulances carry off the wounded. After a soccer game, every player gets a ribbon and a juice box.

You can't use your hands in soccer. What sets man apart from the lesser beasts, besides a soul, is that we have opposable thumbs. Here's a great idea: Let's create a game where you're not allowed to use them!

The number of New York Times articles claiming soccer is "catching on" is exceeded only by the ones pretending women's basketball is fascinating.

One group of sports fans with whom soccer is not "catching on" at all, is African-Americans. They remain distinctly unimpressed by the fact that the French like it.

Soccer is like the metric system, which liberals also adore because it's European. Ask any American for the temperature, and he'll say something like "70 degrees." Ask how far Boston is from New York City, he'll say it's about 200 miles.

Liberals get angry and tell us that the metric system is more "rational" than the measurements everyone understands. This is ridiculous. An inch is the width of a man's thumb, a foot the length of his foot, a yard the length of his belt. That's easy to visualize. How do you visualize 147.2 centimeters?

Headlines this week proclaimed "Record U.S. Ratings for World Cup," and we had to hear -- again -- about the "growing popularity of soccer in the United States."

The USA-Portugal game was the blockbuster match, garnering 18.2 million viewers on ESPN.

Run-of-the-mill, regular-season Sunday Night Football games average more than 20 million viewers; NFL playoff games get 30 to 40 million viewers; and this year's Super Bowl had 111.5 million viewers.

If more "Americans" are watching soccer today, it's only because of the demographic switch effected by Teddy Kennedy's 1965 immigration law. One can only hope that, in addition to learning English, these new Americans will drop their soccer fetish with time.

COPYRIGHT 2014 ANN COULTER

Wallace and Gromit Be Damned

For many years it was my privilege to work as a cheesemonger in the Gourmet Grocery department of an upscale wine and liquor store. The grocery featured an open-air, floor-to-ceiling cheese case. We hand-cut to order from the finest artisan domestic and international cheeses. Some of our best-selling cheeses came from England.

Popular favorites included Stilton, a super-rich, creamy, strong-flavored blue cheese that I particularly enjoyed with cracked walnuts and a small glass of port on the afternoon of Christmas Day; Cotswold, an orange-colored cheese made by blending chives and spring onions into Double Gloucester; cheesecloth bound Cheddar, a crumbly, pale-yellow, sharp-tasting cheese, originating in the English village of Cheddar in Somerset; Huntsman, a festive cheese that we often suggested for cheese trays because of its colorful layers of Double Gloucester and Stilton; and Stinking Bishop, a semi-soft, washed-rind cheese made exclusively from the milk of Gloucester breed heifers.

Starting the week before the Fourth of July, as soon as I clocked-in in the morning, I would take all our English cheeses out of the case and move them to our Sub-Zero refrigerator in the back of the grocery. When my manager, Josette, came in, an absolutely delightful and wonderful woman from Quebec, Canada, who I cherish as one of my dearest friends to this day, and who taught me everything I know about cheese especially, and good food in general, she would say, in her heavy French accent, "What happened to all the cheeses?"

I would say, "I put them in the fridge."

She would blink her eyes, with those incredibly long lashes, and say, "Why?"

And I would say, "I refuse to sell English cheeses this close to the Fourth of July."

Whereupon she would slap me in the arm. (Looking back, she did that a lot.) Josette is bright, intelligent, and professional, with a keen sense of humor, every bit my intellectual equal.

"Get those cheeses right back on the shelf, mister!"

The thing was, whenever she talked with that funny accent, I would just smile at her, and neither of us could take it seriously. It was us against the world, or at least against corporate, and she would say things like, "We complete each other." What she meant was that we complimented each other in the grocery, working as a team. When I told my wife what she said, my wife was not amused. (Actually, she was laughing her butt off. Josette and my wife are also close friends.)

"No," I replied. "I'll sell the customers something else."

"Steeeve, that's goofy."

"I don't care. The British committed all kinds of atrocities during the Revolutionary War. I won't sell English cheeses. It's an affront to me as an American. At least the French were our allies," I would answer.

She would abruptly turn away from me, walk over to the refrigerator, and start to move the cheeses back out to the front of the shop.

"I won't sell them," I said emphatically.

"Fine. If someone asks for any, I'll wait on them," she said over her shoulder.

And that's where we would leave it. Until she took a bathroom break, a lunch break, or when she came back in the next day, only to find the English cheeses removed from the shelves.

Vive la liberté!

Gratitude

I love looking at my wife's profile. When we're sitting in bed watching TV, I can't wait for the commercial breaks so I can turn my head and see how adorable she is. (I do the same thing when we're driving.) I love seeing her soft, brown hair, with red highlights when the sun hits it, pulled back in a loose ponytail, her high cheekbones, sexy nose, and compelling lips. I love every line, every curve, every nuance of color, every wrinkle, every freckle. She is endlessly fascinating to me. Her face is so expressive. When she surfs the Web on her tablet, her countenance changes from happy to sad to surprised to appalled. When she smiles, her whole face lights up, and when she glances at me, her gaze smites my heart.

Rock Bottom

I pointed the .357 Magnum Colt King Cobra revolver at my thirteen year old son and pulled the trigger.

It was unloaded, thank God, but my son didn't know that, and I couldn't have been absolutely sure myself. It was noon, and I was three sheets to the wind. As soon as I crossed a certain point in my drinking, out would come the handgun, a beautiful piece of stainless steel craftsmanship. I loved feeling the weight of it in my hand, the barely restrained power of it. Usually I would dry fire it, but sometimes I would load all six chambers.

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A pioneer in the stay-at-home dad movement, I was an excellent cook and housekeeper. I raised the boys and shepherded them through school (no mean feat) while my wife worked. I saw them off at the bus stop each morning, and flirted with the moms on the corner.

However, as soon as our little coffee klatch broke up, I headed upstairs to start drinking.

My wife, Shellie, our boys, Nik and Ben, then aged nine and seven respectively, and I moved into the two bedroom, one bath, second floor apartment on Crab Apple Court in the fall of 1994. The court was lined with fourteen identical, three story, red brick buildings with small lawns in front and tenant parking lots in back. The court was tree lined and felt like a community.

Sliding glass doors in the frontroom led to a small balcony. I loved to sit out there with a bottle of good bourbon and a ginger ale chaser. I enjoyed the weather, rain or shine, hot or cold, and observed the activity on the court. The Burlington Northern ran behind the far side of the cul-de-sac and I watched the trains roll by.

I'd leave the sliding door open and listen to music. As the afternoon and my drinking progressed, so did the volume. Pink Floyd and The Band gave way to old Blue Oyster Cult and Uriah Heep. As the buzz became a drunk, I would blast the Goo Goo Dolls' "Dizzy Up the Girl," and UFO's "Phenomenon" album.

The last song on side one of "Phenomenon" is the classic "Rock Bottom" featuring one of the greatest guitar solos ever recorded. I always saved it for last, just before my wife got home, because I knew I'd have to turn the music down or off after that. I would play it so loud that she could hear it as soon as she turned onto the court. She dreaded hearing that because she knew what she was coming home to.

But the bills got paid, the apartment was always spic and span, dinner was ready on the stove, and the boys happily played in their room or outside with their friends.

The problem was me. As soon as my wife walked in the door, I would harangue her about something - the school, the landlord, the city, state, or federal government - it didn't matter. I'd work myself up more and more until I was yelling like a madman. Then I'd turn it on her for disregarding me.

I was belligerent. I would break things. I would say terrible and hurtful things.

"I don't love you. I've never loved you. You're just a meal ticket to me," I'd scream at her.

My wife and sons would lock themselves in their rooms. I would sit in the frontroom, in my rocker, banging it repeatedly into the wall behind me, and drink with the lights off until I passed out. 

Then, in the morning, not remembering a thing from the night before, I would start the whole cycle over again.

As soon as my wife left for work and the kids were in school, I would drive over to my preferred liquor store and sit in the parking lot impatiently because their nine o'clock opening cut into my precious drinking time. I would look at the smattering of old men also waiting in their cars for the store to open, thinking what a bunch of losers THEY were.

Then, in a strange twist of fate, I woke up one Friday morning in June of 2003, got a little more dressed up than usual, drove over to the dram shop, and waited for it to open. But instead of making a purchase, I walked up to the customer service desk and asked to fill out an application.

As a frequent patron, I knew the store and the staff well, and they were always looking for cashiers and stockers. The idea of working in a liquor store seemed to be a natural fit. The Operations Manager came out to talk to me, but even as we conversed, all I thought about was getting home to pound back a few shots.

Even though they knew I was a regular customer, I didn't want to be seen making a purchase on the way out, so I drove over to the grocery store and bought a half gallon of sour mash. By the time I got back to the apartment, it was much later than I had planned, so I quickly made up for lost time.

By five-o'clock I was smashed. I never expected to hear back so soon, but the phone rang and when I answered it, the store Operations Manager said that they wanted to hire me. Not only did they want to hire me, but they wanted to hire me as the assistant manager of the brand new Gourmet Grocery department. They'd like me to start on Monday.

I've recounted how much I loved that job, and how much fun I had there in previous blogs. But despite that, the drinking got worse. I would walk in the door after work, storm into the kitchen, and belt back several shots before I took my jacket off. These would tide me over until I changed out of my work clothes and downed a few more before we ate. By the middle of dinner, the liquor took its toll, and very few meals ended in peace, whereas many ended in pieces.

I was what has come to be known as a functioning alcoholic.

For surely an alcoholic I was. I had a wife who loved me, two sons who looked up to me, a nice apartment, a job I enjoyed, money in the bank - nevertheless, I was deeply depressed, possessed of an inner rage, and suicidal.

August of 2004 was brutally hot. The one thing our apartment lacked was air conditioning. It was seven o'clock in the morning and I was going into my daily rant as my wife got ready for work. She was more silent than usual, and I assumed it was because I had already downed several shots of whiskey. I asked her, "What's your problem now?" She whipped around with my gun laying across her palm.

"This was in the bed this morning!" she said.

I took it from her and released the cylinder. Six copper butts stared me in the face. "I remember locking this away last night," I said.

She turned away from me without saying another word. I couldn't blame her. Either of us could have been seriously hurt or killed. Of course, I had no memory of getting out of bed sometime during the night, taking it out of the safe, loading it, and getting back in bed. I also had no memory of what my intentions were. By this point, blackouts were a way of life.

It must have been my day off because I had started early, but I have no memory of it. Ben was outside, and Nik and my wife were locked in their rooms. I was in the frontroom drunk as a skunk, although how that much maligned creature got mixed up with the likes of me, I'll never know.

I wanted to die. No other thought existed for me. I went down the hall to my bedroom to get my gun, my sole thought being to put a bullet through my brain. The door was locked, but without hesitation I broke it in. Without a word, I took my keys off the dresser and opened the lockbox. The revolver was wrapped in its oiled cloth, but the bullets were gone. I looked at my wife on the bed, drew my eyebrows down and said, "Where are the bullets?"

"I hid them."

"Give them back."

"I can't. I don't know what you'll do."

"I want to kill myself."

"I can't trust you."

"Then just give me one. That's all I'll need."

"I can't."

"Give me a bullet."

"Steve, I can't."

"Give me a bullet."

"I know you don't want to hurt me, and I don't want you to hurt yourself."

The next thing I remember was straddling her on the bed with my hands around her throat. I was looking down at her and it appeared to me as if she smiled.

In that instant I snapped back into some semblance of reality and jumped off of her. She was still conscious and moving. I fled the room. I sat in the frontroom, rocking, in remorse and despair.

The one line I had never crossed was putting my hands on her in anger.

A moment later, my wife came into the frontroom, and in a tone of voice that I had never heard her use before, said, "Here," and threw a bullet at me.

She stood there as I picked it up, got the gun and locked myself in the bathroom. Everything was over. With hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I put the bullet in the gun, aligned the cylinder, cocked back the hammer, and placed the barrel up to my right temple. I stood there looking at my reflection in the mirror. I placed my index finger on the trigger and started to squeeze.

