The Man In The Gold Shoes

Jim P. of Albuquerque, NM urges AA members to share their

experience, strength and hope with newcomers

I'm a lucky man. I am among the most fortunate of men to have been sent to

prison, to have suffered like I did because I'm here today. I'll soon have

43 years of sobriety--and that's a miracle, man!

I am twice blessed in that I had a place like the Shrine to go to. The Shrine

on the Hill was, and still is, home to Kansas AA Group #1, although the old

building burned down in 1970 and was rebuilt. The two-story white brick

house at 1925 N. 11th Street was a magnificent structure in its time and

featured a large green dome and winding staircase. Group #1's founder, Dr. Z.

Miles N. and several friends had purchased the place not only to house the AA

group, but for use as a detox center and hospital. Thousands of men owe their

very lives to that old place and those who worked there.

I went to the Shrine on the Hill after I got out of prison and I had a pair

of prison issue shoes--a pair of brogans. I wanted to paint that dome--that

green dome--because I thought it would be easier to see and people would

recognize it. So I painted that dome gold. But I got my shoes gold too! I

didn't have money for another pair and one time I was sitting in our meeting

area at the Shrine and this fella said, "Who's that guy over there with the

gold shoes?" I made up my mind I was going to wear gold shoes to AA meetings

(and I still do!) because people will recognize you from your gold shoes.

"Cling to the thought." I love that phrase. "That in God's hands our dark

past is the greatest possession that we have." With it you can help other

people from going through the same ups and downs you have gone through.

I can remember my father holding me in his left arm (I was just a baby). My

mother was hollering at him from the doorway of the house. And my dad was

hollering back at her and I was afraid he was going to hurt her or something

and I leaned over and bit him on the cheek. When my father died (he died in

1934)), my mother, brother Joe and myself were standing there at the casket

and the lid was open. I could see the teeth marks were still on his cheek.

We had a cellar and my father made home brew (this was during Prohibition);

it was the best home brew in town - I've been told this many, many times.

Everyone would say what great home brew it was and how wonderful a man my

father was. But he would get drunk on that home brew and come home and beat

me. I never understood that. How he could be two people at once. They'd

tell how wonderful he was and he'd come home and beat me--for no reason at all.

Anyway, I went down there one day and scraped the foam and the slime off the

top of that crock and took a drink from the aluminum pan. I passed out right

there on the floor, the very first time I drank. I must have been born an

alcoholic, as I always drank a lot. As a kid once, I had to take the pledge

at the Sacred Heart Church over on Virginia Street in Kansas City. I didn't

drink for 10 months that time, afraid I would "go to hell" if I did.

Although I finally did break the pledge, I was nuts during that period, walk-

ing the streets at night, my hair standing on end, goosebumps on the back of

my neck. I was paranoid, afraid of everything.

Then I took a drink and everything was all right again. I was a different

kind of guy when I drank, just like my father.

I used to drive an old '34 Oakland for a bunch of women--prostitutes--who

lived on 15th Street at that time. They were always very good to me. I was

just a kid and I used to get drunk and was ashamed to go home so I would go

down to their basement and hang out. This is where they would bring their

johns to dance and drink with them. There was one old colored gentleman who

I remember well. His name was Dempsey Reid and he played the piano there. He

later died in my arms.

We moved down to an apartment house and that's where I met my future sponsor,

George P. I used to see him in the bars and I hated him. He had a monkey

and the monkey was mean and would steal your money off the bar and sometimes

throw it at you. George had a sonorous voice just like a preacher and every

one looked up to him. He never bought a drink. It was at this time I started

cracking floor safes and robbing people.

I volunteered for the Army and World War II. It was either that or face a

stretch in the Missouri State Penitentiary. We were on the front lines for

211 straight days and supposedly were to have 24 hours liberty. But before

we could reach the rear areas, we were called back up. We had landed at

Omaha Beach and it seemed like I was alway doing something to get us in

trouble. The word was out -- "Stay away from P-------," they used to say,

"That's where the war is!"

I can't remember a period during this time when I was sober--never! I had up

to 15 quarts in the back of my half-track and everyone wondered how ol' P---

could stay drunk all the time!

I was sitting on the trail of our 90mm gun one day and this major came up and

said, "I understand you're a safecracker. Come with me!" And I went with

him to the town square and there they had assembled safes from the various

office buildings in town and GIs were milling all around. It was there I

learned how to drill, peel, blow and punch a safe.

When I got out of the service, I went to Liberal, Kansas where my mother had

remarried. I went to work for JC Penny, but I couldn't hold a job. I was

awful and would drink anything anytime. I pulled a lot of shenanigns while

in Liberal. One time up in Nebraska, I found out about a safe and I wanted

to see what was in it. I had an old 1939 Chevrolet (green) with a big trunk

on the back of it and that's where I kept my tools. I couldn't stay sober

and I had a lot of bank bags full of checks I couldn't cash.

