It is Wednesday, February 3, and I’m passed out drunk on the floor of a one-room French Quarter hippie pad and surrounded by a dozen strangers who are naked or in various stages of undress. The year is 1971. I’m wearing a dirty, cheap brown suit that I put on before work Monday morning—the day this insane bender began. By now, all the bridges behind me were burned. Or so it seemed.

My drunken excusion began like all others. I was only going to have a couple of drinks. I deserved them. After all, I went “on the wagon” for a month following a disastrous holiday binge, though not as bad as the year before when I was arrested on Christmas Eve in my home during an outburst in front of my children in which I flailed at my wife, parents, visiting friends and cops, who were summoned in an effort to bring me under control. On Christmas morning, bail was posted and the family met me in the lobby at the Baton Rouge City Jail. Disturbing the Peace charges were ultimatedly dismissed. The memories of my children linger, but within the context that it was an event that had to happen. Five months after my arrest, I abandoned the family for booze.

Eight months later, I had a girlfriend, Patricia. And early Monday evening, February 1, we stopped by her parents apartment for a visit. They were preparing to attend a basketball game, but Patricia’s daddy offered me a drink prior to departing, He told me to help myself to another, which led to another and another until Patricia finally persuaded me to leave.

I was off and running. Dropping her off at her apartment, I headed to my home away from home—the Baton Rouge Press Club. I served on the initial Board of Directors that established the club in 1968. It was a popular after-hours watering hole for newspaper reporters, who put the Morning Advocate to bed at midnight. Since my marriage break-up, it was usually my final stop on bar-hopping nights.

Located in the Capitol House Hotel—the fourth location in the club’s three year existence—it was four blocks from my studio apartment next door to the WJBO studios, where I was News Director and afternoon talk show host. I could lurch home from the club,  fall into bed for a couple hours  sleep, then stagger to the station to do my early morning newscasts. A mid-morning nap and a beer or two prepared me for the talk show.

On this night, the routine changed. At sometime around midnight, I held a news conference to inform fellow club members that I was quiting my job, leaving town and going to New York’s Greenwich Village to write the great American novel. The reaction was good riddance. At my apartment, I loaded clothes into a Austin Healy Sprite and took care of some final business efore leaving town. I first called my WJBO boss and told him to cram the station up his ass. I would not report to work that morning. Or ever. I then went to my estranged wife’s home to tell her of my plans. It was not pretty. I alternated between rage and sobbing, blaming her for my sorry state. I learned later that the kids sat in the stairwell listening to my lunacy. 

A couple hours hitting the road, I pulled into an I-10 rest stop and passed out. Waking up, I decided to re-route the trip through New Orleans. By mid-morning, French Quarter bars were refusing to serve me because of my drunken condition. At the worst of these taverns, I lost what little money I had left when somebody grabbed my wallet and ran out the door. That put me in a fighting mood. Outside the bar, I was screaming and challenging everyone in sight. Before I was about to be killed, soon-to-be hippie friends dragged me away.

In gratitude, I asked my disheveled pals to join me for dinner at Antoines. We were not greeted with a smile by the maitre’d. However, I informed him that I was a close friend of the soon-to-be-elected Louisiana Atrorney General, William Guste. His family owned the famed restaurant. I insisted that the manager call Guste, who had been a frequent guest on my radio show. We were shuttled to backroom while the call was made.

“Sorry to bother you, Bill. But I find myself a little short of funds and need you to vouch for me. And if it’s not too much trouble, please okay a small check.” He didn’t know what the hell was going on. Nevertheless, he instructed the manager to keep us out of sight, comp us with bread and appetizers and cash a $50.00 check—a rubbery check, incidentally.

The money bought a case of cheap wine, enough to endear me to the little band of hippies. For the remainder of Tuesday night and into the early morning hours of Wednesday, we sipped wine and pleasantly exchanged “deep thoughts” until I passed out. Our sociability resumed when I woke-up that afternoon and continued until I dozed again. When I came out of my stupor, all was not well with the world. Symptoms of the D.T.s took hold.  

And so it was 39 years ago today—a pivotal moment in my life that I never want to forget. What happened next will be the topic of my next blog.