I don't know how long I stood there, life and death a mere muscle twitch apart. Finally, cursing myself for a coward, I placed my thumb on the hammer, squeezed the trigger the small amount that I had not the courage to do a moment before, felt the click that released the hammer, and eased it down into its resting position. I set it down on the toilet lid and left the bathroom.

I walked into the frontroom and sat down in the rocker. I must have fallen asleep because I came to to the ringing of the phone. I saw distorted red and blue lights refracting off the glass door, as a woman's voice said through the answering machine, "This is the Naperville Police Department. I have officers about to enter your home. Please answer the phone to say you understand."

Frantically, I got up to pick up the phone, but the handset was not in its cradle. I ran into the bedroom to see if my wife had it, only then realizing that I was alone. I slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. Squad cars lined the court, take-down lights whirled. Dozens of silhouettes stood behind their vehicles.

Sometime during the altercation with my wife, I had twisted and smashed my glasses and everything was a blur.

"What's going on!?" I called down.

"We need you to open your door and place your hands on top of your head," said a voice calmly but forcefully.

I was too full of remorse to fight, and I was ready to accept whatever happened next. I went inside to the front door, unlocked and opened it, then stepped back and raised my hands. Several uniformed officers rushed past me into the apartment, while others kept their service pistols trained on me.

All I was wearing were a pair of loose shorts that didn't stay on very well without constantly tugging them up. I said so to the policemen, and one responded, "We're all adults here. Let them drop. Keep your hands up."

The officers moved behind me, and as I stepped out onto the landing, I came face to face with a fully clad, six man SWAT team wielding combat shotguns. They were dressed from head to foot in black, body armor in plain view. I started slowly down the steps, adjusting my gait and expanding my stomach to try to keep my pants on. As we slowly proceeded down, all I could see was my own reflection in the visors of their helmets and the grim set of their lips. The bore of the shotgun staring me in the face was enormous. I considered suicide by cop, but by this time I was resigned to my fate.

When we got outside, the SWAT team fanned out, and the voice that had called up to me on the balcony said, "Turn around." I did so.

"Get on your knees." Again, I complied.

"Lay face down and spread your arms out to your sides. Turn your palms up."

As soon as I had done so, two policemen approached me, guns drawn. One placed his knee in my back and the barrel of his gun in the back of my neck. The other patted me down thoroughly. The first officer stood up, keeping me covered, and the other drew one of my arms behind me and applied a handcuff, then drew back my other arm and snapped on the second cuff. They lifted me up and escorted me to one of the patrol cars and lowered me into the back seat.

I waited in the cruiser while the cops milled around, talking to each other and into their collar radios. Eventually, the cop who had given me the orders, got in the front seat and turned the ignition. As we pulled off the court, I saw a fire truck and an ambulance sitting on the opposite side of the street, also with their lights flashing.

"All this is for me?" I said.

"We didn't know what we were up against," he replied.

He pulled up to a pole in the rear of the police station, and punched in a code on the keypad. A large gate topped with razor wire started to roll on its casters and we drove into a parking area. The cop helped me out of the back seat and we went into the station through a metal door. He led me up to an office behind thick, bulletproof glass, and said to the policewoman seated at a desk, "No personal effects."

She buzzed us through another steel door and the cop led me to a small waiting area. He said, "Good luck," and went back out the door. After a few minutes, a good-looking woman in street clothes came towards me. A wallet stuck in her belt displayed a gold badge, and a .45 caliber Glock sat in a shoulder holster.

"Mr. Dunn, you are under arrest for aggravated assault and domestic battery."

She stated my Miranda rights just like on TV, then she sat down across from me, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Do you want to tell me what happened so we can get your family back together as soon as possible?"

"I'd like to talk to an attorney first," I said.

She pushed herself up from the chair and called over her shoulder, "We're done here!"

She walked away as a uniformed cop led me into a holding cell. He removed the handcuffs and left. The holding cell was a six by six cinderblock box painted olive drab. The solid steel door had a small window with gray lines crisscrossing through it. The cell was completely empty - except for me. There were no seats, no thin mattress on the floor, no facilities, no graffiti.

I stood for a while, then sat down in a corner. I knew this was no more than I deserved. I was starting to drift off when I heard a commotion outside the door. I looked up at the window slot and saw the face of my sister, Debbie, deep concern in her eyes. I quickly got up and went to the window. I saw my heartbroken mom standing behind her.

"Steve, are you alright?" said my sister.

"I guess so, but I don't know what's going on. I don't know where Shellie is."

"She's here. She called us and told us what happened. When you locked yourself in the bathroom, she took Nik and drove here and told the police you choked her. She told them you had a gun."

"Did she tell them I only had one bullet and that she took the phone?"

"I don't know. She's wrapped up in a blanket and the cops are consoling her."

"What's going to happen now?" I said. I should probably mention that my sister is a practicing defense attorney.

"You'll have to go before a judge in the morning who'll set bail. Then they'll schedule a hearing date."

My mom stepped forward. "Hi, Steve."

"Hi mom."

"We didn't know if you were alive or dead," she said.

I looked at her in horror at the anguish I must have put her through.

"Just keep calm and we'll get everything sorted out," said my mother.

I should also mention that my dad is a lawyer, and my mom had been a lawyer's wife for a quarter of a century.

"Thanks mom. I'm sorry about all this."

"That's okay, sweetie."

"I love Shellie so much. I'm so ashamed," I said.

A cop stepped up and told them they'd have to go now.

My mom and sister said good-bye, all three of us shedding tears.

"Just do what they tell you," said my sister. "I'll see you in the morning."

As they left, the cop removed me from the holding cell, and led me to another cell, this one with a bed, and a sink/toilet unit. He handed me a plastic packet containing a pair of pink booties. I relieved myself, then laid down on the bed, only wanting to shut my eyes to the nightmare my life had become.

But no sooner than I had closed my eyes, a uniformed female officer unlocked the door and said, "You need to get up. You're being transferred to the county jail. I'll need to handcuff you."

I struggled up out of the bunk and turned around so she could cuff my hands behind my back. I was brought into the county complex through another rear entrance. It was here that I was "booked" with pictures and prints. Even after everything I'd been through in my life, this was my first arrest. After booking, I was tossed in the tank, the large room where the accused awaited judicial processing.

Guys sleeping off drunks or drugs were sprawled on the floor and across the narrow cement ledges that ran along two walls and served as seating. Other dudes in various stages of agitation, sat in the few remaining spaces. I squeezed myself into a spot to pass the endless hours until morning.

Without my glasses, everything was still a blur, turning an unreal situation into a surreal one. I could see enough to notice that the one communal stainless steel commode was stuffed to overflowing with candy wrappers and snack packaging, pop cans and plastic water bottles, and all manner of garbage that only a cage-full of human trash could generate.

As the night slowly wore on, my bladder sent out ever more urgent signals. It became impossible to think of anything else as my fellow incarcerated added to the disgusting accumulation in and around the toilet. I was very hesitant to place myself in a vulnerable position. Finally the urge became overwhelming and I stood up and made my way to the facility. Several pairs of eyes tracked me, but I did what I had to do without incident.

The rest of the miserable night was broken only by the door opening to admit new miscreants. A couple of times, one of the guys would ask a newcomer if they knew what time it was, and the answer was invariably hours earlier than I assumed or hoped. Just when I felt at my wit's end, the door opened and a deputy called out, "Rise and shine, ladies. Breakfast's ready."

They handed out Styrofoam containers, and even the guys who had been dead to the world all night, got up to retrieve the food. I sat with my back against a wall and opened the lid. The congealed slop before me fit the surroundings and my mood. A plastic packet held a thin paper napkin and a white plastic spoon.

I dabbed the spoon into a lumpy, off-white pile that might have been oatmeal and quickly determined that it was inedible. I next tried a small spoonful of pale yellow mush that in a delusional fit, one might call eggs, but it too was not fit for consumption. The last chance was a piece of toast that defied physical science by being dry and soggy at the same time. Tasteless would have been a vast improvement. I closed the lid and chucked the whole kit and caboodle towards the can.

After "breakfast," a deputy gave us instructions. "Okay. You're going to line up in the hallway in the order that your names are called. When it's your turn, you will go into the video conference room. You will be able to see and hear the judge and he will be able to see and hear you."

The motley, strung-out, unwashed lot of us stood in the hallway. As each detainee exited the room after his bail hearing, a deputy led him away to processing, either to post bond and be released or remanded to the county jail. When my turn came, I was seated before a video camera and microphone. A bailiff in the courtroom called my name and case number, but before I could even say a word, I saw the fuzzy outline of my sister, and heard her say, "Your honor, Deborah Dunn appearing for the defendant."

The judge glanced down at her.

"Your honor, the defendant is my brother. He had cancer last year and he is a diabetic. He also suffers from depression. We ask that bail be set so that the family can get him into rehab."

The judge looked into the video camera. "Mr. Dunn, I do not want to hear one word about your guilt or innocence. This hearing is strictly to set bail. Do you understand the nature of the charges against you?"

I squinted into the camera and said, "Yes, your honor."

My sister said, "Your honor, Stephen doesn't have his glasses and cannot see you. That is why he looks so unfocused." (Not because I was hungover and awake all night.)

The judge said, "Mr. Prosecutor, do you have an objection to low bail?"

"Just the standard one, your honor," said the prosecutor, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

The judge looked at my sister and said, "Bail is set at three-thousand dollars so you can get your brother the help he needs."

My sister said, "Thank you, your honor."

"You know there should be another zero after that amount, counselor?" said the judge.

"Yes, your honor."

"Next case," said the judge.

The video camera went dark, and the deputy led me down the hall and instructed me to step into a room the size of a phone booth. The door clicked shut, and just to satisfy my own curiosity, I tried to open it, but it was locked. I sat down on a small stool. I'd only been in custody for about twelve hours and I was already going stir crazy and thinking about overpowering a guard and shooting my way out. The wall of the cubicle opposite the door was covered in wire mesh. Suddenly a panel slid back and a fat, jowly sheriff's deputy flicked his eyes at me with total disdain.

He glanced at a computer screen and entered a few keystrokes on the keyboard in front of him. He looked at the monitor and tapped out a few more. This went on for an interminably long time. The panel slid shut. The lock on the door popped open, and a deputy led me through a series of stations until I found myself in a public area. My brother-in-law was waiting for me. "Hello, Steve. Glad to be out?"

"Thanks, Mitch. You're a sight for sore eyes."

We walked out to the parking lot where my sister was waiting in their minivan.

"You're going to stay with us for a while," she said when I climbed in the back.

I leaned back in the seat, numb and exhausted.

Mitch said, "Are you hungry? There's a McDonald's up ahead."

It was only about ten o'clock in the morning, but it sounded good to me. I munched my Quarter Pounder with Cheese, fries and chocolate shake as we headed north. When we got to my sister's house, she said, "Go get washed up." I went into the bathroom and washed my face and combed my hair back with my fingers. When I came out, my sister handed me one of Mitch's t-shirts and a pair of sandals. "Come on, we're going shopping."

Our first stop was at a one-hour eyewear shop. The optometrist did the better-worse routine and I picked out a pair of frames. We then headed to a box store famous for its red bulls-eye logo. We bought a couple of packages of cotton briefs and white crew socks, some comfortable "pajama wear" and sweat outfits, and some toiletries. We swung back to the vision office to pick up my new glasses.

When we got back to my sister's, she said, "Why don't you go lay down for a while, while I make some phone calls."

I dozed until late-afternoon and slowly sat up on my nephew's bed. I placed my elbows on my knees and cradled my forehead in my hands. Debbie heard me moving around and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

"I made some calls. Why don't you come out to the family room?"

I settled into the deep leather sectional and Debbie said, "First of all, I called your manager and told her you were sick and probably going into the hospital, so you don't have to worry about work. I found a rehab facility in Naperville called Oak Woods. We have an appointment tomorrow morning."

"Have you talked to Shellie?"

"I left a message on the answering machine. I told her you were here and you are safe. I haven't heard back."

"I want to talk to her."

"Unless she calls, we should just leave her alone."

"I'm so sorry."

"I know, but right now you need to focus on yourself."