I was on parole at this time and my parole officer was named Hargrove and I

had been hiding from him. I had been staying and sleeping under the bandstand

in the City Park in Hutchison, Kansas. I took the last bottle of beer I had

(I remember it was a Red, White & Blue beer) and finished it off. When I

threw the empty bottle on the ground, a policeman saw me and arrested me there

on the spot. They had been looking for me anyway and they put me in the City

Jail. About three days later, I went into DTs.

Well, they didn't know what DTs were in those days, much less how to treat

them, so they turned the fire hose on me. The incredible pressure slammed me

up against the wall. I don't see how I ever lived through that. Soon

afterwards, I was sent back to the Kansas State Penitentiary in Lansing. I

was in the holding cell, still with DTs, hollering and screaming and crazy as

hell.

They took me out of there, stripped me and took away all my clothes and put

me in "The Hole." They left me in there, naked--for a year. They'd feed me

macaroni twice a day and shave me with a pair of scissors. I would scream

and holler until, finally, I lost my voice and I would just squeal. They

would also, every eight hours--roll a little tear gas cannister under the

door. This caused my eyes to swell shut, I lost some of my fingernails, my

hair fell out and I was raw all over. My nose and lips swelled and my teeth

were loose. They finally came and took me out of there by one arm and leg

and put me in the hospital.

So here I am. Can't hear nothin', think I'm still in DTs. Having auditory

hallucinations, thinking I was hearing these children. I'm hearing the little

children laugh and sing and cry and holler. I got a chair, a folding chair

and put it on my bed and got up there and looked out that window and if I was

on my tiptoes, I could barely look out over the wall. And over the wall was

this playground! I kept getting up there every day and one day I remember

looking out there, feeling sad, but glad I could still see and I was still

alive, but I looked out there at these children and thought to myself, "I used

to be a child like that. I wonder what happened." And then I said, "God,

please help me."

I think that's the first time I ever uttered an honest prayer and when I said

that prayer, He started to help me.

Now, I had a mask over my face at this time because they thought I was

tubercular and they didn't want to expose the population to the disease. So I

had a mask over my face, one eye covered, no hair and scars and scabs all

over me and one day a guy I knew told me, "Hey Pete, there are some guys

coming up here from the Shrine on the Hill in Kansas City, Kansas and they

call themselves Alcoholics Anonymous. They're going to hold some meetings."

I went to those meetings on Sundays at 1:30 PM.

I was sitting there one Sunday and an old boy walked in and as a matter of

fact, walked right by me. He had a beautiful head of white hair, a nice

shirt and tie, great suit and his shoes were shined. And he said to me,

"Jimmy P---------, you're going to die in here." And I recognized the voice,

it was old George P. And I knew right there I had a friend. It's a

wonderful thing to know that inside that prison, although I was locked up for

5 years, I found freedom.

And I found God. George P. met me at the gate and took me to the Shrine on

the Hill. I went to work there for $10 a week and board and room. I knew

when I walked in there I had a place to stay the rest of my life. I knew I

was home.

Accept sobriety. So, if someone wants what you've got--give it to them.

There are probably a good many people out there who I robbed. I don't even

know who they are, but the way I make my amends; the amends I make in my

ninth step, the way I make them is to give what I have to others. I don't

know where I'd be if I hadn't found what George P. told me about the Four

Absolutes. They're embodied in the principles of these 12 Steps. Those Four

Absolutes - Absolute Honesty - Absolute Purity of Motive - Absolute Unselfish-

ness and Unconditionally loving everybody.

The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous saved my life. As this is being written,

this coming December 16th will mark my 43rd year of sobriety. I haven't been

to jail or prison. I haven't robbed anybody.

We of Alcoholics Anonymous have a job. And that job is on page 102. It says,

"Your job now is to be at the place where you can be of maximum helpfulness to

others. So never fear to go to the most sordid place on the face of the earth

if you can be helpful. Stay on the firing line of life with these motives and

God will keep you unharmed." That paragraph probably rules my life today more

than anything I do.

It's very important that we as sober alcoholics, tell others about our past.

Because there's somebody you can help by telling them how you got here and

what happened. Please! In the name of God!

I think one of the greatest lessons I ever learned, I learned in prison.

There was a guy who had joined Alcoholics Anonymous a couple of weeks before

he was to leave prison. His name was Red Day. Everybody thought Red Day was

going to make it, because he had the help of AA. Well, he and a fellow by

the name of Ralph Iscrig were stealing drip gas from one of the lines and the

line rider caught them. Red Day was carrying a gun and he pulled out the gun

and killed the line rider. They arrested them and Red Day was sent back to

prison with death. He was on Death Row.

One day, I was standing there with Iscrig, who had gotten life, standing on

the sidewalk between the hospital and Death Row and Red hollered out to Ralph

Iscrig. He said, "Ralph, do you know what happened to me?" And Ralph

hollered back, "No Red. What happened to you?" And Red, at the top of his

lungs, said, "I took that first drink!"

I'll never forget that.

I was very fortunate to have been there when that happened. Because I could

very easily have forgotten it otherwise.

"Cling to the thought that in God's hands our dark past is the greatest

possession we have."