Tag: regrets

I did that

I was recently asked what I have made that I am most proud of. It was an intriguing question that, to answer properly, and tell the story that first comes to mind, required that I take the word “made” out of context a bit. Because the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words “Made”, and “proud”, the very first thing I think of is my children.

Without putting too fine a point on it, biologically speaking I “made” my children. Putting aside the obvious and fun fact that “making” a baby is a very nice thing, I would also like to think that I helped make them who they are.

This may shock some, but I think all of my children are pretty great. I say that because everyone thinks their kids are great. Sure, many are. Then again, Ted Bundy’s mother thought hers was pretty special also. But I digress. 

My children are a source of great pride to me because they are all good human beings. They have values and act on them. They have big hearts and use them. They are smart, hard-working, caring, generous, and there for each other. They love, and most importantly forgive each other. And their mother and I. That’s a big one.

My children grew up in a tumultuous household with a stressed-out, sick father and Borderline personality (diagnosed later in life) mother. We had plenty of moments of fun and frivolity, as well as loving, tender moments. But many bad episodes ranged from tiptoeing around someone’s bad mood, all the way to F-bombs and words exchanged that can never be taken back. Or forgotten. There were some moments, post-calamity in which I sat back and genuinely feared that the damage done to my children, due to their parent’s inability to control themselves, would be crippling and irreversible. Those moments overpowered me.

I can’t expect someone that hasn’t been through something like that to understand, so I’ll point out the crippling part of such a moment. When you fear repercussions, long-term and crushing ones in which you may have potentially ruined your children’s concept of marriage, relationships, how to treat a man/woman properly, etc., it is not only an unbearable weight but it is also something that will take a long, long time to come to fruition, if at all. All you can do is wait and hope for the best.

Somehow, they all grew up relatively unscathed by the absurdity of their parents’ behavior and are all in healthy, wonderful relationships.

Bullet Dodged. 

I am truly a lucky man to be able to walk free of shame or guilt because my children turned out well. It’s always the goal but there’s never a guarantee of the outcome. I am father to 4 great people, ones that, long after I am gone, will continue to make the world a better place. When people tell me what great kids I have, part of me beams because, let’s face it, I had something to do with it. 

I helped in making them.

Another repressed memory

What started out as a Charitable fundraiser quickly turned into a blast from the past.
Last Saturday I was going to my Masonic Lodge’s annual Open House. It is a day selected by the Grand Lodge of Masons in MA for us to open our building to the public for any man interested in Masonry. For three years, our lodge has taken the additional step of having a “Pumpkin Fest” for the community to enjoy. Local vendors donate pumpkins that we offer for donations as well as gift cards that we raffle off. The highlight of the event is always the kids painting their pumpkins. I always make sure there are plenty of paints, yarn, glue, googly eyes, and Sharpies for the kids to have at it. As I drove, the anticipation warmed me.
My phone rang as I was 10 minutes out. A brother had called to tell me that someone, a woman in possession of attractive qualities, had stopped by to see me. Her name was Sandy. I asked to speak to her and was told that she left.
When I got there I asked what she wanted. He relayed an odd message to me, she had come to tell me something that she and I had already discussed recently. Sandy and I went to High School together. And for context, she and I dated after High School. I shot her a text asking her to come back if she had time.

Fast forward an hour and a half. The event was in full swing when I saw her walking up the driveway. While we were in occasional contact by text, the last time I had seen her was 5 years ago at the last HS reunion.
She looked great.
I invited her in and we got to talking. I asked her why she had left a redundant message for me. She said that it wasn’t why she came by. We moved past it. We caught up as much as the situation allowed. It was crowded and busy and we were interrupted often. Somehow the conversation got serious and we began to talk about when we dated. As we spoke it became obvious that there was a time in which we really enjoyed each other’s company. Sadly,I had forgotten (repressed?)a lot of it. I asked her why we broke up, or in our case just stopped seeing each other. She couldn’t tell me why and I had nothing to offer. I was troubled by that.
We talked for another 15-20 minutes and she then had to leave. We hugged and said goodbye. I joked with her that if she became unhappy with her husband I would gladly take her off his hands. She laughed and said, “Will do”.
I wonder if she knew that I was serious.