I got up and went back into my nephew's room. I closed the door and lay down on the bed. I rolled onto my side facing the wall and brought my knees up. My thoughts spiraled downward in the darkened, chill room. My sister liked running the air-conditioner full blast. As the afternoon wore on, I heard the voices of my nephews and nieces. I heard the door open but no other sounds. I craned my neck around and saw a bunch of cute, little faces staring at me. My sister appeared behind them and said, "What are you guys doing?"

"We're looking at Uncle Steve," said one of the pixies.

My six year old nephew, in whose bed I lay, said, "Hi Uncle Steve!"

"Hi Ari."

"You can stay in my room as long as you need to."

"Thanks, pal," I said.

"Let Uncle Steve rest," said Debbie and shooed them away. "We're eating in a few minutes. I'd like you to come and join us."

I reluctantly got up and made my way out to the table. Mitch and Debbie, my nephews and nieces, and my mom and dad were all gathered round. I sat down sullenly, ignored the conversation, and picked at my food. Half way through dinner, I pushed back my chair, and without a word, left the dining room. Debbie came in a short time later and said, "That's a start. At least you came out of the room and sat at the table for a bit."

I watched some TV and went to bed. I didn't know how long I'd been asleep, but I woke up when the door opened and the bright hall light shone in my face. My brother-in-law said, "I'm sorry Steve, but there's someone here who needs to speak to you."

The digital clock read 3:07. I got up in my boxer shorts and went to the front door. Mitch and Debbie were standing there, and a cop filled the doorway.

"Stephen Dunn?" he said.

"Yes."

"I have some papers for you."

He handed me some papers and I got no further than the words, "Order of Protection," before my sister took them from me. I was crushed. The cop said, "Mr. Dunn, I need to ask you a few questions. How old are you?"

I reeled at the absurdity of my life crashing in around me, and some cop was asking me how old I was at three o'clock in the morning. I turned in the foyer and walked away. I heard my sister answering some questions before I closed the door of my nephew's room. My sister came in and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I kind of expected this, Boobers," she said.

"I'm sorry the cops woke you up because of me."

"The police figure they'll find you at home and asleep. There's less trouble that way."

"I can't believe Shellie would do this."

"Well, you did choke her. She's angry, and scared, and confused, and I'm sure everyone is telling her what to do."

"I don't want to lose her."

"The best thing you can do right now is take care of yourself."

========================================================

"Do you have any nervous habits?"

I squirmed in my chair and looked at the psychiatrist sitting across from me. He had a comb-over hair style and pencil mustache. He was wearing a short sleeve pinstripe shirt and striped blue tie. He had on chinos and his legs were crossed. He held a clipboard on his lap and a fountain pen in his right hand.

"When I get nervous I rub my forehead."

"I think you should stay with us for a couple of weeks. Would that be alright with you?"

"I guess."

"Good. Let's get you settled in."

He pushed a button on his desk phone and a young black guy in sweats came in. "Hi, Stephen. I'm Randy. I'm one of the counselors here. Would you come with me."

Randy led me into a small room with a round table and a few chairs. "We're going to start with some paperwork."

I filled out forms detailing my medical history, insurance, guarantee of payment, privacy notice, consent for treatment, terms of self-commitment, and a waiver of my right to gun ownership for five years as proscribed by law.

He took me into a waiting room where Debbie was reading a magazine. My suitcase sat next to her chair. "Hi, I'm Randy." he said, offering his hand to her. "He can't take his suitcase in, so we need to go through his things."

Randy rested my suitcase across the arms of a chair and opened it. A plastic storage bag with my toiletries sat on top. "We'll provide all the toiletries he'll need, so you can take that home with you." Next he unpacked the new pajama pants that Debbie had bought me. "You'll have to remove the strings," he said, referring to the waistband ties. He slowly made a pile of the things I could bring with me.

"We'll be processing him through intake now, so you can say good-bye," said Randy.

Debbie and I hugged, and when we pulled away, her eyes were puffy with tears. "I'll be alright," I said. "He'll be fine," said Randy.

Debbie left and I was shown into a medical examination room. "I need you to take off all your clothes," said Randy. "You can put on that gown." As I started to undress, Randy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and inspected each garment. He instructed me to hop up on the exam table. A few moments later, a middle-aged, Indian woman in a white lab coat came in.

"Stephen, I'm Doctor Singh." She checked my blood pressure and temperature. She shined a light in my eyes, ears, and nostrils. She had me stick out my tongue and say 'Aaaahhhh.' She listened to my heart and lungs with a stethoscope. She asked me to climb down, turn around, and rest my elbows on the exam table.

The examination complete, Dr. Singh said, "Thank you, Stephen," nodded at Randy, and left the room. "You can get dressed now," said Randy.

I carried my belongings and we approached a steel door. It was uncomfortably similar to the doors of the jail. Randy fished out a key ring and unlocked it. We entered a large day room and I was met with distant stares in vacant eyes, people sitting off by themselves holding conversations with people only they could see, and one young man yelling gibberish as two large attendants in blue scrubs wrestled him out of the day room.

Images of Nurse Ratched and Jack Nicholson came to mind, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that electroshock therapy and frontal lobotomies were still an active part of the curriculum.

I was shown into a semi-private room with two twin beds, and two desk/dresser units. There were no closets, and no lock on the inside of the door. The bathroom had a fiberglass shower unit and a stainless steel toilet/sink combo. There was no mirror above it.

I tried the bathroom switches to see what they would do. One standard looking switch turned the recessed overhead light on and off. A plastic cover was screwed over the bulb. I tried flipping a large metal switch up and down, but nothing happened.

"Randy, what does this switch do?"

"That's not a switch, that's a towel hook. When it's up you can hang towels or clothes on it, but if you put too much weight on it, it slides down. It's so no one can hang themselves from it."

"Oh," I said, as it became ever more clear to me where I was.

I put away my things and sat down on the edge of the bed. A guy about my height, a little stockier, and maybe five years younger came in. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt. It was not a hoodie. Hoods were not allowed for safety reasons. He crossed the room to the far bed along the window. He laid down on his back, drew up his left knee and balanced his right leg atop it. He placed his right arm behind his head.

I wasn't sure what the protocol was, but I didn't think it was quite on the level of prison etiquette. "I'm Steve," I said.

"Bruce."

A minute of silence followed, and then Bruce said, "Whatcha here for?"

"Alcohol," I said. "How 'bout you?"

"I feel anger inside me. I want to kill people," said Bruce.

I pretty much left him alone after that.

I was reading a paperback (hard cover books posing some sort of security risk), and Randy stuck his head in the door. "Lunchtime," he said. I followed the other patients into a large mess hall and got in line. As I moved up in the queue, I took a tray and a couple of paper napkins, and when I saw that the only utensil offered was a spoon, I thought it did not speak hopefully of the menu.

There was some room at a table where a couple of guys sat across from a good-looking girl. I sat down and started eating. All things considered, the food wasn't bad. I listened in on the conversation, and one of the guys said to the girl, "How are you feeling after this morning's session?"

"Dead as a door nail," she said.

There was a brief pause in the conversation, and I just sort of said out loud, "This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

The guys gave me blank and somewhat hostile looks, but the corner of the girl's mouth went up and she glanced at me curiously.

"I have just returned from a visit to my landlord – the solitary neighbor that I shall be troubled with," she said.

This time I smiled and said, "Wuthering Heights. Call me Ishmael."

She looked full at me, eyes bright with amusement. "I've always found Melville hard to read," she said.

The guys just stared at us like we were speaking a foreign language, or maybe in code.

"Hi. I'm Steve."

"I'm Laura," she said. "Laura from Aurora."

And so I would think of her ever after. She had long, straight, brown hair parted down the middle; deep, brown eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses; a pert, upturned nose; heart-shaped lips; and a knobbed chin. The overall effect was girl-next-door, but one who would leave her window open for you to climb through. There were strict rules against patient fraternization, but a guy could dream.

I wanted to monopolize the conversation with her, partly just to show that I could, and I asked her, "So, what goes on here?"

But one of the guys answered quickly, "It's basically group sessions. They'll give you a schedule based on your diagnosis, and a nurse will be around with your meds. You'll probably meet with the shrink once or twice a week."

"Hmmm," I said, and went back to eating.

Just as lunch was breaking up, Randy came over and handed me a sheet of paper. "That's your schedule," he said. "Your first group session starts in a few minutes."

I looked at the page and made my way to the indicated room for something called "Expressive Therapy." The room was set up with three long tables in a horseshoe configuration. Plastic chairs lined the outside of the tables. The back wall had a sink and large counters on either side. Two tall cabinets lined the side walls.

Patients trickled in and took seats around the tables. A counselor came in and removed items from the shelves and cupboards. She passed out large sheets of white drawing paper and placed wooden boxes filled with crayons at intervals around the tables.

"Good afternoon everyone. How is everyone feeling?" she said.

A chorus of answers, some positive, many not, followed.

"Well, you're all going to get a chance to express your feelings. I want you to draw a picture of why you're here and what you want to accomplish while you're here."

My mind was blank, but I knew that any hope I had of ever getting back with my wife meant cooperating fully and honestly. I picked out a gray crayon and drew a window with vertical bars across it at the top left of the page. I used a red crayon to draw an arrow to a bottle outlined in black and filled in halfway with brown. The red arrow continued to a blob scribbled in red, then around the right edge back towards the center. I used gray again to draw a bunch of raindrops, the red arrow leading to a blue bed with black claws underneath it. The arrow took one final loop at the left end of the paper until it arrived at the bottom center, where I drew a picture of a house.

The artwork would have shamed a first grader. Everything was in stick figures, the house two vertical lines with a triangle roof, a brick chimney rising off one side, a rectangular door and two square windows with crossing lines to form four square panes. A squiggle of green grass ran across the bottom.

After a few more minutes, the counselor said, "Okay, please put your crayons back in the boxes. We'll go around the tables, and I want you to show us your picture and explain its meaning."

One by one my fellow patients held up their drawings and described what we were seeing. A lot of the artwork was quite good and illustrated a range of emotions from black despair and hopelessness to profound pain to happiness and joy.

When my turn came, I held up my drawing and said, "The window with the bars represents my feeling imprisoned by my thoughts of depression and suicide. The bottle, of course, is whiskey. The red blob is the anger that the alcohol unleashes, and the raindrops are supposed to be tears of remorse. The bed is here in rehab and the claws are my hidden demons. The house is because I want to be back with my family."

Several people nodded their approval, and the counselor said, "Well done," and moved on to the next person.

I had one more session for the afternoon, Depression Management. The room was small, and ten of us, plus the therapist, sat in close proximity. I found a chair, and sitting across the room from me was Laura from Aurora. My heart skipped a beat when I saw her and she looked at me with a Mona Lisa smile.

If all the patients at Oak Woods had one thing in common, it was depression. Deeply debilitating, standing at the edge of a bottomless, black abyss, depression.

The therapist said, "Who has had thoughts of suicide?"

Every hand went up.

"Who has attempted suicide?"

Every hand went up.

"Who has suicidal thoughts right now?"

Every hand went up.

"How many currently have a suicide plan?"

About half the hands went up. Mine didn't, but Laura from Aurora's did.

The therapist picked up a stack of papers and started handing out a two page form - a top white copy for the hospital and a bottom yellow copy for the patient. I quickly scanned it as she said, "This is a Contract for Life." She read from the form, "'Now that you have spent time working on your suicide prevention plan, it is important that you make a commitment to follow it. This is a contract... a contract for life.' Alright, I want everyone to read aloud with me."

We all recited, "I - print name here - will find help whenever I feel suicidal. I will communicate these feelings directly to one of the people that I have listed on page one." Then there was a space to sign and date, and a line for the signature of a witness, namely the therapist.

I understood what they were trying to do, but if one of us attempted suicide at some point in the future, or God forbid, succeeded, what were they going to do? Run into court waving the document yelling, "But he signed the contract."

I dutifully put my name to the ridiculous paper, tore off and handed back the white copy, and placed the yellow copy in my folder.

"Who would like to start our discussion?" asked the therapist.

