The Pickleman Speaketh...Don't Drink and Drive

I've shared this before, but since today is the 36th anniversary, I thought I'd share a true and personal story about the dangers of drinking and driving. I wrote the following in 1998. All it takes is one mistake or bad decision and your life and the lives of those you love are changed forever. What you're about to read happened on Labor Day weekend, September 3 - 6th, 1983. I am still haunted by the poor decisions I made that night.

I opened my eyes to the sound of my mother's voice.  It was strange.  She sounded far away.  I was disoriented.  Gradually my surroundings came into focus.  A piercing bright light blinded me.  The last thing I remembered was lying down in the van.

David and I in California

     "Ouch."

     "Sir, you're gonna have to be still."

     "Are you all right?"

     "Mom, is that you?"

     "If you keep moving I'm going to remove the phone," said a faceless stranger with tweezers and string in hand.

     "Mom, are you there?"

     "I'm here."

I imagined her at home in Connecticut.  Whenever my grandparents called us from California, my brothers and sister would go scattering to the different phone extensions to say a few words.  It was always the same.  We would relay to them everything that had happened to us since the last call, then Pop would tease us about how lovely the weather was in L.A.  Nana was always the last to speak and the calls always ended the same, "Good-bye.  Love ya'.  God Bless."

     "Mom, what's happening?"

     "Have you seen your brother?"

I turned my head.  The clock on the wall, beyond the annoying stranger with the tweezers read one-thirty.  I pictured my mom on the phone, and could hear my dad on the extension.  Some quick math told me it was four-thirty back home.

     "I can't do this if you keep moving."

     "Son, there's been an accident,” my dad said, his voice cracking.  I had never heard that sound before.  He was the strongest man I ever knew.  I could hear my mom sobbing on the extension.

     "How much have you been drinking?" another voice asked.  I turned and saw an officer standing next to the doorway with pen and notebook in hand.

     "Oh!  This is impossible!"  She turned and left in a huff.

     "David might not make it through the night." 

     "What?"

     "I said, how much have you had to drink?"  He looked like he was getting impatient.

I was the oldest child.  My brother David was a year younger.  He was followed by my sister and my youngest brother.  My parents were hard-working people.

David was labelled as the problem child.  He had the terrible knack of getting caught.  On the other hand, much of what I did was just as bad, if not worse, however, I was rarely caught and often said anything to appease my parents.  If David disagreed with something, he ranted and raved about it until he found himself getting punished.

A great lesson of my childhood occurred in the fourth grade when I watched David get beat up in the school yard by an older and bigger boy.  I was sure that when we got home from school that day he'd  be punished for fighting.  To my surprise, it was me who was punished.

     "But dad, David started it."

     "I don't care who started it.  Don't you ever just stand by and watch your brother get beat up." 

I'm sure I saw David smirk out of the corner of my eye and I know he used that bit of knowledge to his advantage.  Over the years the two of us were sent home from school for fighting more times than I care to remember.

In Little League I was the catcher and David was the pitcher.  Dad could be heard in the stands, "C'mon Davey-Baby."  My dad knew the importance of good left handed pitching.

     "I don't remember."

     "We found about a dozen empties in the van."

I started drinking my senior year in high school.  My grades slipped and with no plans for the future, I enlisted in the Air Force.  With my future secure, I drank more frequently.  After enlisting for four years, I was sent home after a mere 10-month stint.

David joined the Marines and went to Japan.  Everyone said that the Marines had straightened him out.  I moved to L.A. and didn't see him much.

David had a welcome home party in Connecticut when he returned from Japan.  He called me in L.A.

     "How ya' doin'?"

     "Great, hey, how's your party?"

     "We’re having a ball."

     "That's great.  I wish I could've made it home."

     "I wish you could've as well.  I gotta go now.  I love you big brother."

I don't know why I felt embarrassed.  I was all alone three thousand miles away.

     "I love you too."

I was invited to a party filled weekend at my buddy's house in San Francisco.  I asked David to come along.  He was stationed in California at the time.

     "I don't know.  I went to sleep."

     "So your brother was driving?"

     "You have to say good-bye from all of us."  I heard her sob.

     "I'll get the details later," he said as he closed his notebook and left the room.

     "Listen to me," he ordered.  "You have to say good-bye to your brother.  We'll be there as soon as we can." 

     "Mom, dad, I'm sorry.  I love you."

     "Sir, we really have to close that wound."

Earlier it had taken David two and a half hours to get from Camp Pendleton to L.A.  It was already dark when he arrived.  We loaded the van and I bought a case of beer for the drive to San Francisco.  I drank while driving, like always.  David drank one beer, then slept in the van's bed.  Four hours later, I woke him up.

     "Here, you drive.  I need to get some sleep."

     "Why don't we just stop for the night?"

     "We can't.  We don't want to waste the whole weekend driving.  We gotta be in San Fran for sunrise."

David drove.

     "Where's my brother?"

     "He's in the next room."

     "I need to see him, now."

I passed a mirror as I was wheeled to the next room.  My body was torn but in time it would heal.  David was lying in white linens surrounded by technology.  He looked so peaceful.

My younger brother, David

More than three decades have passed since that night.  The pain in my family's eyes is always evident.  At times I dream of him but the final moments are never vivid.  Maybe it's better I can't fully remember.  Still I wake with questions in the middle of the night.  "Why?" is the most prominent.  I am reminded of my nana's words from so long ago..."Good-bye, Love ya', God bless."

© Art Gerckens, 2011