I should have been satisfied with the exchange. My brothers were all picking on me (my romantic exploits were common fodder for conversation) and I played along. But I was anything but jubilant. I was confused and full of regrets. As if regrets weren’t bad enough, I didn’t even remember what it was that I regretted; other than the nagging feeling that I may have, 30 years ago, messed up things with a woman I could have been happy with.

Sandy and I go way back. We were pals in High School. In Marching Band, she had reminded me of the time I had wrapped her in a blanket on a cold night far from home at a competition. She had thought I was kind. Enough so that she remembered it for all of these years. I had my own word for it.
Stupid.
I was stupid then. Stupid to not have asked her out then. Stupid to let her go when I finally had her. Stupid now as I get hit yet again with the consequences of being such a misguided, lost idiot for so many years.

I have so many regrets in life that I am grappling with. It just makes it worse that new ones continue to show up.

The 2AM friend

I have this amazing friend. She is a fellow blogger. Many years ago, 4 of us decided that we wanted to put a face to the words and we sacrificed our WordPress anonymity for a get-together. We all hit it off and became real-life friends. I became particularly close with one and we have served as each other’s confidantes and support system as each of us navigated the challenges of family, chronic illness, and life in general. And despite our distance, we maintain contact. We both believe in the mantra that friendship doesn’t require constant communication, but instead to pick right up where you left off when you reconnect.
We earned the right to bestow upon each other the role of 2 AM friend. The 2AM friend is a coveted distinction. It implies that no matter what time of day, especially early morning, if you need to talk then you can call and the other will pick up.

Well, shame on me. The other night I got a 1:35 AM call from her and in my sleeping stupor I ended the call. I didn’t even look who was calling, I just assumed it was a butt-dial.

When I saw the next morning who had called I reached out. “Was that a butt-dial?”, I asked.
It wasn’t. She was in a bad place and needed to talk to someone and she chose me. And I wasn’t there for her.

What fucking good does being a 2AM friend if you don’t answer the call? Shame on me. If you’re reading this my dear friend please know that I feel terrible and if you choose to give me another chance I won’t let you down.

Yes, I apologized to her already but I felt the need to put it to paper.

My legacy

I don’t write often about my experience as a parent. I’m surprised at myself because raising my children is one of the few things I feel I was successful. It didn’t always seem that way, I have an awful lot of regrets about the environment they were raised in with all of the fighting and marital hostility. In fact, there was a time that I truly thought that my kids would have no chance at happiness after seeing some of the debacles that took place in my house. I’m not proud and I don’t think my ex is either. I stayed awake many nights lamenting the things said and heard and beat myself up mercilessly for allowing myself to get into it with her constantly in front of the kids. Yet she continued to bait me, like a fat kid with a cupcake, and I fell into it. The fighting was brutal.

For my part, I was quick to apologize to them and tried to explain to them what was happening but it was difficult to do without making myself look innocent, which I certainly wasn’t, and not making their mother the villain. I vowed that I would never ever play the kids against their mother ever, kids are not a pawn. I wish I could say the same for my ex. When I attempted to pack my shit and leave one day, her first reaction was to say, “If you think you’re going to waltz in here and see the kids whenever you want you’re sadly mistaken.”
Yup, I knew it. She was one of those parents.
Then the kids asked me to stay. My oldest daughter clinched it with one sentence. “Dad, you can’t leave, she’ll be so much worse if you aren’t here.” There you have it. So I stayed. For 10 miserable, hostile and sexless fucking years I stayed because of the kids. Many people advised me that it was a mistake but I know I did the right thing. First of all, my happiness is secondary to theirs and always will be. Second, I know it solidified my relationship with my children. They would be strangers to me today if I had left then.