Laura from Aurora's hand shot up.

"Laura..." said the therapist.

"Well, some of you have heard my story, but for the new people," she said, giving me a sideways glance, "my father abused me when I was younger, and I was promiscuous at an early age. I started cutting myself because I thought I needed to be punished for being a dirty girl. Two weeks ago I tried to hang myself. I used the belt from my robe and tied it around the clothes bar in my closet. Just as I started to pass out, the bar came loose. I called the crisis hotline and they told me to check myself in here. And here I am."

Before I knew what I was saying, I blurted out, "I'm glad you're here."

The therapist glanced at me and raised one eyebrow. "Stephen, would you like to elaborate on that?"

"Um, well, I think that all of us have something to offer. That the world is a better place with us in it. Maybe we just see things differently, feel things differently, react to things differently than other people," I managed to get out.

One of the essential elements to recovery is routine. Over the next two weeks, I followed a strict schedule of seven o'clock wake up, breakfast, community group (where we talked about how we were feeling that day, and the nurse passed out meds), expressive therapy (where we learned relaxation techniques), lunch, and two forty-five minute group therapy sessions (dealing with spirituality - beliefs, self-awareness, and forgiveness - boundaries, communication skills, relapse prevention, and discharge planning). Then, like the calm before the storm, came expressive therapy, which alternated between art and gym time.

The final session before dinner was where we went through the grinder. Emotions were raw, hearts were laid bare, tears were shed. We were all in pain, our lives and the lives of our loved ones in shambles. We explored such topics as, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, anger, stress, relationships, and cognitive distortions (exaggerated or irrational thought patterns and self-fulfilling negative thought patterns).

After dinner came journaling group and wrap up group which went until nine o'clock. Ten-thirty was bed check and LIGHTS OUT.

The schedule was the same for Saturday except there was visiting from two to three, and we got to watch a movie after dinner (we were not allowed to read newspapers or watch TV). Visiting hour was the same on Sunday, and there was a (mandatory) morning worship service.

I'm not sure what I was thinking the first Saturday I was there, but I sat on my bed, hoping and praying that Randy would come in to tell me I had a visitor, and I would go out to the common room and my wife would be standing there.

Visiting hour came and went, and on Sunday I didn't even bother kidding myself, but a counselor knocked on the door and said there was someone to see me. A shock coursed through my body, and I quickly got up. I turned the corner at the end of the hall and saw my sister and brother-in-law. I was instantly deflated, but I put on a brave face and greeted them.

"How're you doing, Steve?" asked Debbie.

"As well as can be expected, I guess."

"Are you eating okay?" Mitch said, "Sleeping?"

"Ya, the food's good, and the meds knock me out," I replied. "Have you talked to Shellie?"

"No," said Debbie. "I tried calling, but she didn't pick up, and if I keep calling, the court could consider it to be harassment."

We talked for a little while longer, but I wasn't very forthcoming.

I passed the days in a daze, if I may coin a phrase, until I once again sat across from Randy at the round conference table, going over my discharge packet. This included an appointment with a psychiatrist that my case worker and I had set up, information about AA, and the phone numbers for various crisis hotlines.

"So what do you think about leaving here?" asked Randy.

"Well, I'll be going back to my sister's for awhile. I have to go in for the hearing on the temporary restraining order, and I have to deal with the criminal charges. All I want is to get back together with my wife, but I'm afraid it's too late."

"Naw," said Randy. "She'll see you standing up so tall and sober that she'll take you back." We both knew his words sounded hollow.

I had taken my leave of Laura from Aurora privately. There were no illicit touches or improper kisses, but she pressed a slip of paper into my hand. We wished each other happiness, then she turned and hurried off to her next session. One of the strictest rules of the hospital was that patients were not allowed to exchange personal information. I understood what they were trying to do here too, and again I had to concede their point. But I looked at the piece of paper torn from a small notebook. She had written 'Laura from Aurora' in big, curlicue letters, along with a phone number and hearts and flowers. I folded it in half, and slipped it into my pocket.

========================================================

"Hi. I'm Steve. I'm an alcoholic."

A chorus of "Hi Steve" swept around the room.

Upon leaving rehab, I returned to my sister's house. I had no idea how long I'd be there, so I moved back into my nephew's bedroom and carved out a small space at the end of a dresser for my personal belongings. The first thing we did was find out the times and locations for AA meetings in the area. The same day I was released from the hospital I attended my first meeting.

My brother-in-law dropped me off at the village community center. A bunch of barely reputable-looking guys huddled together off to one side, smoking. Not knowing the protocols and being a non-smoker myself, I hesitantly made my way in. I was led to the proper room by the hubbub and drone of babbling men.

They were of all ages and manner of dress. A young guy in a ball cap, scruffy facial hair, flannel shirt, and well-worn jeans, and a guy in his fifties, with combed-over, limp, gray hair, dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt buttoned to the top button, and crumpled black slacks stood by a coffee pot, talking and stirring powdered creamer and sugar packets into Styrofoam cups.

Several long tables were set up with folding chairs all around. Plastic bowls, some filled with M & M's, and others with individually wrapped "fun-size" candy bars lined the tables. I was soon to learn that these were the three C's of AA - coffee, candy, and cigarettes.

The guys from outside shuffled in and everyone found seats. There was a brief discussion between a couple of guys that I took to be regulars, and then one of them cleared his throat and said, "I'm Tom. I'm an alcoholic. I would like to welcome everyone to the regular Friday evening Community Center meeting. This is a closed meeting, you are welcome to stay if you have a desire to quit drinking. We choose to remain anonymous and as a sign of respect, we ask that what's said here, stays here. Are there any anniversaries tonight?"

A guy down the table said, "I'm Dick. I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict. Twenty-four years sober this week."

Congratulations and well-wishes swelled throughout the gathered members, and as things were quieting down again, one guy said, "Remember what they say, the twenty-fourth year is the hardest!"

I turned to him and said, "Do they really say that?"

He considered me for a moment, and then responded, "Yes. They say that about the first year, the second year, the third year... the twenty-fourth year."

I got his point immediately.

Tom continued, "Is there anyone here for the first time?"

This gave me my cue to introduce myself. The leader motioned to the man seated next to him. This turned out to be the chapter treasurer and there was a large clear-plastic container in front of him. It resembled a poker chip carrying case. He lifted the lid, revealing row after row of bronze colored coins. He fished one out and slid it across the table to me. I picked it up and read the words struck upon it: GOD GRANT ME THE SERENITY TO ACCEPT THINGS I CANNOT CHANGE, COURAGE TO CHANGE THINGS I CAN, AND WISDOM TO KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.

In a small indented circle in the center of the coin were stamped the letters AA. On the other side of the coin were the words - TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. A triangle bore the words UNITY, SERVICE and RECOVERY along its legs. A raised circle within the triangle was embossed with the number 1, and underneath that, the word DAY. Many were the times I cried over, cursed the heavens over, and clung for life to that coin in the days, weeks, months, and years to come. Although I received many more such coins marking each milestone, that was and is the one I cherish most.

Dick spoke up. "Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share our experience, strength, and hope with each other to solve our common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking."

A person near me picked up the thread. "I'm Harry. I'm an alcoholic. In AA we have discovered, and admitted that we cannot control alcohol. We have learned that we must live without it if we are to avoid disaster for ourselves and those close to us. We have no wish to dry up the world. We do not recruit new members, but we do welcome them. Within our membership may be found those who drank for many years, and others fortunate enough to appreciate early in their drinking careers, that alcohol had become unmanageable."

And so it went around the table. Some had few words or told a brief story and ended with, "That's all I've got." This proved to be a popular closing for many people. A lot of guys sounded as if they were speaking by rote, but some of it I found quite insightful.

"Hello. My name is Larry. I'm an alcoholic. Alcohol could be described as a physical compulsion, coupled with a mental obsession. Alcoholics have a distinct physical desire to consume alcohol beyond our capacity to control it, in defiance of all rules of common sense. We have an abnormal craving for alcohol. We do not know when or how to stop drinking."

This went a long way towards explaining why a rational seeming person would wake up in the morning and say, "I think today is a great day to drink boilermakers." Boilermakers were the worst. I'd blow through a quart of whiskey and chase it with as many cans of beer as it took to get the job done. Insanity was the result.

When I started drinking more heavily, I justified it by buying more expensive liquor as if I were purely a connoisseur. But soon enough, a fifth was no longer sufficient and I moved up to buying quarts. In short order I was grabbing plastic half gallons of cheap rotgut off the bottom shelf.

In rehab we had learned that, contrary to logic, alcoholics are allergic to alcohol. As alcoholism has come to be understood as a disease, not a moral weakness, medical researchers have found that alcoholics lack a certain enzyme in their livers that prevents the breakdown of alcohol in the body that "normal" drinkers possess. This causes a toxin to build up in the bloodstream, and it is this toxin which causes the craving for alcohol. It is for this reason that alcoholics must maintain total abstinence.

Or as they say in AA: "One drink is too many, and a hundred are not enough."

Another fellow took up the theme. "Hi, I'm Daryl. I'm an alcoholic. Since I've been in AA, I have a new outlook on sobriety. I enjoy a sense of release, a feeling of freedom from the desire to drink. I concentrate on living a full life without alcohol today. Today is the only day I have to worry about. When I first heard about AA, it seemed miraculous that anyone who had really been an uncontrolled drinker could ever achieve and maintain the kind of sobriety that older AA members talk about."

One of the "old-timers" nodded in agreement. "I'm the other Daryl. I'm an alcoholic. There was a time when I believed that alcohol was the only thing that made life bearable. I could not even dream of a life without drinking. Today, through AA, I do not feel that I have been deprived of anything. Rather, I have been freed and find that a new dimension has been added to my life. I have new friends, new horizons, and a new attitude. After years of despair and frustration, I feel that I have really begun to live for the first time. I enjoy sharing that new life with anyone who is still suffering from alcoholism, as I once suffered."

It made me think about my own relationship with the bottle. I often told myself that alcohol was a renewable resource. That I could always rely on it. That it would always be there for me. That it was my one true friend that would never let me down.

Tom asked me if I would like to share anything. I said, "Since I'm so new, I think I'd just like to listen and learn for now, but I'm very happy to be here."

"All of us are happy to be anywhere!" joked one of the members.

"No, I mean it," I said. "I feel the support in this room."

"We do pretty good for a bunch of drunks," someone quipped.

"There's a lot of years of sobriety in this room. You should think about getting a sponsor," said another.

Tom looked around the table and said, "Anything else?" No one spoke. He nodded and said, "Please stand and take hands." We did so, somewhat awkwardly, and a hush fell over us. "Gentleman," he said, "the Lord's Prayer."

We bowed our heads and a voice spoke softly, "Whose Father?"

"Our Father," we began, "who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...."

========================================================

My first court date was Friday, September 17th, in answer to the Order of Protection, more commonly referred to as a "restraining order."

I had not seen or talked to my wife in almost a month. As I sat in the courtroom with my sister, every time the door opened my heart skipped a beat in hopes that it would be her, that our eyes would meet, that we'd run into each other's arms, and this madness would be over.

At two minutes to nine, my sister tugged my sleeve and I turned to see my wife proceeding towards the front of the room. I immediately noticed that she had cut short her beautiful, long, auburn hair. She went by without even acknowledging my presence, and spoke to some suits at the bar.

At nine o'clock sharp the bailiff called the court to order. We stood as the judge came in from chambers and mounted the bench. My wife's name was called and the State's Attorney began to address the court. "Your honor, the plaintiff asks that the Plenary Order of Protection be instated for one year due to the seriousness . . ."

I heard no more as my heart and hopes were torn asunder. My nerves and emotions were raw and near the surface, and uncontrollable sobs erupted from deep in my chest. My sister grabbed my arm and said, "Come on, let's get out of here."

As she led me away she said, "Let her have her Order of Protection. It'll give us time to take care of the criminal charges and for you and Shellie to see what you want to do. If you really love each other, a year's not so long, and if you don't then you can move on."

