It’s the impossible stories that frame our lives. Those utterly stupid, tragic, unpredictable events that change the way we see the world. They can be swift and without warning like a fire in the night, or a slow burn that erupts after being stoked for years. Every one of us has these memories. Those moments where everything comes into laser focus and you can see all of your decisions and their consequences clearly laid out in front of you. Sometimes we fail to recognize these learning opportunities, myself included, but on one foggy night in 2004, an angel slapped me across the face and this is my story.
I was 24 when I finally found an oyster I could stomach. I’ve always craved new experiences and been more than willing to take a chance, so when I found myself standing in front of a majestic tower of oysters; two dozen each of over 15 different varieties, I saw it as a challenge. Since I’m not one to give up – and I’d had a few drinks (maybe more than a few) – I figured I’d try every one. I thought I’d never get an opportunity like that again, and I haven’t.
It was the company Christmas party and I worked for one of the few “hip” wineries in Sonoma County. We were party professionals, and no strangers to a good time. That year, our owner (and mentor, and friend) pulled out all the stops and booked space at the exclusive Mayacama Golf Club which was one of the most luxurious private clubs in the Sonoma wine country.
We reveled long into the night. People drifted throughout the room wearing their Sunday best. Behind them, a wall of glass neatly framed the manicured green of the golf course. The air was filled with the sound of popping corks and boisterous laughter as rare library wines and single vineyard collectibles from the owner’s private stash poured forth. Food I had never seen before like Russian caviar and wagyu beef imported from Japan, swirled around us on silver platters. At some point I’m pretty sure someone was wearing underwear fit for a young Mrs. Kringle, and it was a mister. But it was the tower of oysters, each accompanied by another glass of something fabulous, that were my undoing.
"At some point I’m pretty sure someone was wearing underwear fit for a young Mrs. Kringle, and it was a mister."
A strange and useful thing happens to me when I start to black out; I go straight home. The problem was, I was far from home. In my defense I don’t remember getting in my car, but that was also exactly the reason why what I was about to do was so dangerous. Apparently blacked out Ben thought he could drive.
I left the party and stepped out into a cold drizzle that carried the familiar scent of ozone and damp moss. The winter moon reflected off the wet pavement through the trees and seemed to amplify the quiet emptiness of the night. I vaguely recall getting in my car and heading out under the wooded canopy of the west county backroads.
Suddenly I come to in a ditch as a jolt of adrenaline hits my system. This leaves me only half drunk but shaking and frenzied. Memories like snapshots flash before me—sliding from one turn to the next; tugging on my e-brake like it was the tail of a Clydesdale—tempting fate with every bad choice. Everything else is like black and white polaroids scattered on the floor. Bushes cover the windshield, still rattling back and forth from the collision like they’re alive. I try desperately to reverse out of what clearly is not a “buff it out” situation, but my front tires spin madly in the wet leaves, sending up twin plumes of steam that float before my headlights. I shut down the engine, sit in the sudden silence and do a quick inventory. Here I am in the backroads, stuck in a ditch, three sheets to the wind, my AAA expired four days ago and my cell phone’s been dead for hours. I’m fucked.
I’m sitting contemplating the drunk tank at the local jail and how I’ll fit in there, when I hear the low rumble of something heavy heading toward me. In my altered state I think, “tow truck!” I jump from my car and frantically start waving my arms. Slowly, a classic dually truck comes into view. Layers of paint show the gentle abuse of a lifetime of farm work. The driver cautiously rolls to a stop and through the headlights glare I think I can make out a winch!
I open the passenger side door and find a man in his early 40’s with a scruffy beard and an old, oil stained ball cap. “Hey man, you gotta winch me out of this ditch!” I desperately spit at him.
“I can’t, my front axle is bad,” he responds, “but we gotta get you outta here because man, you’re drunk.”
