February 25

February 25 – AM          Page 6, Bill’s Story, Chapter 1

The remorse, horror and hopelessness of the next morning are unforgettable.  The courage to do battle was not there.  My brain raced uncontrollably and there was a terrible sense of impending calamity.  I hardly dared cross the street, lest I collapse and be run down by an early morning truck, for it was scarcely daylight.  An all night place supplied me with a dozen glasses of ale.  My writhing nerves were stilled at last.  A morning paper told me the market had gone to hell again.  Well, so had I.  The market would recover, but I wouldn’t.  That was a hard thought.  Should I kill myself?  No—not now.  Then a mental fog settled down.  Gin would fix that.  So two bottles, and—oblivion.

February 25 – PM          Page 176-177, Doctor Bob’s Nightmare, Part I

If my wife was planning to go out in the afternoon, I would get a large supply of liquor and smuggle it home and hide it in the coal bin, the clothes chute, over door jambs, over beams in the cellar and in cracks in the cellar tile.  I also made use of old trunks and chests, the old can container, and even the ash container.  The water tank on the toilet I never used, because that looked too easy.  I found out later that my wife inspected it frequently.  I used to put eight or twelve ounce bottles of alcohol in a fur lined glove and toss it onto the back airing porch when winter days got dark enough.  My bootlegger had hidden alcohol at the back steps where I could get it at my convenience.  Sometimes I would bring it in my pockets, but they were inspected, and that became too risky.  I used also to put it up in four ounce bottles and stick several in my stocking tops.  This worked nicely until my wife and I went to see Wallace Beery in “Tugboat Annie,” after which the pant-leg and stocking racket were out!