On Drunk Drivers and Gratitude

Last night about 11:30 I was driving home by myself from a late showing of Strangers with Candy, thinking to myself about how it was not as inspired as the TV series of the same name. I suspected the movie might be lackluster, but I like Amy Sedaris and I couldn’t resist seeing Stephen Colbert (thankfully he was worth the price of the ticket). John opted not to go with me because he had to get up early and hadn’t slept that well the night before.

As I approached the intersection of 10th and College wondering how Sedaris maintained that ridiculously large overbite throughout the entire film I noticed a rusty LTD coming from the opposite direction. It gently swerved into my lane. At first I thought the driver decided to make a last minute left turn onto 10th so I slowed down, but once it got into my lane it just stayed there heading straight toward me. I honked but it kept coming and finally I had just enough time to jerk the wheel to the right, avoiding what was probably a drunk driver but not the very large curb I was forced onto that popped my tire and crushed my rim.

Rattled I got out to look at the damage. The car wasn’t going anywhere. A guy waiting at the bus stop on the corner asked me if I had a spare, which I did. As I opened the trunk a pick-up pulled next to me. A wiry guy got out, probably in his 40s, buzz-cut and wearing a wife-beater. I could hear him repeating in a strong Kentucky accent a series of numbers and letters. I finally figured out he was saying the license plate number of the car that ran me off the road. I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote it down.

“I saw it all and drove back to give it to you. Here’s my name and phone number.” He started telling me about how his car had been totaled recently by someone with no insurance. “You need a phone or anything?” Actually I did. I’d left mine at home, of course. “Yeah, I need to call my…” I tried to think of a word that wouldn’t get me jumped on a dark Midwestern street at midnight. “The guy I live with,” was all my scrambled brain could come up with. I felt guilty that fear had gotten the best of me. He let me borrow his phone, but even as I dialed I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to wake John up. If he has trouble sleeping one night, he’ll usually take an Ambian the next. Sure enough, no answer.

Trying to avoid further conversation I said, “He’s probably asleep. I’ll just fix the flat myself. I think I have what I need. If not, I’ll just walk home and get John. I don’t live too far from here (a lie, we live about a 40 minute walk from that corner).” I thanked him for taking the trouble of coming back and he left.

Turns out I had everything I needed but a tire iron, which comes in handy when changing a flat, so I started walking toward home. Soon a sputtering, beat-up Beretta pulled up and rolled down its window. “Is that your car back there? Do you need any help?” It was a woman in her 20s. I could here a baby crying in the back seat.

“Actually, I’m walking home to get some things to fix it.”

“Do you live near here?”

“I live up in Holy Cross. Would you mind dropping me off at Highland ST,” which would cut about 15 minutes off my walk. In retrospect, I can’t believe I asked a young woman to give me a ride at midnight on 10th Street. If I’d been her, I probably would have said no. But she said, “sure.” She told me she was on her way home from work and had just picked up her baby. I thanked her profusely and got out at Highland.

I started walking along darker streets, praying for safety. A few blocks in I noticed a man walking toward me carrying some sort of stick. I tried to look taller, clutching my keys like a fist full of silver dollars, ready to throw a punch if I needed to. As I got closer I heard the guy say, “Hi Sweetie!” It was John and he was carrying a tire iron.

“What are you doing out here, with a tire iron?” I asked. For a half-second I wondered if he wasn’t some midnight mirage conjured up by fear and a need for sleep.

“The phone kept ringing. I couldn’t get to it in time so I pushed star 69 to find out who it was. A guy asked if I knew someone with a white Grand Am. When I said I did he told me what happened. He asked me, ‘Who is he to you?’ and I told him you were my partner. I’m too Ambianized to drive, so I grabbed a tire iron and started walking.” I don’t know how John knew I needed a tire iron, but it didn’t surprise me. He’s like a walking Swiss army knife.

I used John’s phone to report the license of the drunk driver as we walked back to the car. Even Ambianzed, John put on the spare. “I’ve put brakes on this car so many times, it will take us longer to drive home than for me to replace the tire.” I was amazed, but he was right. He chatted the entire time, probably trying to keep himself awake. As he worked, several other drivers stopped and asked if we needed help, all driving cars as beat up as ours. The nicer cars kept moving. I felt like I was living a 21st century version of The Good Samaritan story.

When we got the spare on we realized it had about a frog’s breath worth of air in it. We said a prayer and drove on it anyway. 10 mph all the way. By the time we pulled up in front of the house we were driving on the rim, but we made it.

I know I should be mad about the drunk driver and my own stupidity for not carrying a phone and a decent spare, but honestly, I can’t stop thinking about how kind people were—complete strangers in the middle of the night and in a not so great part of town. And on top of that, God is gracious enough to have me living with my own guardian angel. I’m bizarrely grateful for the experience.