I once drove ninety-six miles of a dark Texas highway, drunk off my ass. My inebriated state didn’t lighten my foot, but I held an intense focus. I don't know if it was my training or the mindset my training gave me, but I was getting my ass home. I had to report for duty in three hours – shaved, clean, and with a perfect uniform. It was a day designated for blues.
My girlfriend laid next to me – passed out, laying still enough to cause me a little concern. But I had no time for that. “Focus, Airman…you got this.”
The night air was cold enough to keep me up while I chainsmoked and rapped along to my favorite Tupac songs. Outside was the darkest of dark. I saw no stars or moon, I couldn't see clouds. That highway didn't have lights – only at the sparse rest areas or exits. The long stretches were unsettling. Perhaps, I would have been more afraid if I wasn't drunk. Of course, if I wasn't drunk, there'd be no need to be afraid. I should have been. I was a drunk black kid driving 80 mph at 0300 with an unconscious, drunk white girl in my car. If I was caught, “Sir, I’m in the military, I'm trying to report, and this is my girlfriend” might have saved me. However, If I was lucky enough to be only arrested and ticketed, I'd be in danger of losing my credentials for my job.
“Oh my God, dude…sing and smoke…sing and smoke…your life actually depends on it.”
The drive went by aggressively slowly. My efforts went to avoiding sleep. The road bent where I didn’t remember it bending. My vision was blurry and shaky. I grasped my girlfriend’s hand to gain confidence, even if it wasn't actively given. I decided to smoke her cigarettes. They were awful so I assumed I would stay awake.
My girlfriend opened her eyes and began to rock from side to side for nearly a minute, then said “I have to pee” before laying down and returning to sleep. I could do nothing but focus on the road.
I pulled into the first gas station I saw, lights disturbingly bright. Patrons held and drank from brown bags. I expected as much at 0445 on a Monday. I woke her, “go pee.”
She opened her eyes and stared at me blankly.
“Babe, go pee.”
She slowly exited the car. I lit another cigarette in triumph, deeply breathing relief. She returned.
“How did you know I had to pee?” She asked.
“You shook and then told me.”
“I shook?”
“You fuckin’ shook.”
She fastened her seatbelt, rolled over and drifted off. She fell asleep so concretely, I had to carry her into my apartment. I worried how it looked, especially on my side of town. It was a diverse area with lots of break-ins and public fights. Years later, a different woman, my new wife, would witness a shooting and brutal beating in front of our house. But, I digress.
I finally got her into my apartment and laid her down. Without removing clothing, I laid next to her and slept for an hour before waking to my alarm. Time to report. My blues felt cold, but looked sharp after a good ironing. No time to shave before I left, so I grabbed my electric razor and shaved on my way.
At work, I stared at my computer screen in complete agony, trying not to fall asleep or throw up. And so went the day, until I could finally go home and rest.