We got back to Debbie's, and after changing out of our court clothes, she collected the mail. She stopped and said, "Hey, there's a letter from Shellie addressed to you." I jumped up and started to reach for the envelope, but Debbie said, "You know what, maybe I better read this first."

She opened the envelope and read the single sheet of paper. She slowly handed me the page and I took it with equal parts dread and anticipation. What I saw was neither a missive of love and understanding, nor a condemnation of me as a man and a husband, but a business letter to inform me that she had vacated our apartment and had taken only those things that she had brought into the marriage, except, of course, for our children.

"Debs," I said, "I'm losing everything!"

She placed her hand on my arm. "Steve, I think it's time for you to move into your apartment and get back to work."

It was actually my mom who drove me out to my apartment in Naperville. When we pulled into the tenant parking lot in the back of the building, I saw that our Ford Focus was still there. That meant that my wife had taken the less valuable, and reliable, of our cars. We made our way up the back stairs and I set my backpack down. I pulled out my keys, but when I grabbed the knob, the door was unlocked.

I went in and found the apartment in upheaval. Piles of boxes that had been in a rental storage unit filled the front room. Most of these contained our extensive holiday decorations. Every drawer and cabinet had been gone through, closet doors stood open. To my surprise, the vast majority of furniture was still in place, including the dining room and master bedroom sets. The boys' bunkbed was gone, but I couldn't imagine what my wife was sleeping and eating on.

I gave my mom a hug as she was getting ready to leave. "Buck up, Steve. You're my first born. I love you. Always remember that."

An old computer sat on a desk in the boys' room (as I still thought of it) and I made that my home office area. The closet and remaining space I turned into storage, making a valiant effort at organizing the clutter. I put the kitchen and bathroom in order, and settled into bachelor life.

Except I wasn't a bachelor. I was married and I wanted my wife back terribly. I went back to work and showed the store manager my discharge paper from the hospital. Of course, it only showed the dates that I checked in and out, and nothing about why I was hospitalized.

The days passed peacefully but slowly. I was attending AA meetings in the evenings, I was going to therapy sessions, I was on psychotropic medications. I started attending services at the local synagogue, and sought counseling from the rabbi.

Towards the end of September my sister called me. "Hi big brother," she said. "I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that your case has been moved to Family Court. Family Court takes extenuating circumstances into consideration far more than Criminal Court. The judge will try to do what's best for the whole family. The bad news is that I think Shellie has filed for divorce."

"What do you mean, you think?" I said.

"I got a letter from a private attorney saying that he has been retained to represent Shellie. The State is prosecuting you on the criminal charges. The only reason she would hire an attorney is to handle a divorce proceeding."

"No, she can't!" I ejaculated. "I don't want a divorce. Can't I fight it?"

"You could, but if she wants one, the court will grant it to her. All you can do is drag it out, and that's not good for anyone."

As September rolled into October I got back into the swing of things at work. Non-perishable Christmas stock started coming in, and that lifted my spirits. I put up my Halloween decorations at home - our decorations - which made me both happy and sad. My next status hearing came up and my sister and I sat with the Assistant State's Attorney in a small conference cubicle outside the courtroom.

"I understand everything you're saying," he said, "but there's no way I can justify dismissing the charges. I have to go by the papers. We have an assault. There was a gun involved. There were minor children present. Right now the papers stink!"

He slammed a folder he was holding, down onto his briefcase.

"Okay," my sister said. "I guess we go to trial."

The Halloween season was my and my wife's favorite time of year. We searched fall festivals and craft fairs throughout northern Illinois for new additions to our collection of ceramic holiday pieces, took the boys to apple orchards, pumpkin farms, and haunted trails, and went for long drives through the ripening cornfields while listening to mix-tapes of spooky music.

In fact, my wife and I were married by a justice of the peace six days before Halloween. As our anniversary approached, I became more and more melancholy. My depression deepened and my thoughts turned once again towards suicide.

My sister must have sensed this because a week before my anniversary, I was talking to her on the phone, and she said, "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I've been talking to Shellie, and she's as miserable as you are. If I set up a meeting on your anniversary between you two, do you think you could handle it?"

"Would Shellie agree to that?" I asked.

"You know I could get in big trouble for this. I could be disbarred for facilitating the violation of an Order of Protection. You could be in big trouble too. You could go to jail. You cannot tell anyone!" she said.

"You know I would gladly risk jail to see her, but I will not put you in harm's way," I said.

"If I do this, it's my decision. I'm doing this as your sister, not as your lawyer."

"Thank you Debs," was all I could say.

As the 25th approached, I could hardly contain myself. My wife and I had celebrated our anniversary every year at a restaurant called Fisherman's Inn. Their specialty was fresh trout that they raised on their expansive themed grounds. In addition to the trout ponds and spillways, the paths wound past a lighthouse, boat anchor, gazebo (a popular spot for weddings), an upright canoe, a marsh where the boys loved to catch frogs, and a lake that served as home to visiting waterfowl and a family of resident swans.

The restaurant itself occupied a large restored barn and several additions. A see-through fieldstone fireplace added a cheery note, and the main seating section overlooked the grounds through floor to ceiling picture windows.

My sister had picked me up at my apartment and was there to act as chaperon. We arrived early and got a table, and as I sat there, the image of police officers rushing our table and placing us under arrest flashed through my mind. But after a short amount of time, it was my wife who approached and not the long arm of the law.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She had applied makeup, and her haircut actually made her even prettier. My insides quivered and my brain turned to mush. "Hi hon," was all I could think to say as my heart melted.

"Hi, sweetie," she replied.

The rest of dinner floated by like a dream. I don't remember the food, the conversation, or even my sister being there except when she said after the waiter cleared our dishes away, "Will you two be okay if I go visit the gift shop?"

My wife and I both knew she was offering to give us some time alone and we smiled and said, yes we'd be okay. Even with that, all I remember was my wife's face and feeling her hand in mine.

Debbie and I escorted my wife to her car and we parted with a kiss that was so much sweeter than wine. I wished her a happy anniversary and promised that I'd call.

My sister and I got into her car. I snapped my seatbelt into place, turned to my sister and said, "Debs, how can I ever thank you enough?"

"I'm glad to help," she said.

"You even paid for dinner," I added.

She looked at me with a wry smile and said, "No, your brother-in-law did."

I spent Halloween working the evening shift, and instead of giving out treats to kids in costume, I got to wait on adults in costume. I would have preferred the kids. Coming home late to an empty apartment triggered an intense craving to drink. The apartment shone with all the amazing Halloween decorations that Shellie and I had discovered together. Each piece brought back the memory of the pulse quickening thrill of finding that one perfect item to add to our collection, and the joy of unwrapping the purchase at home and placing it in a position of honor. That night the apartment felt as if it were all dressed up with no place to go.

I tried watching a horror movie on TV, but I couldn't get into it. I thought about running out to a twenty-four hour convenience store for a twelve-pack. After all, who would know? Finally, I took an Ambien and went to bed.

The next status hearing in Family Court was set for the beginning of November. It blindsided everyone in the court. When the case was called, I approached the bench with my sister, and Shellie approached with her lawyer. Debbie immediately placed several Motions before the judge. He quickly scanned the briefs and looked sternly at the four of us. He turned to my sister and said, "Proceed."

"Your honor, we have a Motion to Vacate the Order of Protection. My brother Stephen, and his wife Celeste, who is present with her attorney, wish to reconcile."

The Assistant State's attorney leapt to his feet from behind the Prosecution's table and shouted, "Objection!"

Debbie called out, "Your honor, we also have a Motion to have the No Contact provision of the bond vacated."

Still on his feet, the ASA again yelled, "Your Honor, Objection!"

The judge looked directly down into my wife's face. "Mrs. Dunn, are you certain these are your wishes, and do you fully understand the consequences if I grant these Motions?"

"Yes, your honor," she said.

"Have you been coerced in any way regarding your decision?"

"No, your honor," said my wife.

"Your honor," said the clearly frustrated ASA, "the State strenuously objects!"

"Noted," said the judge.

Debbie continued, "Your honor, before you is also a Motion to non-suit the Divorce Proceeding."

This time it was my wife's attorney who did a double-take. The judge looked at him and said, "Is this right?"

He said to the judge, "Your honor, may I have a moment with my client?"

"Just a moment counselor," the judge replied.

The lawyer and my wife took a step away and whispered back and forth. They promptly stepped back before the bench.

"Yes, this is correct, your honor," he said.

"In that case, I so order," said the judge. "I see no plea agreement before me on the criminal charges. Does that mean we're going to trial Mr. State's Attorney?"

"Yes, your honor," he said.

The judge paged through a large calendar on his desk and said, "Trial is set for March 22nd, 2005 at nine-thirty a.m. in room 3000." He banged his gavel and announced, "Next case!"

My sister motioned to the ASA and mouthed, "A moment..." The ASA nodded. We made our way into the hallway and my wife's lawyer shook her hand and said, "Good luck. If you need anything at all give me a call." He briskly shook my sister's hand, said, "Counselor," and strode away. Me, he ignored completely.

The ASA stepped out of the courtroom and came over to us. He did not look happy. He addressed my sister, "You asked to speak to me?"

"Yes, I wanted to try one more time to reach a compromise." She removed an 8 x 11 black-covered journal from her briefcase and handed it to him.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Stephen has been keeping a journal of his recovery program. All of his AA meetings, doctor and therapy visits, attendance at synagogue and counseling sessions with his rabbi are recorded here. No one does all this on his own without being ordered to unless he's serious about it and is truly remorseful." God bless my rehab journaling group, I thought. She continued, "This is a first offense. He's employed full time and he has friends at work who are apprised of his situation and have agreed to inform me if he steps one foot out of line. He has a strong family support system. My brother and his wife want to make it work. Their children need their father. You'd have to treat your own main witness as hostile."

He stood there for several long minutes and said in a cold voice, "If he maintains this journal and provides contact information for verification, and if he stays out of trouble, and I mean not even a parking ticket, and if he remains one-hundred percent sober until the trial date, I'll dismiss the charges."

Without missing a beat, my sister said, "Can I get that in writing?"

"Draw it up and I'll sign it," he said, then stomped back into court.

My sister said, "You two wait here," and headed towards the door to the courtroom. She pulled it open, but looked over her shoulder at us. "And behave yourselves!" she said with a wink.

========================================================

Christmas was by far my favorite holiday at the store. Everything was brightly decorated. Festive music played over the store's stereo system. Lighted wreaths hung over the entrances to the walk-in humidor, where you could get a nicotine buzz just from standing in, and the wine cellar, where our most expensive selections resided in their climate-controlled atmosphere. Josette and I framed the twelve-foot, floor to ceiling cheese case with lighted garland.

The weeks leading up to Christmas and all the way through New Year's Eve, were our busiest time of the year. Josette and I were pumping out cheese trays for corporate and civic events, and stunning custom-order gift baskets. But we took more pleasure and personal satisfaction in putting together cheese plates and dessert cheese boards for all manner of family gatherings. We helped customers select delectable cheeses for their holiday recipes. We recommended cheeses to go with wines, and wines to go with cheeses.

It was during this time that my wife and I got to know each other all over again. Trust is a fragile thing, and once broken, it is hard to repair. We went slowly. I still lived in the apartment on Crab Apple Court, and my wife and sons had found an apartment in Aurora.

At first it was a question of my place or hers. I remember our first "date" after the Order of Protection was lifted. Shellie came over to my place, and we sat next to each other on the loveseat and watched TV. It was awkward and we were both self-conscious. We held hands and I put my arm around her shoulder. Here was a woman that I had known intimately hundreds or thousands of times, yet I was afraid to give her a kiss.

Many times throughout this "courtship," when things didn't seem to be going well, I took out the slip of paper with Laura from Aurora's phone number. I ran my thumb over the page, and picked up the phone, only to put it back down. I felt that if I crossed that line, all hopes of reconciling with my wife would be lost. With a heavy heart, I threw the note away.

