hugh c. mcbride
Driving Drunk? I'm rooting for you!
By Hugh C. McBride
I spent much of my senior year in college hoping that my best friend would kill himself.
To be precise, I was hoping that he would kill only himself.
Like many of us who were in our early 20s during the late 80s, Danny (not his real name) enjoyed an adult beverage or eleven to commemorate milestones such as passing a test, ending a relationship or waking up alive.
In Danny’s case, though, on more than one occasion the most important ritual occurred the next day, when someone would help him find his vehicle - the one he’d driven home the night before, but had no idea where he’d parked - inspect it to verify the absence of any ominous dents, then endure his inevitable “I promise, I’m never going to do that again,” speech.
Every time he said it, Danny may have really believed that he’d never be drunk behind the wheel again. But the rest of us knew it was just a matter of time.
From the vantage point of a decade and a half, it’s obvious that Danny was a classic alcoholic. One drink led to five, and five was just a speed bump on the road to oblivion.
In four years, I never saw him “happily tipsy” - he went from stone-cold sober to raging and incoherent. (And since “raging and incoherent” was the purpose of many of our parties, no one paid much notice - at least until he returned senior year with a vehicle all his own.)
The topic of our failure to get Danny the help he needed is worthy of a commentary all its own - and has been the topic of more than one of my late-night, ceiling-staring meditations. But the purpose of this diatribe is to address one specific aspect of Danny’s story - the part I call “the idiot in the driver’s seat.”
Even in our post-adolescent stupidity, we knew that Danny had no business behind the wheel when he’d been anywhere near alcohol, and we did our honest best to keep him away from the ignition switch.
We wouldn’t let him drive when we were going out, and several times we literally wrestled him to the ground to get his keys away from him.
But the fact remains that every drunk driving episode Danny undertook began with a sober decision to involve himself with alcohol and an automobile.
He wasn’t short of friends and he wasn’t short of support - whether he wanted to drink himself into next week or check himself into rehab, one of us would have been there help make his wish come true.
All he had to give in return was a shred of concern for his fellow humans and the keys to his car.
But apparently that was too much to ask.
And I guess that’s where my compassion for Danny ended - when I realized that every time he drove to a bar or a party he was making a conscious decision to risk not only his own life but also the lives of everyone unlucky enough to be on the road with him.
I have a similar contempt for the many members of the Stuttgart and Garmisch military communities who have been involved in the area’s recent dramatic increase in DUI arrests.
Now, I’m enough of a libertarian to celebrate your right to destroy your own life - and if you don’t care about the effect on your family or friends, why should I? - but inevitably one of “our” drunk drivers is going to kill somebody.
So let’s stop sugar-coating this topic. If you choose to drive drunk, you’re not suffering from a sickness, you’re not numbing yourself to stress, you’re not crying out for help - you’re willingly putting yourself in a position to end someone else’s life, or at the very least kill yourself.
Guess which one I’m rooting for.
[This commentary originally appeared in the Aug. 10, 2004 edition of The Citizen.]
I spent much of my senior year in college hoping that my best friend would kill himself.
To be precise, I was hoping that he would kill only himself.
Like many of us who were in our early 20s during the late 80s, Danny (not his real name) enjoyed an adult beverage or eleven to commemorate milestones such as passing a test, ending a relationship or waking up alive.
In Danny’s case, though, on more than one occasion the most important ritual occurred the next day, when someone would help him find his vehicle - the one he’d driven home the night before, but had no idea where he’d parked - inspect it to verify the absence of any ominous dents, then endure his inevitable “I promise, I’m never going to do that again,” speech.
Every time he said it, Danny may have really believed that he’d never be drunk behind the wheel again. But the rest of us knew it was just a matter of time.
From the vantage point of a decade and a half, it’s obvious that Danny was a classic alcoholic. One drink led to five, and five was just a speed bump on the road to oblivion.
In four years, I never saw him “happily tipsy” - he went from stone-cold sober to raging and incoherent. (And since “raging and incoherent” was the purpose of many of our parties, no one paid much notice - at least until he returned senior year with a vehicle all his own.)
The topic of our failure to get Danny the help he needed is worthy of a commentary all its own - and has been the topic of more than one of my late-night, ceiling-staring meditations. But the purpose of this diatribe is to address one specific aspect of Danny’s story - the part I call “the idiot in the driver’s seat.”
Even in our post-adolescent stupidity, we knew that Danny had no business behind the wheel when he’d been anywhere near alcohol, and we did our honest best to keep him away from the ignition switch.
We wouldn’t let him drive when we were going out, and several times we literally wrestled him to the ground to get his keys away from him.
But the fact remains that every drunk driving episode Danny undertook began with a sober decision to involve himself with alcohol and an automobile.
He wasn’t short of friends and he wasn’t short of support - whether he wanted to drink himself into next week or check himself into rehab, one of us would have been there help make his wish come true.
All he had to give in return was a shred of concern for his fellow humans and the keys to his car.
But apparently that was too much to ask.
And I guess that’s where my compassion for Danny ended - when I realized that every time he drove to a bar or a party he was making a conscious decision to risk not only his own life but also the lives of everyone unlucky enough to be on the road with him.
I have a similar contempt for the many members of the Stuttgart and Garmisch military communities who have been involved in the area’s recent dramatic increase in DUI arrests.
Now, I’m enough of a libertarian to celebrate your right to destroy your own life - and if you don’t care about the effect on your family or friends, why should I? - but inevitably one of “our” drunk drivers is going to kill somebody.
So let’s stop sugar-coating this topic. If you choose to drive drunk, you’re not suffering from a sickness, you’re not numbing yourself to stress, you’re not crying out for help - you’re willingly putting yourself in a position to end someone else’s life, or at the very least kill yourself.
Guess which one I’m rooting for.
[This commentary originally appeared in the Aug. 10, 2004 edition of The Citizen.]
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