When John was virtuous, he'd buy a six pack of beer — Miller's in cans, in fact — and stash it away in the fridge. I could just see him make that face when he popped open a Miller's: cruel, foul, self-flagellation his grimace said. Boo and beer he'd say in his email: "I'm reduced to boo and beer." The road to reform. He hated pot as much as he hated the Miller's.
It's selective disclosure, of course. What was he atoning for? Which is not to say that I practiced full disclosure either on the opposite coast. He knew nothing of the busy waiting room with the Coke machine in the corner and the folding metal chairs lined up along the walls.