For those ten years things were a little better in that I didn’t allow myself to get sucked into a lot of the arguments. We became barely friendly roommates and merely tolerated each other. I focused all of my attention on rebuilding and strengthening my relationship with my children. I decided that I had to be the adult and I learned to suppress my passions and anger and focus on them. My wife, for her part made sure that she tortured me about my job, my pay, my health and my apparent indifference to her negative bullshit. I only rarely took the bait. I didn’t know what my future held but I was certain all along that Bankruptcy, a foreclosure and a divorce were definitely part of it. The only question was when.

My wife spent money like a drunk sailor with a fistful of Viagra. And she was totally unaccountable for it. She bought elaborate gifts for her best friend, who she was unhealthily attached to (a symptom of her then undiagnosed Borderline Personality disorder) while requesting of our family that we not exchange gifts because we didn’t have the money, effectively alienating my Holiday loving family. She refused to show me her Credit card statements but continuously scrutinized mine and yelled at me in front of the kids. I bought a lot of alcohol, I will admit it, but anyone who has ever met her would easily understand the need for that. Money, and her attitude about it would be the biggest source of fighting and the kids knew all about it. I think it put them in a bad spot, as if they felt guilty. I never wanted that.

My devotion to the kids and my commitment to their turning out as “normal” as possible continued. As they got older they understood what was going on and, without my asking for it, they felt bad for me. I defended her, with difficulty, because I didn’t want to be that guy. What I didn’t realize is that they knew what she was about and they acted more out of fear than love with her. Consequently, I unwittingly became the favorite parent. It wasn’t all too difficult, when they asked her for help or advice her first reaction was usually based upon how it affecter her, not them. She was quick to assign fault and blame and less interested in soothing the pain and finding solutions. While I, on the other hand, tried to offer an ear and a solution without judgment or blame.

While I plan on discussing this dynamic in greater detail in future blogs, I want to jump ahead and tell you that despite the horrible and regrettable example that we once were, they turned out absolutely wonderful. In particular, all four have healthy relationships. I was fearful that our example might tarnish them but it didn’t. I’m also not afraid to tell you that despite my efforts to the contrary, I think I am the favorite parent.

My marriage was contemptuous at best. The only good takeaway I have is my relationship with my children. It negates the anger and bitterness that I felt for so long. And I am happy to report that I have a decent relationship with the ex because I chose to let go of my anger and bitterness. Emotional baggage makes my neck hurt and I couldn’t carry it around anymore. I did it for me, not for her. I’m proud of the sacrifices I made in the interest of winning back my children. They are and will continue to be my crowning achievement. I have four amazing ,good-hearted citizens who make the world a better place. They make me proud every single day. I need not desire or seek a legacy, they have done it for me.

Before it’s too late

Often when I take a break from blogging it is because I can’t think of a topic. Sometimes it’s just laziness. Sometimes I just get busy, I’m pretty active for a guy with nothing to do. Then other times I just don’t know where to start.

Last week I suffered so many slaps upside the head that I just couldn’t sort my thoughts. It started with the death of a dear friend, then another old friend of the family passed, and then to top off the shit sandwich that was my weekend I found out that my best friend in the world and his young daughter had contracted the Covid-19 virus. I was floored both metaphorically and actually. I didn’t know where to begin.

The death of my friend, a elderly Freemason whose company I have enjoyed so often and so greatly was not a shock. He was elderly and in declining health. Quarantine issues made it difficult to visit him and he wintered in Florida but I had no excuse not to talk to him more frequently and I am feeling guilt even though I don’t feel that there was anything unsaid between us. It is the worst part of losing someone, wondering if you knew where you stood with them. It is THE reason that I endeavor to always leave someone as if I will never see them again, on the level (as we Masons say) and free of anger and resentment. He was my buddy, regardless of our age difference and I feel that I am a better person for having known him. I miss him terribly.