The first visit to my family's apartment broke my heart all over again. It was still a two-bedroom, but was much smaller than our place in Naperville. A denim sofa that we had in storage took up most of the frontroom. A small TV sat on a wooden stand. Tray tables were placed around the room. When I peeked in my wife's room, I saw that she had bought an inexpensive twin box spring and mattress that rested on a low metal frame, while I slept in our four-poster bed.

The apartment was sparsely decorated with a few tattered ornaments scattered about. No pictures hung on the white walls. This was in contrast to the winter wonderland that my apartment had become with the bulk of our furnishings and one-of-a-kind, handmade, Christmas collectibles.

"How can they live this way?" I thought.

However, there were some new additions to the family, a pair of black and white kittens. They were brother and sister procured from the local shelter. I have always loved animals, both wild and domestic, and have a quick and easy rapport with dogs and cats. Nik was showing me the kittens, and he was ruffing up the cutest little ball of fuzz. All in an instant, the bundle of energy squirmed away and leaped up into my lap.

She looked up into my face. She had deep-set green eyes surrounded by a black mask, which would turn out to fit her personality to a T, a pretty, pink, squinched-up nose, and long, white whiskers that curved down at the ends all akimbo. It was love at first sight.

My son laughed, "Mom, look who she runs to for protection!"

I was going on four months sober and was still in the so-called honeymoon phase of my sobriety. I embraced waking up in the morning without a hangover, and rejoiced that I could remember clearly the day before. I eagerly looked forward to the camaraderie of the AA meetings, and the discussions with my therapist. My wife and I were becoming reacquainted and even spent a night together.

Over Christmas we talked about me moving in with her and the boys. I was sure willing to give it a try, although the apartment would be close quarters. The two things I liked were the large, walk-out deck, and the riverside nature trail that ran along the back of the building.

I made the move right after the holidays. We had to rent a new storage unit, and filled it to the brim. Even with that, things were tight. But we were a family again, and that's what mattered.

Just after St. Patrick's Day, Shellie and I met Debbie outside Courtroom 3000. I handed her my journal.

"Hi guys," Debbie said. "You look so cute together. When we go in I'll be up at the lawyers' table and you two find seats. When Steve's name is called, Shellie you just stay seated, and Steve will come up with me."

We went in, court was called into session, and after a few minutes, the clerk called out, "State of Illinois versus Stephen Dunn." You never get used to hearing that.

The Assistant State's Attorney, my sister, and I stood before the Honorable Judge Joan D. Minton. My sister handed my journal to the ASA. He quickly perused it, nodded his head, and handed it back. Debbie placed the signed agreement before the judge. The judge took her time reading it and said, "Are we all in agreement?"

"Yes, your honor," said Debbie

"Yes, your honor," said the ASA.

"And has he been adhering to the terms?"

Both lawyers answered in the affirmative.

"Alright," said the judge. She flipped through a book on her desk. "I'm going to continue this case to August 11th for final disposition. That will be one year since charges were filed. If he sticks to this agreement until then, I'll sign off on it." Up to this point, I had been peripheral to the proceedings, the judge and attorneys speaking as if I wasn't even there. But then she looked straight down at me with a face that would stop a charging rhinoceros. "But I don't like it," she said.

We beat a hasty retreat, and met up at a nearby diner for a celebratory brunch. After we ordered, Debbie said, "Wow. Usually a judge is impartial to a plea agreement, but she looked like she wanted to bite your head off. And mine too. And the State's Attorney's."

"Well, I can imagine what she must think of me - another drunken wife-beater with a slick lawyer," I said.

"Gee thanks," said Debbie.

========================================================

One day in early May I answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi Steve, it's Debbie. Are your bags packed?"

"Debs, we've been over this. You know Shellie and I would love to come with you to Disney World for mom and dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary, but we just don't have the money."

"The family discussed it, and we want you there. If we paid for your airline tickets, hotel room, and park passes, could you and Shellie afford your own food and spending money?"

"Are you sure you want to do that?" I said.

"Absolutely!" said Debbie. "You're the oldest sibling. You have to be there. Besides, you're giving the toast!"

I have been to Disneyland and Walt Disney World close to two dozen times. In fact, again thanks to my family, I had the opportunity to take Nik to Disney World when he was three, and both boys when Nik was five, and Ben was three.

It was my habit to purchase new togs for every Disney vacation, and the time I took the boys was no exception. Not only did I buy new outfits for me and the boys, but I picked out MATCHING outfits! As I pushed Nik and Ben in a rented double-stroller along the Fantasyland walkways, mothers and fathers - with their own children in tow - would go out of their way to tell me how cute me and my children looked!

The rumble of the massive engines could be felt through the large windows of the terminal. As we gathered up our things and prepared to board, Shellie was hugging the boys tightly, and contrary to her vow that she would not cry, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Many people in the crowded gate were watching the tender scene when the adorable, red-headed toddler in her arms piped up with, "Don't worry mommy, I'll come back." Everyone in earshot started laughing, including my wife.

Just before I stepped onto the Jetway with a boy in each hand, I leaned down and whispered in Shellie's ear, "Next time with you."

It now appeared as if that promise was about to come true. Nik was twenty, working, and taking classes at the community college. He was at that awkward stage where young people become estranged from their families, and a week on his own sounded better to him than a vacation with his parents.

Ben, on the other hand, was making bad decisions that Shellie and I knew would follow him into adulthood. In one of the most heartbreaking actions we ever had to take, we withdrew Ben from high school. He had no permanent residence, he preferred sleeping on couches in friends' basements than living in our apartment. But since we still wanted the best for him, we agreed to buy him a used car so he could find work.

We scraped together fifteen-hundred dollars, virtually every penny we had in the world, and bought him a car that his buddy was selling. We then took him over to our insurance agent because we didn't want him driving illegally, and hit the floor when we heard the astronomical quote. I slowly drew out our checkbook and began to write. But before I got very far, the broker said unapologetically, "We actually need TWO months premiums in advance to initiate the policy."

I filled out the amount, wondering which of our own bills we wouldn't be able to pay. We walked out of the office and Ben said, "Thanks Pops. I know this cost you a lot of money."

"We just don't want to see you ruin your life. We withdrew you from school because of all the trouble you were getting in with the Principal and the school cops. You said if we withdrew you, you'd get your GED and get a job. Now you've got a car."

"I've already got some places I want to apply."

"Okay, Ben. We love you."

"Love you too," he mumbled.

The next morning, Shellie and I got ready for work, and Nik left for class. The day was going well enough until about three o'clock when a page over the store's intercom told me that I had a call. I picked up the phone and my wife said, "You need to come home. Ben broke into our apartment and stole a bunch of stuff."

"What!?!" I said, more angry than surprised.

"Nik had a spycam on his computer and it recorded Ben going into Nik's room and taking all his DVD's and computer games, and a lot of our CD's are missing."

"Alright, I'll be home as soon as I can."

I turned to Josette and growled under my breath, "I have to go, there's more trouble with Ben." Fortunately Josette was my friend as well as my manager, and she knew all the problems we were having with him. "Go," she said. "Call me later."

I drove home in slow traffic, hitting every red light in DuPage and Kane County, which did nothing to improve my mood. "What's going on!?" I said as I came into our apartment.

"There's a lot of stuff missing, hon, even some of our autographed CD's," my wife said, "and all of Nik's anime and games are gone."

"And you have this on video?" I asked.

Nik led me into his room and his empty shelves spoke for themselves. He hit some keys and I watched on the monitor as the camera showed Ben enter the room, ball cap backwards on his shaved head and baggy shorts half way down his hips. He methodically grabbed an armload of poly-boxes, left the room, returned a second time, and removed the remaining items.

I was livid. "The day after we bankrupt ourselves to buy that punk a car, he breaks into our home and steals our shit? Enough is enough. I'm calling the cops."

I called the non-emergency number for the Aurora PD and explained the situation. The dispatcher said a car was on the way. Two officers arrived and while one took our statements, the other examined our front and patio doors.

"Is Benjamin a resident here?" asked the officer.

"No, sir. Not at the present time," I said.

"Did he have a key to the apartment?" the other officer interjected.

"To our knowledge he did not. He may have had a duplicate made," I replied.

"I can't find any evidence of a forced entry," he said.

"And you say you have a recording of this?" the first officer asked.

Nik led him into the bedroom and replayed the video. The officer watched the screen then said, "Can you make me a copy of that?"

Nik copied the file onto a floppy disk and handed it to the policeman.

Back in the frontroom, the officer asked, "Do you know what Benjamin intends to do with the stolen property?"

Nik responded, "I know he sometimes sells stuff at the E-Gamer store."

The officer took a few minutes to finish writing his report. "Nikolaus, Mr. Dunn, I'll need you to sign here." We signed our names where he showed us. "Okay, that's all I need for now." He handed me a card. "Let us know if you hear from Benjamin," he said.

After the cops left, I said to Nik, "Come on, we're going over to E-Gamer."

We drove to the strip mall and I asked the girl at the register if I could talk privately with the store manager. I introduced myself to the woman who came out to talk to me and explained the situation. I showed her the card that the police officer had given me. I gave her Ben's description and a partial list of the stolen items that we were able to put together from memory.

"Yes, he was here just before noon and we gave him cash for the items," she said.

"By any chance, do you have an itemized invoice," I inquired.

"Unfortunately, no. I have an invoice, of course, but it's not itemized," she informed me.

"Well, we want to make you whole," I said. "So what I would like to do is write you a check for the amount you paid out, and try to recover as many of the DVD's, CD's, and games as we can."

She agreed and I wrote out yet another check for one-hundred and ninety-two dollars, which was a lot of money until compared to the retail value. Nik was able to find all of his games and movies, but our CD's had already been distributed throughout the store in various genre sections and discount bins. Some had already been sold. Consequently, we never did get all of our music back, and some signed CD's were lost for good.

So it was that Shellie and I found ourselves at the O'Hare Airport Departures Terminal. As part of a Disney "Magical Gathering," from the moment we exited our taxi and a skycap whisked away our luggage, it was VIP treatment all the way. Although we were going to ostensibly celebrate my parents' golden wedding anniversary, Shellie and I considered it to be the honeymoon we never had.

As a celebration and a honeymoon, it was more than we could ever have dreamed of. Disney is fond of using the term "magical" ad infinitum, but "magical" was the only word for it. It quickly became apparent that Shellie was not going to make it trying to keep up with me for a week. We rented her a motorized scooter, and she was happy as a clam tooting her horn and running slow-moving pedestrians off the road.

Although alcohol is not served in the Magic Kingdom, you can literally drink your way around the "World" at the multitude of themed watering holes and restaurants at Epcot and the WDW hotels. To miss enjoying a libation at these cool, quiet oases was to miss an integral part of the Disney Resort experience.

I had planned an advance itinerary with the same timing and precision as a military campaign. I scheduled one day of our week to tour the hotels and other non-theme park venues. We found ourselves in mid-afternoon at Disney's premier property, the opulent Grand Floridian Resort, right on the Monorail line and the sparkling Seven Seas Lagoon. Tucked away in the corner of the main lobby, a secluded but open air lounge beckoned. I was into my ninth month of sobriety, and I would have loved a drink, but I settled for a club soda while Shellie sipped a glass of white Zinfandel.

Late in the week of our vacation, Shellie called Nik to see how things were going. As she listened I could see a look of growing concern on her face. She finished the call and said to me, "Ben got arrested."

She went on, "Nik doesn't know much. Only that Ben called him and said he got stopped for a traffic violation and the cops arrested him for residential burglary. He's in the Kane County jail."

I told my dad what had happened and asked him if Shellie and I should fly home early. "No way," he said. "There's nothing you can do there anyway, and a few days in jail won't hurt him."

Shellie was upset, but coming from Ben's grandfather, a lawyer of forty years standing, she took the advice to heart, and we enjoyed each other for the rest of the week all the more.

========================================================

"They say going is great, but getting home is lousy."

That is one of my favorite lines from M*A*S*H, and it proved to be true for Shellie and me. As the complaintant in the case, I was notified by mail of Ben's next court date. We showed up for the appearance and spoke with Ben's Public Defender.

"I'm Stephen Dunn and this is my wife, Celeste. What can we do to get Ben out of jail?"