I quickly agree, climb up into the cab and settle into the lumpy old vinyl seat. A faint smell of stale tobacco and grease hangs in the cab and it’s strangely comforting. He asks where he can take me and in my new found adrenaline induced semi-sobriety I quickly realize I’ve only got one move. “My folks live just up the road in Sebastopol. Not far. My little brother’s got AAA. He’ll help me out.”
I’m sure I sound more confident than I am. I hope my brother will help me out. This is a big ask and not the first. But settled into the warm cab I feel like I’m headed toward a solution. Even the country music blasting from the the radio sounds like salvation.
The next thing I remember is standing over my brother’s bed at 2:30 in the morning, begging him to use his AAA card and call a tow truck to get me out of this. Every second my car sits in that ditch is a chance for the police to find it. If I’m going to pull this off I need his help, now. He begrudgingly opens his eyes, looks at me and says, “Man, you’re drunk.”
I can’t argue with that. We both agree, though, that calling a tow would be a long shot as tow truck drivers are not only prohibited from assisting drunk drivers, but they are also required to report them. On top of that, it was almost 3am so whatever poor soul manages to show up would have been dragged from a peaceful slumber just to be stuck with my drunk ass. Not a good scenario.
I make the call and cross my fingers. With any luck, whatever hardened journeyman they send out will be willing to transgress. As I sit against the wall waiting in the cold, the adrenaline high starts to wear off. I again begin to slip in and out of consciousness and let the warm glow of a fading drunk settle in. When the low grumble of a diesel jerks me awake, I see the familiar mustard yellow of the AAA tow truck and I’m snapped back to my dark reality.
I head toward the truck and stumble a bit as my hand slips off the cold, wet door handle. I quickly recover and clamber up into the truck, wondering how this will play out—wondering if I can pull it off. The man behind the wheel looks to be around my age, but mature beyond my years. He asks me where we’re headed and somehow I am unprepared for his question. “I’m…well…ummm…” I decide to make it easy on him and tell him I just need him to pull me out of a ditch and I can take it from there. Eager to get back to his bed he agrees and we set off, but I know I can’t hide the smell of alcohol seeping from my pores.
We make it about halfway down the block when he turns to me and says, “Man, you’re drunk! I’m not taking you to your car…”
My heart sinks and my stomach begins to hurt. Here we go, I think, I’m headed to jail.
The driver sits there, engine idling while his thick fingers beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel. I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to get out or thinking about calling the cops. Then he turns to me and says, “Can your brother drive?”
I jump out as we are rolling to a stop and nearly slip on the wet pavement as I run toward the door. Inside, I give my brother a gentle shake. His response is as expected. “I fucking hate you,” he mutters under his breath as he crawls out of bed. I was prepared for that, just as I knew no matter how annoyed and pissed he was, he would never let me down. He throws on some clothes and we pull the front door shut as softly as we can.
The fifteen or so minutes it takes to return to the scene of the crime are like a foggy dream. There’s a stirring sense of relief as I begin to believe I might actually get away with this monumental screw up, but deep down I’m still riddled with anxiety and fear. Will the police already be there when we arrive? Will I be charged with fleeing? Should I have just left the car there and dealt with the consequences in the morning? At least then it would be hard for them to prove I was drunk…then I see my car right ahead, just like I left it and not a soul in sight.
The vehicle recovery specialist, as he refers to himself, knows his business, but I’m still hollering at him not to hurt my car. I mean, it’s a 1988 Honda Civic with 220,000 miles on the clock, nose down in a ditch – but it’s all I’ve got. He smoothly pulls it up onto the roadway, checks that it starts and then eagerly heads back toward his own warm bed.
