Jordan Sonnenblick - Notes from the Midnight Driver

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Yes, I know everybody says thatbut Im serious. As insane as it looks in retrospect, I was fully convinced on that particular Friday evening last September that stealing my moms car and storming my dads house was a brilliant plan. And not brilliant, as in,That was a brilliant answer you gave in Spanish today. I mean brilliant, as in, Wow, Einstein, when you came up with that relativity thing, and it revolutionized our entire concept of space and time while also leading all of humankind into the nuclear age, that was brilliant!

The plan had a certain elegant simplicity, too. I would drink one more pint of Dads old vodka, grab Moms spare car keys, jump into the Dodge, and fire that sucker up. Then I would speed through the deserted, moonlit streets, straight and true as a homing missile, or at least straight and true as a sober person who actually knew how to drive. When I skidded triumphantly into Dads driveway, I would leap nimbly from the car, race to the front door, ring the bell with a fury rarely encountered by any bell, anywhereand catch my father with the no-good home-wrecking wench who was once, in a forgotten life we used to have, my third-grade teacher.

Okay, perhaps these plans would theoretically work better if the planner were not already completely intoxicated. But Id never gotten drunk beforeso how was I supposed to know Id get so smashed so quickly? And hey, if my mom had really wanted to keep me from driving drunk without a license at age sixteen, would she have gone out on a date and left me home with a car, a liquor cabinet, and some keys?

I rest my case.

So I downed some more booze straight from the bottle and lunged for the key ring, grabbing it by the wooden number 1 I had made for my Number One Mom in Cub Scouts. I threw on my Yankees jacket, slammed my way out of the house, got into the car, and started it. Then I believe there was some drama with the gear stick and the parking brake, and probably a bit of fun with the gas pedal.

The next thing I knew, I was hanging out the passenger door, puking up vodka and Ring Dings. When I got my eyes sort of focused, I could see that the car was up on a lawn. When I got them even more focused, I could see that my last salvo of vomit had completely splattered two shiny black objectsthe well-polished shoes of one angry police officer. He yanked me out of the car, largely by the hair, and stood me up. I remember him saying, Look at that! Look what you did. I also remember trying to follow his pointing finger. And when I finally zoomed in on what was lying in front of the car, I couldnt believe it. There was a detached head about ten feet in front of the bumper!

The cop sort of puppet-marched me up to the horrific scene and forced my head down close to the carnage. This head was seriously injured, to be sure. It was upside down, smushed up against a tree stump. There was no body in sight. I whirled around so fast that the cop almost lost hold of me, and crouched to look under Moms car. Sure enough, an arm and a leg were sticking out from underneath the left front wheel.

Officer, sir, did Iis heisummm

I could feel the tears welling up. My eyes burned, and the next wave of acid was coming up my throat in a hurry.

Yes, son. You ruined my brand-new shoes, smashed up your car, and decapitated Mrs. Wilsons French lawn gnome. Youre in some serious

Lawn gnome? LAWN GNOME?

Now that I looked a bit more closely, I noticed that the head wasnt bleeding, and that the ear had cracked off with inhuman neatness. I began to laugh like an idiot, but my relief came too late to halt my barf, which came out mostly through my noseand landed on the officers left side, all over his walkietalkie.

This was even more of a crack-up. I started mumbling, Walkie-talkie-barfie, walkie-talkie-barfie, which amused me almost all the way to the police station. You would think Id have been pretty scared by this point, but because I had drunk so much vodka so fast, I was still getting drunker by the second. Even with my hands cuffed behind my backand the cuffs were REALLY tight, because the officer hadnt been enjoying me much so farI was like a little one-man house party in the back seat of the cruiser. The last thing I remember was getting bored of the dispatch radio, and shouting, Change the station! Get me some ROCK! Then the car turned a sharp corner, and the window was tilting and rushing toward my face.

You know what must really be a highlight of being a desk cop? Processing the arrests of drunk people. After several of my new pals in blue dragged me semiconscious (I mean, I was semiconscious; they were pretty alert) into the station, they left me cuffed to a scuffed-up old wooden seat across from some old guy with a badge. I decided his name was Sarge. He had that fingerprinting pad thing and a bunch of questions for me, and didnt waste any time easing into things.

Right thumb.

I stared at the weaving, bobbing blurs that had replaced my hands, trying to figure out which was which. I cant find the right one; theyre too bloody.

Sure enough, they were, because I had a cut over my left eye, which must have been hidden from view beneath my adorable mop of hair. Sarge apparently saw the blood, but not the source, because he sighed one of those big annoyed sighs that public servants make when they are forced to do actual work, reached into his desk, and pulled out a pack of wet wipes. Geez, you musta really banged your nose. Get your hands cleaned up, kid. Ill be back in a minute. By the way, genius, your right hand is the one that aint chained to the desk.

He walked away to get a cup of coffee or whatever. I got my hands clean, then reached my free hand up to wipe the hair out of my eyes. Which got it all gory again. I repeated this at least three times, creating an impressive pile of crumbled, deep-pink-stained wipes. Then I got the marvy idea that maybe I could just wipe the blood off my head first. I pushed my hair all the way up off my forehead, the alcoholsoaked wipe touched my wound, and I sobered up REAL fast, just as Sarge was putting his cup of steaming liquid on the desk blotter.

Ooooowwwww! I screamed. Up I jumped. Up jumped my arm. Up jumped the handcuff. Up jumped the desk. Up flew the coffee.

Ooooowwwww! screamed Sarge. Sarge was wet!

Eventually the sodden mass of paper, blood, wipes, and coffee was disposed of by a guy in rubber gloves. Sarge found a new pair of pants, and came back. He took a really long look at my forehead, the mixture of blood, snot, and tears that was flowing freely across my facial features, and the moist abstract painting that had been his desk blotter, and decided to use a trick which always works for my dad: He would make me Somebody Elses Problem.

Sarge shouted across the room, Call me an ambulance!

I couldnt stop myself. Okay, youre an ambulance!