"I'm going to ask the judge to reduce bail from fifty-thousand dollars to ten-thousand. That means Ben will have to put up a thousand dollars cash bond. Can you raise that much?"

"Yes, I think so," I said.

"Okay, the judge may or may not go for it. The prosecutor will certainly object. But I've been before this judge several times, and he's pretty reasonable."

"I think you should make the State's Attorney aware that the complaintants want to drop the case," I said.

"I will," said the PD, "but the State can proceed on its own, and they can subpeona you to testify."

My wife and I found seats in the front of the courtroom. Soon enough the baliff called out, "Benjamin Dunn."

As a parent, there are few things more gut-wrenching than seeing your child led into court in chains. He was dressed in a bright, orange jumpsuit, which actually looked good with his red-orange buzzcut. His hands were handcuffed at his waist, and shackles hobbled his feet. He stood tall, but the look of dejection on his face when he met our eyes said it all.

The PD said, "Your honor, we are requesting a bail reduction. The complaintants in this case are Benjamin's father and brother. This is a family matter that got out of hand."

The judge said, "Is the family present?"

"Yes, your honor," said the PD. "His parents are present."

Shellie and I stood up. The judge looked at us over his glasses. "Can you raise a thousand dollars?"

"Yes, your honor," I said, not knowing if we could.

"Bail set at ten-thousand dollars," said the judge. "So ordered."

He rapped his gavel and moved on to the next case. Benjamin looked down and shook his head as he was led away.

We called Ben's girlfriend, told her about the bond reduction, and agreed that if she could raise five-hundred of it, we'd put up the other half. It took a few days, but we got the money together and I went in and paid the bail. I cooled my heels for a couple of hours as Ben was processed out.

Eventually he was released, passing through the final barred door. He slowly approached me and said, "I'm sorry Pops."

"Okay," I said. "Are you alright?"

"Ya, I'm alright," he sighed.

"What was it like in there?" I asked as we got in the car.

"Since I was just arrested, not convicted, they kept me in a holding cell away from the other prisoners. But it still sucked," he said. He never did say much more about it, but to this day, he refuses to eat bologna.

We subsequently learned that Ben's car had been impounded, and the fees were already well beyond the value of the car. We cancelled the insurance policy and got most of the down payment back, but that was small consolation for everything this cost us.

August found me back in court for what hopefully would be the last time. The Assistant State's Attorney, Debbie, and I stood in one of the small conference rooms in the hallway. The ASA read quickly through the last few pages of my journal. He handed the journal back to Debbie and said, "I'm saying this as a colleague - watch him! I've seen a lot of guys keep it up for a year, and then they backslide."

"The family will keep an eye on him," said Debbie. "He knows what he almost lost, and he's truly remorseful."

"Okay," said the ASA. "Let's go see the judge."

The judge scowled as she hastily scrawled her name on the plea agreement. She glared at the three of us. "I better never see him in here again!" she spat out.

I looked up at the judge's face. 'That's the best legal advice I've heard all day,' I thought.

========================================================

My brother was the sales manager for a well-established Ford dealership whose jingle was known by everyone with a radio or television in the greater Chicago metropolitan area.

It was the summer of 2006 when I gave him a call. "Hey Bunce, it's Steve."

"STEVE! What's going on?" he said.

"Well, we were thinking of buying a new car."

"Cool," he said. "Let me get some information. What's yours and Shellie's birthdays."

I recited the dates.

"Do you happen to know Shellie's Social Security number?"

I gave him both of our numbers.

"Let me put you on hold for a minute, okay?" he said.

He came back on a few minutes later. "Hey Steve? I pulled yours and Shellie's credit reports and everything looks good."

"Really?" I said. "I wasn't sure our credit was good enough."

"No," he said. "You guys can buy anything you want."

It never ceases to amaze me how the most random act or off-hand remark can change your destiny, or if destiny is written in the stars or the book of God, then at least nudge you in a direction you never expected to go.

When my wife got home from work I asked her, "What would you think about getting out of this place and buying a house?"

"What do you mean?" she said.

"I talked to Bunce today and he said no problem on the car. But it seemed like he was saying that we would qualify for a mortgage."

Quoting one of her favorite Maureen O'Hara lines from The Quiet Man, she said, "I go for it."

There was a store-front mortgage broker in the plaza with the cheese shop, which was appropriate because these were the days of fast food and fast loans. I stopped in the next day on my lunch hour and forty-five minutes later we had taken the first step towards the American Dream.

Yes, even as recently as eight years ago there was still such a thing.

I had to run over to the broker's on a daily basis for the next few weeks, either to drop off or sign more documents, but eventually we were pre-qualified for a loan.

Since before the boys were even born, Shellie and I loved getting out of the congested suburbs to explore the back country roads west of the city. We would just drive out among the cornfields to watch the sun set after work, and on weekends we would seek out small town festivals. Once the boys were born we would strap them into their carseats and off we'd go.

So when we started house hunting, what could be more natural than looking in these areas that we loved so well. This also had the added advantage of giving us more bang for the buck, since home prices we so much lower than in the suburbs. We worked with a young, local Realtor, and went through dozens and dozens of listings in her office. Once she got a feel for what we were looking for, she set up a blitz of viewings.

I wanted to make a bid on every property we saw, but Melanie and Shellie wouldn't let me. "We have more houses to look at," they said.

One evening we met Melanie at her office and she showed us a listing for a house in the farming community of Somonauk, Population 1300, that had been on the market for a couple of months. Melanie said, "The house was being used as a rental, but it's empty now, so we can go right over.

We pulled up behind Melanie's car and double-checked the address. "This can't be right," said my wife. "This can't be in our price range."

We all got out and looked up at the two story house. The wood siding was painted asparagus green with forest green and burgundy trim, like you might find at a Boy Scout camp. Scalloped shingles accented the profusion of gables and windows.

"This has to be a hundred years old," I exclaimed.

Melanie, Shellie, and I proceeded down the driveway towards the back door. We were overshadowed by the branches of a mature tulip tree. At the end of the driveway was a detached, two-car garage, perhaps more accurately described as a carriage house. The accordian-style doors were open and a man was working on a lawn mower.

He introduced himself as the owner of the property. "This works pretty good," he said, referring to the grass cutter. "I'll just be leavin' it when I go."

As we turned towards the house, we surveyed the back yard. "Is that a magnolia tree?" I asked. "I didn't know they grew so far north."

"This is like a forest preserve back here," said Shellie, and she started to walk that way.

"Hon, let's look at the house first," I said.

Entering through the back door, we stepped into a mudporch. Cabinets from floor to chest height lined the outer wall with windows to the ceiling. "Look at that," I said, pointing to a hand pump that was bolted to the ledge. Like little kids, we all had to take a turn pumping the handle.

Melanie opened the door to the house proper. "This is going to need some work," Shellie said as we looked about the kitchen. The room was dominated by a 1950's era Eljer cast iron sink. Inexpensive wood shelving hung sporadically about the room.

"The windows let in a lot of light and a nice cross-breeze," I said hopefully, "and you can look out at the back yard while you do dishes." (By hand, I thought, because there was no dishwasher.)

Melanie and I continued to poke about as Shellie moved deeper into the house. "Hey hon, there's another kitchen in here," Shellie called out. Melanie and I quickly responded, and there indeed was another kitchen, complete with appliances, upper and lower oak cabinetry, and lots of counter space. The chimney was exposed vintage Chicago bricks. Abutting the chimney was a massive, built-in, floor to ceiling butler's pantry.

"That's not the kitchen," said Melanie, "that's the laundry room."

That put a new spin on things. The cast iron sink took on a nostalgic charm, and I could picture the shelves full of cleaning and laundry products. It would be the envy of anyone who ever had to fold a basket of clothes.

Next to the kitchen was a spacious eat in area. Wainscoting added even more country charm. Visualizing our oak table, set of chairs, and matching bench, I said, "This should work." But again, Shellie, who had gone ahead, called out, "Hey hon, there's another dining room in here."

Melanie and I stepped into a magnificent formal dining room. Craftsman-style surrounds framed the windows and doorways, and continued around the baseboards. The front of the butler's pantry had glass doors for display, and I could feel it crying out for our ceramic serving pieces.

We moved into the frontroom. I held my breath. Facing into the room, on my left was a double-doorway leading into what was listed as a bedroom because it had windows and a closet. I thought that originally it would have been the "parlour."

Directly in front of me was the biggest picture window I had ever seen in a private home (except in magazines). It looked out onto an enclosed porch.

On my right was an identical picture window set into a deep bay. Wooden surrounds and baseboards continued dramatically throughout.

Did I mention the hardwood floors?

"Check this out, hon," said Shellie, pulling a pocket door out of the wall between the dining room and frontroom.

"This just keeps getting better," I said.

We next ventured up a steep staircase which opened out onto a large landing. All the bedroom doors opened off of this. We took our time checking out the three bedrooms and walk-in closet on this level. Our mouths fell open when we saw the size of the upstairs bath. The owner had joined us by this time and he told us, "This was originally another bedroom and we converted it into a bath."

I noted that four adults were all standing and moving about comfortably in a bathroom.

We moved back out into the hall area, and I asked him, "What's underneath this (cheap indoor/outdoor) carpeting?" It extended into all the bedrooms.

"Oh, nothing, that's just the original plank floorboards," he said. Melanie's, Shellie's, and my eyes met.

We made our way downstairs, through the house, and back outside. We left Melanie and the owner conversing in the driveway, and slowly toured the entire property. When we were done, we nodded to Melanie, thanked the owner, and headed back to our cars. "Melanie," my wife said, "we want to put in an offer."

Coming from Shellie, Melanie took notice. "This is the one?" she said with a smile.

We both nodded.

"Okay. Follow me back to the office and we'll write one up."

It took a while, but we finally finished signing the last page. "I'll submit this to the seller's agent right away. Go home. Get some rest. It's late, we might not hear anything till tomorrow. I'll call as soon as I hear anything."

Shellie and I could barely contain ourselves on the ride back to the apartment. We kicked off our shoes, settled down on the bed, and switched on the TV. Not fifteen minutes later the phone rang.

"Hi Stephen, this is Melanie. I have mostly good news. I heard back from the seller's agent. They agreed to all the terms, but the offer is too low."

Of course, this was to be expected since we started with a low offer. "Did they make a counter-offer?" I asked.

"No," said Melanie. "They want you to make another offer."

"Can you hold on a minute?" I asked Melanie.

I pressed the mute button and told Shellie what was going on. We discussed how much we wanted to go up and I said to Shellie, "The owner seemed like a pretty squared-away guy. I think he'll accept a fair offer. Let's offer what we really think it's worth to us and tell Melanie to tell them we're firm."

I took the phone off mute and I told Melanie what we had decided. "Okay, I'll call you back," said Melanie.

Fifteen minutes passed, and then a half hour. By the time forty-five minutes had gone by, I figured we wouldn't hear anything till the next day. Suddenly, the phone rang. I picked it up.

"It's Melanie. Congratulations, they accepted your offer!"

I turned to Shellie, "We got the house!"

We hugged and I said into the phone, "Thanks Melanie!"

"I couldn't be happier for you two," she said.

We closed in late August of 2006. My sister, by now having earned the title "beloved sister," handled the legalities.

The Title Officer dropped a set of keys into my hand (including several old skeleton keys). Debbie gave me and Shellie big hugs and we thanked her profusely.

"How many people have a sister who not only handles their house closing - for free - but then changes her clothes and helps you move!?" she said with a grin.

========================================================

But I was dealing with alcohol - cunning, baffling, powerful.

The enchanting dining room reflected off the picture windows, the twinkling lights of the table-candles merging with the twinkling lights of the sculpted grounds.

The date was October 25th. I glanced at the menu, but set it down quickly, because I knew what I was ordering, the house specialty, broiled trout.

Shellie sat across the table from me. She looked so beautiful. She had applied just the right touch of make-up - a pastel pink lip gloss; a hint of blush; and a trace of eyeliner. "We've never missed an anniversary at Fisherman's Inn," she said.

"You know," I began, "I've been sober for over two years. Would you mind if I ordered a Sam Adams with dinner?"

