A persistent knock came mid- morning, raspy on my metal front door. “I don’t want any!” I yelled from my rumpled bed.
“Police. Open Up.”
I look out the window. It’s the Boys in Blue, alright. I hope I didn’t do something stupid last night because I have one hellacious hangover!
“Sir, is this your car?” the taller one asks, pointing into the fog. They take me on a walk around. It’s my ride alright, parked crooked on the street with one wheel up on the curb, but I don’t remember putting it there. I also can’t explain the deep dent on the hood or the spider web cracks covering the passenger side of the windshield.
“There was an incident,” says the same officer, “earlier this morning, just two blocks from here. We need you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
The cold steel cuffs click tight around my wrists. I still don’t know what this is all about, but the shorter cop doesn’t look so happy, as he crams me into the back seat of his cruiser. At the station, I blow a 0.15 on a Breathalyzer test, almost twice the legal limit.
It’s coming back to me now, playing darts and throwing down beers with the regulars at Ollie’s Tavern. After closing at 2 AM, Gus, the bartender, offered to call me an UBER. But I begged off. I must have dozed for a while in my car before heading home.
Driving up the last hill before my apartment, I reached into the glove box for an aspirin. Now that I think about it, I do remember a thump. I thought it was a cardboard box blowing across the road. I swear I never saw the young man running, just before dawn, in the hi-vis vest.
It’s been six months now, and I’m still sitting in jail. My bail is set at $10,000, and I owe at least that much in court costs and fines. Even if I beat the charges, I can never go back to Number Twenty-Eight. The lad I ran down lived in Number Twenty-Seven.
Postscript:
I’m now three years into a twelve-year sentence for vehicular manslaughter. With time off for good behavior, I could get out in three more. I’ll be 82 then.
I’ve been sober ever since that awful early morning. It’s no consolation to the young man’s mother, though. She told me herself: “Make my son’s death matter; tell others not to drive under the influence–like you did.”
So, I do. They take me out, cuffs and all, to speak to packed high school auditoriums. I tell how I drank like a fish from the age of eleven and drank and drove for decades afterward. I warn them how one stupid choice can take an innocent person’s life and ruin your own. Then I close with a verse from the Bible, given to me by our prison chaplain:
Through love and faithfulness sin is atoned for; through the fear of the Lord a man avoids evil.
Proverbs 16:6 (NIV)
This story was inspired by Matthew Richardson’s The Young Man from Number Twenty-Seven. Matthew is a writer of short stories. He blogs at matthewrichardson.com
Kind reader, this is an unusual post from me. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be back tomorrow with my usual fare. Thank you for reading. 🙏❤️ prayers and love.
Davids Daily Dose 
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