My brother climbs in and shifts it into D. As we pull away I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Did I just get away with it? I didn’t kill myself, or anyone else? Nobody is paralyzed or missing limbs? I’m not in jail? And my car runs?? I may have had that last thought a little too soon as I glance over at the dash and see the temperature gauge pinned in the red. From the driver’s seat a photo I had on the dash of whatever girl I was dating at the time obscured it, but from my angle, it’s all too obvious. I yell at my brother to pull over, but it’s too late. As we coast to a stop, steam is pouring out from under the hood, seamlessly joining with the morning fog under the amber glow of the high beams.
Stranded again at 4am, now it’s the two of us in the middle of the street arguing about what to do, and my brother is starting to lose it. “Now I’m an accomplice!” he yells. “I never should have…” He stops abruptly and stares past my head. I turn to see a pair of headlights slowly approaching and then the familiar mustard yellow comes into focus. We both stand there, mouths hanging open, as the same truck that just pulled us out of the ditch comes slowly rolling to a stop. It seems on the back roads that our paths somehow crossed and my good fortune has yet to run out. He rolls down his window. “What do I have to do to get rid of you, kid?”
I think I shrug and say, “Take me home?” As the driver hooks my poor Honda to his truck for the last, five arduous miles, my brother just stands there shaking his head. “You are without a doubt the luckiest, most unworthy person in the world!” I climb into the cab, wedge my head between the cold window and the sticky vinyl of the tow truck seat and I can’t help but think my brother is right. No one ever gets this lucky twice.
Stranded again at 4am, now it’s the two of us in the middle of the street arguing about what to do, and my brother is starting to lose it. “Now I’m an accomplice!” he yells. “I never should have…” He stops abruptly and stares past my head. I turn to see a pair of headlights slowly approaching and then the familiar mustard yellow comes into focus. We both stand there, mouths hanging open, as the same truck that just pulled us out of the ditch comes slowly rolling to a stop. It seems on the back roads that our paths somehow crossed and my good fortune has yet to run out. He rolls down his window. “What do I have to do to get rid of you, kid?”
I think I shrug and say, “Take me home?” As the driver hooks my poor Honda to his truck for the last, five arduous miles, my brother just stands there shaking his head. “You are without a doubt the luckiest, most unworthy person in the world!” I climb into the cab, wedge my head between the cold window and the sticky vinyl of the tow truck seat and I can’t help but think my brother is right. No one ever gets this lucky twice.
I lay down to rest as the delicate glow of the morning sun slowly begins to creep across the sky. As I stare at the ceiling, just beginning to make out the subtle texture, other things start to come into focus. Here I am, alive, safe, and no one was hurt. I can sleep and wake up a free man. But at any point something could have gone terribly wrong, and it would have been all my fault. A litany of possible tragic scenarios start flooding my mind. I can see the faces and feel the pain of all the people I could have hurt, and all I can think is, I’m guilty. I should be in jail. Why me?
Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a sense of clarity. There are a number of ways this could have played out, each worse than the next. I can see how monumentally stupid and reckless I have been, and what my future could have looked like if things had worked out differently. This was my warning, and it’s time for me to listen.
Some of us are hard learners. I know I fall into that category. No matter how many times they tell me fire’s going to burn, I have to touch it myself. But with that knowledge and experience I am going to create something better and stronger. Life’s struggles, hardships, and failures can all be blessings in disguise. It’s not our mistakes that define us but how we respond to them. That night, the universe was looking out for me but also trying to teach me a lesson, and that lesson was clear—life is precious—my life, the lives of my loved ones, and the lives of the innocent victims of drunk drivers. At that moment I vowed never to drive drunk again, and that promise is for life.
Thanks to Google, Your Resume is No Longer Good Enough
Over the last 12 months it has been easier than ever to get a job....
Read MoreThe Dangers of Copper Barware
While unlikely to cause real harm, it’s important to be aware Back in 2014, I...
Read MoreWhat Will it Look Like When We Reopen?
As restrictions slowly loosen around the country, it’s only a matter of time before bars...
Read MoreIs Your Music Driving Away Business?
Music and lighting are the two most important factors in determining the ambiance of a...
Read More