I got the idea for this story a long, long time ago.  Last night, in a fit
of frustration over not being able to make any progress on "Forgotten
X-Men," "Rogue Alphan," OR (incoherent scream) "Adventure of the Substitute
Teachers," I wrote this out.  The idea deserves much better treatment than
it's received at my hands, so if anybody out there wants to take a crack at
it, feel free.  Thanks!

                        My Name Is Brian
                             by Falstaff

                     In Memory of Andrew J. Moore

        The legs of the metal chair scraped on the floor as the man pushed it
back.  He came to his feet, looking ill at ease and a little afraid.  His
hair was golden, framing a squared-off jaw and a truly aristocratic face.
        "Hello," he said in his tweedily-accented voice, "my name is Brian, and 
I am an alcoholic."
        "Hello, Brian," the group chorused.  They could have been anyone.  Your
next-door neighbor, your favorite aunt, your father, your sister, your son.
        "I've been sober now for a bit less than four years--" there were
encouraging murmurs and nods--"but I almost lost that all last night.
        "I don't usually attend meetings any more--not in person, at any rate; 
my . . . job . . . forces me to live in a rather isolated area, and I don't
often get around people.  I have access to the telephone hotline, and I
also attend a weekly meeting via the Internet.
        "But that's neither here nor there, is it?  Last night, two friends of
mine were having a celebration; they've been together for a year, and they
planned a special trip to the mainland to observe the event.
        "I was asked along.  We're not particularly close, but we've worked
together for several years, and so I went.  It--the celebration--was in a pub.
        "I tried to ignore the mugs and the bottles, but it wasn't easy.  Even
after almost four years, I'd near kill for a nice, cold lager.
        "But I did then what I've every time that's happened for all the years
I've been sober.  I thought about all the things I did to people who cared
for me when I was drinking.  I broke a friend's leg once.  And I can't
begin to count the times I hurt the other people I love.
        "So I didn't.  Drink anything, that is.  But--" the man's voice
broke--"oh, God, how I wanted to."
        He set his jaw.  "I'm going to be here at least once a month.  More often
if I can help it.  I'm not going to let it master me."  [I'm _not_].
        Another man stood, his own chair scraping on the linoleum floor.
        "Hello," this man said, "My name is Joe, and I'm an alcoholic."