Cunning. I had been rationalizing this for weeks. An intimate setting. A special occassion. A premium beer along with food. Just one.

I could see the alarm bells going off in her eyes. "Steve!?" she said.

Baffling. Why did I even want a drink? What were my motives? I knew exactly what my motives were. I wasn't fooling anyone.

"If you don't want me to, I won't," I hastily added, dropping it into her lap.

Powerful. I clearly saw the pitfalls before me, but I did not care.

"If you think you can handle it, I guess it's alright," said my wife crestfallen. "But I don't want you to make it a habit."

"Oh, no, no," I assured her.

The following week it was a six-pack of pumpkin beer for Halloween, then a pint of Wild Turkey for Thanksgiving, spiked eggnog for Christmas, and spumante on New Year's Eve.

By the turn of the calendar, I was back to boilermakers for breakfast.

And so the spring and summer went. I was a fuctioning alcoholic at work and a belligerent drunk at home.

"I'll trash this place!" I yelled at my wife.

"How dare you!?!" she snapped back.

========================================================

I used the employee entrance to the Gourmet Grocery and went over to the stainless-steel triple-sinks. I washed my right elbow with antibacterial soap. Josette looked at me quizzically. "I fell down," I said.

I had taken to going out for walks on my lunch break, especially now that fall was approaching. There was a tranquil forest preserve a couple of blocks away where I could pretend that I was miles away from Naperville. One day in mid-September, as I was seeing the forest for the trees, for no reason, and without warning, I dropped to the ground like the strings had been cut.

I have always been rock-solid on my feet, sure-footed, steady, with a keen sense of balance. I considered myself to be an accomplished hiker, and I was used to being on my feet.

I passed it off, but a fluttering in my stomach told me this was far from over.

Sure enough, a few days later I was mowing the front lawn and my legs gave way beneath me. I had fallen and I couldn't get up. I called Nik, who got me on my feet and into a plastic chair. I told my wife this was the second time this happened. She was gravely concerned. I also started to feel an unaccustomed tiredness in my legs.

We decided I should see my primary care physician, and he referred me to a neurologist. A battery of tests ensued. After a particularly exhaustive magnetic resonance imaging, the doctor said to me, "Mr. Dunn, we've done a complete scan of the inside of your head and we did not find a thing."

I could not afford to take time off work as we geared up for another holiday season. The feeling of fatigue in my legs got worse. I was still drinking heavily, and the alcohol exacerbated the symptoms. Somehow I made it through New Year.

The annals of my medical sojourn are recounted elsewhere, so I will only relate those facts which directly bear on this story.

I underwent a brutal, eight-hour, spinal cord surgery in March of 2008. This was followed by three months of inpatient and outpatient physical therapy. I never fully recovered, but was able to return to work part time in July. It was a mark of esteem that the store management held my job for me. Meanwhile, the fatigue in my legs got worse, and it was becoming painful to stand.

My co-workers rallied around me. They covered routine delivery, stocking, and cleaning duties so that I only had to wait on customers and work with the perishable products. In this way I made it through to 2009.

The pain was becoming unbearable. Every step was a nightmare. I was depressed and suicidal. My gun had been returned by the Naperville police after the case was dismissed, and my thoughts turned towards it. I was drinking myself into oblivion. I was no longer sane.

My recollections are hazy and disjointed. I must have been out of control because Shellie called Ben to come over and try to calm me down. I could barely stand but I was fighting with both boys. For some reason, Shellie stepped into the middle of it and I swung and hit her in the jaw.

"You never wanted to be my wife," I yelled at her, "you just want to be my widow!"

Ben put me in a choke hold until I stopped struggling. When he let go, I crawled across the floor and climbed into my rocker. My breath was coming in ragged gasps and I started keening - an unhuman, high-pitched wail at the top of my lungs.

My wife did not want to go through the legal rigamarole again, so instead of calling the police, she called my sister. "Your brother's out of control again, you better pick him up."

My wife and sons left me alone. I don't know how long I sat there, but my sister lived an hour and a half away, and all of a sudden, Debbie and Mitch were standing over me. Mitch said, "Hi, Steve, I guess we're gonna take you home with us."

Mitch had never been anything but gracious and generous to me, but I didn't care. "THIS is my home you fucking bastard!" I exploded. I lunged at him. My legs wouldn't support me and I collapsed to the floor. I continued to lash out, screaming, "I'm gonna kill you!"

"Deb, what are we going to do with him?" I heard Mitch say. "We can't take him home like this. I won't have him endangering our boys."

"I'm going to call the paramedics," replied Debbie. "Maybe they can give him something at the hospital to calm him down."

Heavy footsteps pounded across the front porch and into the house, but instead of paramedics, a male and female cop surrounded me. Debbie said, "I'm his sister, and I'm also an attorney. This is a medical situation, not a criminal one."

"He looks drunk and disorderly to me," said the male cop.

"He has a neurological disease. He can't even stand up," said Debbie.

"What's his name?" asked the woman cop.

"Stephen," said my sister.

"Stephen," said the woman officer, "can you talk to me?"

She was backlit by our fiber optic Christmas tree and her face kept changing from red to green to purple to blue to gold.

"There's nothing to talk about. Just shoot me and get it over with," I said.

A short, stocky cop about my age stood directly over me. "You know how easy it would be to punch you in the balls!?" I hissed at him.

"Stephen, if you do that, I WILL shoot you with this," said the woman cop pulling out a Tazer.

At that moment the ambulance arrived. A brief discussion took place between my sister, the woman cop and the paramedics.

The woman cop said, "Stephen, we're taking you to the hospital, but we have to restrain you first for everyone's safety."

"Let me talk to him," said Debbie. "Steve, I want you to lay there quietly. Don't resist. Will you do that for me?"

I nodded my head. The cop that was standing over me bent down and none to gently cuffed my hands behind my back. I was lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of the ambulance.

The male cop said something and the paramedic started laughing.

"You think this is funny asshole!?" I barked.

I have nothing but utter respect for firefighters and paramedics. It was totally out of character for me to take it out on one of them. I was the asshole.

"No, no, I don't think it's funny," he said and slammed the door.

The paramedics and a hospital orderly hefted me onto a bed in a curtained off room in the ER. The short, stocky cop, and a cop I hadn't seen before stood on either side of the bed. The former removed the handcuffs and said, "He's all yours." The latter brought out his own set of cuffs, snapped one bracelet on my left wrist and the other to the bed railing.

Debbie and Mitch stood as much out of the way as possible in the cramped space. A nurse came in and asked me if I had an ID and insurance card. Debbie had had the wherewithal to ask Shellie for my wallet. She also handed me my glasses which I had lost in my scuffle with the boys.

The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm and placed a thermometer under my tongue. A machine pumped up the cuff and slowly released the pressure. The LED readout showed one-hundred and sixty over one-hundred and ten, dangerously high numbers. The nurse withdrew the thermometer and said, "Ninety-seven point four."

"Mr. Dunn, I'm going to need a urine sample," she said.

"Not unless you hold it for me and shake it when I'm done," I said. The effects of the alcohol were wearing off, and if you'll pardon the pun, I was just being a prick.

The nurse left abruptly, and after what seemed a long time, the nurse returned with a man in a long white coat holding a clipboard. He sat down on a stool next to the bed and said, "I'm Dr. Kishwauki. How can I help you?"

I spit on him.

He leaped back and slammed the clipboard over my head, snapping it in two. This surprised the hell out of me and I started laughing at the absurdity of it all. The nurse gasped and the cop threw back the curtain. "Do you want to press assault charges?" he asked the doctor.

My sister said, "Hey, he just broke a clipboard over my brother's head."

"I didn't see that," said the cop.

"There are several witnesses here who did," Debbie said.

I could see by the cop's body language that these witnesses were the only thing keeping me from getting shot trying to "escape."

The doctor thought the better of it (he had a lot more to lose than I did) and said, "No, just get him out of here."

The nurse said, "We can't release you till we get a urine sample. It's hospital policy."

"Fine," I said, "if it gets me out of here."

I complied with her request and she said to the cop, "I'm finished."

The cop came over and grabbed my wrist, squeezing the handcuff several clicks tighter. He smiled at me and slowly unlocked the cuff. I rubbed my wrist, but said to myself, "Don't do it Steve, he's waiting for it."

Debbie shot the cop a dirty look then led me away. We drove back to my house and Debbie said, "Steve, you wait in the car with Mitch."

She went inside and came out several minutes later carrying a suitcase. "Shellie doesn't want you back in the house until you get some help," Debbie said.

========================================================

"Steven," called out the counselor taking roll.

Two of us raised our hands.

"Well, this won't work," she said with a smile. Her youthful enthusiasm was as cute as she was.

"I'm Stephen with a ph," I said.

She looked down at her list. "Does your last name start with D?" she said. "You have to be Stephen-ph-D!" she exclaimed.

I was back in rehab, but this time at Alexian Brothers Behavioral Health Hospital. I had called Josette and told her I was in the hospital. I didn't say why because I was embarrassed by the stigma, but it was true enough, I was in the hospital being treated for a disease.

In reality I was not a recovering alcoholic, but a dry drunk. Even though I was sober for over two years, I had just taken a long time between drinks.

"Stephen, with all of our patients who are here because of alcohol relapse, we recommend taking Antabuse, but we are required to inform you of the risks and benefits."

I sat in a chair in the nurse's office.

She continued, "Antabuse is a drug used to treat chronic alcoholism by producing an acute sensitivity to alcohol. While taking Antabuse, any consumption of alcohol produces the symptoms of a severe hangover for thirty minutes up to several hours. Symptoms include flushing of the skin, accelerated heart rate, shortness of breath, nausea, vomiting, throbbing headache, visual disturbance, and mental confusion.

"There is no tolerance to Antabuse. The longer it is taken, the stronger its effects. Even after discontinuing Antabuse, it remains in the system for several weeks, so alcohol must still be avoided until the drug is eliminated from the body.

"Additionally, any product containing alcohol such as toothpaste or mouthwash, or cough and cold medicines can trigger the effect. All topical products including shampoo, soap, deodorants and aftershave containing alcohol should not be used. It is also important that you not breathe the fumes of people wearing cologne or perfume. You must avoid physical contact with anyone who may have used a product containing alcohol.

"Antabuse does not reduce alcohol cravings, so many patients stop taking the medicine before treatment is complete. We now recommend a subdermal implant which releases the drug continuously over a period of three months."

"I'll pass," I said.

Meanwhile I was dealing with the consequences of what I had done. Even after having choked my wife, I clung to the rationale that at least I had never stooped so low as to hit a girl. Now the last shred of self-respect I cloaked my self-image in was ripped away.

We now draw to the close of this morality play. I moved back home and returned to work upon being discharged from rehab, but my health continued to get worse. One day in April, I got up, showered, got dressed for work, went downstairs, sat down in my chair to rest for a minute, and that was as far as I ever got.

My wife came downstairs a short time later to leave for work herself. "Oh," she said. "I didn't know you were still here."

I looked up at her face. "I can't," I said.

I called Josette and told her I wouldn't be in, and two days later I called the store manager and resigned my position. In the wake of leaving my job, we came face to face with financial ruin. Our credit cards went into default, our cars were subject to repossession and our dream house went into pre-foreclosure.

But this is more rightly part of my medical odyssey, which culminated in my becoming a paraplegic.

I still suffer from depression, which has been subsequently diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Has a day gone by that I do not regret not having pulled that trigger a decade ago? I don't know.

I've now been sober for over five and a half years.

But alcohol is patient. Alcohol plays the long game. Even after five-and-a-half years, I still wonder if I'm just marking time until my next drink. Would losing my house be excuse enough? Losing my wife? Being given six months to live? Or will my next drink be when I belly up to the bar in heaven?

One thing I'm sure of - I'm dealing with alcohol - cunning, baffling, powerful.

========================================================

[Spoken quotations in the "AA meeting" section are taken from various Alcoholics Anonymous publications.]

UFO Phenomenon (1974) Rock Bottom - studio version:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aP5ikQpTR3c