The moonshine from the river still was on his breath.Harry Horner, men’s haberdasher, awoke in a strange bed. His eyes were rolled back in his skull, and his mouth was like cotton. When he finally pulled in focus, he realized that he was home. He staggered up and looked outside, where his car was parked inelegantly in the driveway.That weekend, Harry and a few buddies had gone to the river to barbeque, swim, and, as Harry says, “goof off.” Harry never planned for a four-day binger festooned with White Lightning and Boilermakers.“I lost four days,” says Harry of the high-proof weekend. “I blacked out. I didn’t know what happened. I knew it was time to quit.”In those days, Harry’s self-proclaimed drug of choice was the Boilermaker: a snort of Jack Daniels chased with a Budweiser. He would often get so drunk at the stock car races that he’d have to read the paper the next day to see who won. Many liquid evenings ended with Harry passed out on his kitchen table. He slept in the back of his car when he wasn’t coherent enough to drive home. Sometimes, he drove anyway.“I was drinking almost on a daily basis,” Harry recalls. “I jockeyed between bourbon and beer. There were many nights that I wondered how I got home. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. I’m grateful I didn’t end up killing myself or someone else. I should be laid up somewhere.”Yet today, he sits at a wooden table at a coffee shop in Homewood, Alabama, fully alive and breathing. And if you’ve ever questioned the Lord’s mercy, just ask Harry Horner what he thinks about it.Harry grew up in government housing in Elyton Village, just a stone’s throw from Legion Field. His parents divorced when he was two, and he was raised by his mother. Later, they moved to a house on 20th Street, two blocks behind West End High School, where he would graduate, in 1978.A north-south scar on Harry’s face bears the reminder of a birthmark, removed by a doctor when Harry was only a child. The scar is not a product of the birthmark, but rather of a fall off the top bunk that split the seam of stitches and opened up his face.But for the most part, Harry had a suitable childhood. He remembers his first car: a ’69 Chevy Impala, which he ran up a telephone pole while gawking at a pretty girl. “I had more attention to the young lady than watching the road,” Harry admits.When he wasn’t assaulting lumber, Harry frequented a dive called Shakey’s Pizza, or the drive-in theater on Lum Avenue (where he saw Planet of the Apes). Harry tried out for the high school football team at West End, but didn’t make it. The donnybrooks Harry reserved for the halls.“Out of 278 students, I was one of 16 white kids,” Harry says. “There was tension and I got into a few fights. Kids could be vicious at times, but we worked through it.”Now 55, Harry leans back against the back wall of the coffee shop, reflecting on his life. He shoves a vape pen in his lip and a plume of smoke coughs out into the air. When he speaks, he shuts his left eye to guard from the bright outside light, leaving a lone potent blue iris bouncing against the backdrop of the city.“I managed a warehouse in Southside after I graduated,” Harry says through the eye. “Then I worked at a small department store in Ensley. Worked there for the better part of twenty years.”The clothing business was taught to him principally by two men: Eugene Goldstein and Vernon Cohen. At Goldstein & Cohen’s, Harry learned how to fit men from the spectrum of a 32 waist to a 70 waist (manufactured with an apparatus called a “gusset”) and learned to appreciate trading with local businesses. “Local businesses appreciate you, but Wal-Mart doesn’t give a damn if I come in or not,” he says.After the clothing store shut down, Harry started working at Princeton Hospital as a Phlebotomist, seven on, seven off. “I’m the bad guy,” Harry says. “I go around sticking folks.”Since his working hours created hunks of idle time, six years ago Harry opened up his own men’s clothing business called the “Horner Apparel Group.”“I missed working with the customers,” he says. “I have a passion for the clothing business, but I didn’t want the aggravation of a store front. I come to you.”Harry also attends Dawson Family of Faith, but has struggled across the years with his belief. He grew up “jockeying” between a Methodist and Baptist church on the west side of town, but left the church entirely after he watched an older member of the congregation berate the pastor for talking about sex. “I left for about twenty years because I was angry at what I’d seen,” Harry says. “Then I just got lazy. It was easier for me to sleep in. I have always had a belief in a higher power, but I went through a period of time where I claimed to be Agnostic.”Without a spiritual foundation to gird him, Harry’s life began to spiral. Paramount to his week were work and whiskey, in no particular order. “I have been very depressed coming out of stupors,” he says reflectively. “I thought, ‘I could just end this and be done with it. I’ll be better off.’ Some might have said I had a death wish. But that was a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”Over time, the slow pull of the Spirit, through circumstances, brought Harry back from that prodigal life. Harry says that prayer was the catalyst that helped him to overcome his problems with alcohol, and after the four-day caper, Harry turned to God.“I did a lot of praying. It took a lot of prayer,” he says.Instead of attending AA, Harry turned to coffee to help cure his addiction. Instead of closing down bars, Harry started closing down the coffee shops. And he’s been sober as a judge for fifteen years.“Sobriety is a good thing,” Harry says. “And if it weren’t for the grace of God, I wouldn’t be sitting here today.”So every day, Harry lopes into the coffee shop with his blue thermos, salt-and-pepper goatee, and bulwark frame. He greets the men with “How are you, young man?” and the women with “How are you, young lady?”—regardless of age.And regardless if its been a good one or not, Harry always responds with “It’s a good day.”Looking at Harry’s life from another angle, he might have every reason to complain. He has no college degree. He’s 55, single, with no children. He is alone. He saw the first picture of his father when Harry was in his thirties. (“I found a shoebox full of pictures. Found a picture of a man sitting on some stairs. I said ‘Ma, who is this? Ma…Ma!’ My uncle said, ‘That’s your daddy, dammit!”). Harry’s father died of cirrhosis of the liver, in a YMCA dorm, in 1974. Harry probably would have met the same fate, if not for the sacrosanct notion of Rock Bottom Mercy.But he sees no reason to complain.“I try my level best to keep a good attitude,” Harry says kindly. “I’m above ground, I’m employed, and I’ve got a roof over my head. My bills are paid. I’ve got a couple of bucks in my pocket. I’m in pretty good shape.”From time to time, Harry volunteers at the Jimmy Hale Mission and mentors kids in his old neighborhood. “When I go into these neighborhoods, some of the kids don’t think they can come out of it. I tell them, ‘Hell yes, you can come out of it! I did. It just depends on how bad you want to.’” These are the places and the conversations of life where he finds purpose, and he’ll tell you that it’s important to invest in people because so many have invested in him.But Harry still wars with the demons from his past and doesn’t understand why his story is noteworthy. “Every single night, I crawl in bed, turn off the lights, and ask for forgiveness,” he says. “A doctor told me one time that he practices medicine—one day he’ll get it right. I guess that’s how I feel about Christianity. But I don’t know why my story is important. I’m pretty dry and boring.”Harry’s story is noteworthy because he is a very humble man who brings joy to those around him. He does not consider himself a great man, but rather a very thankful man. Harry doesn’t gauge his life in terms of monetary considerations, but through service to others. He drives a plum Toyota Scion and is constructed like an egg, but his decade-and-a-half escape from the asylum of whiskey says more about him than anything else. Harry’s story is noteworthy because he is dry and boring. Because he finds pleasure in the simple little things of life.In the play Death of a Salesman, protagonist Willy Loman has a misconstrued notion about the American Dream, which eventually funnels to his demise. He wrongly concludes that life is all about the amount of money you make and the way you are perceived by others.If a play were written about him, Harry the Haberdasher could have ended it all while in the depths of despair at the bottom of the bottle. But he figured something out in the midst of it. He figured out life isn’t about what you can get from people, but it’s simply about people. He learned to view each day as precious, not to be taken for granted, and there is almost nothing better than waking up sober with a clear head. He learned that sometimes a boring life is also a good life.He learned that instead of drinking from a still that it’s better to simply be still.He learned that life is better when God is in it. He learned to be places where people give a damn whether you’re there or not. He learned that even though things may be bad, somebody always has it worse. He learned that appreciating the things you’ve got brings more peace than the constant chase. He learned that to love others you must love yourself first. He learned even though there are bumps in the road, to still delight in life.Yes, Harry.It’s a good day. 78 Photos by Al Blanton.To connect with 78 Magazine on Facebook, please visit www.facebook.com/78mag To get Al's articles, sign up for email updates below!