The family friend was less of a blow. He was 92 and passed peacefully. But he meant something to me as a memory of my childhood. My parents used to Square Dance (mock away I won’t resent you) and they met many solid friendships through it via conventions at Campgrounds every Summer and retreats in Winter. I can think of 5 or 6 families that I met on those occasions and the many lasting friendships with their children that I cherish now. Frank was one of the ones that stands out in my mind the most. A father of 5 awesome kids and a all-around wonderful family man, he represents an era gone by to me. I was so upset that I wasn’t able to go to his funeral. Not being able to attend funerals is one aspect of the Pandemic that is hard to reconcile.

The news that my best friend in the world contracted Covid absolutely floored me. The news may have numbed us with all of the constant talk and actual people can fade into just statistics but by now most of us know someone who has contracted it. Sadly, many of us have lost someone to it. We always hear about those people in the high-risk category. My friend is in it. He’s a big, strong man but he’s overweight. He has a heart condition. He is always tired and his immune system is vulnerable. When I heard the news, I won’t sugarcoat it, I had some very bad thoughts about worse case scenarios. And for his daughter, whom I love like my own daughter…her diagnosis scared the ever loving shit out of me. Fast-forward to today, everyone is on the mend. That is a huge relief. But I was scared.

If you are reading this, I want you to know that I care about you and I hope you never have to endure a weekend like I had last week. Tell those close to you how you feel. Make phone calls. Send emails. Don’t put yourself in a position where you know that you could have done more. We’re social creatures and we need each other more than ever.

no regrets and no hurry

I had a woman I was dating recently tell me that I talk about my ex too much. It was a deal breaker for her. She was the type (I’ve never met another quite as adamant about it) that didn’t talk about the past at all. She felt it accomplished nothing. Of course, with what I know about her she has some good reasons not to relive her past or some of the people in it. As for me, if you have read even one of my posts you will know that I talk about my past ad nauseum. It, and the people in it are a part of me and help to explain the person I am today. My past is my story, it explains everything about how I act, react, feel and think about everything. My ex is a huge part of my story, how can she not be? I spent almost 26 years of my life with her.
But I don’t talk about her because I’m hung up on her. I’m definitely not. That’s where my past lady friend got it wrong.

My new lady is more accepting of my ramblings. She knows that it is part of my process of moving on. Plus, through the benefit of my ramblings she gets frequent opportunity to shake her head in the best of “what the fuck” mannerisms. Some of my marital stories have that effect on the unindoctrinated. She has heard enough to know that my marital reality is that my ex and I are better off divorced. No threat of reconciliation there.

This post is not about my ex. We have a fine relationship now. We get along. I’ve moved on from anger, blame and remorse. She, for her part is quite comfortable with never accepting any blame, responsibility for her actions and anything resembling accountability at all. I’ve moved on from trying to understand. It’s over. This post is about Divorce.

I know a LOT of divorced Men. Some single and many with families. A lot of them have simple regrets, you know the ones, like not fucking the babysitter or new receptionist at work. Others have been through long, drawn out and messy situations. It surprises me how many of them wish they were still married. They wish they weren’t divorced. I couldn’t disagree more.

I like being divorced.

We weren’t good for each other, we get along fine, I have an amazing relationship with my children, and we have each gone on with our lives.

The other camp, the ones who say shit like “I wish I never met her…” , well their argument doesn’t apply to me. I could never say that, if not for marrying her I wouldn’t have 4 amazing kids who mean the absolute world to me and have validated my existence like no other accomplishment I could ever point to.

There are many reasons I am glad I am divorced. I have no-one to answer to. I do what I want. I buy what I want. I am no longer (neither is she) handcuffed by crippling debt. The kids are grown and my relationship with them is more that of a friend and the giver of only solicited advice. On a unique note, I no longer have to deal with the soul-crushing weight of watching someone spiral hopelessly down the drain of mental illness.

I like relationships. I have no problem, in fact I am quite comfortable with monogamy and fidelity. But I am in no terrible hurry to get into another. In fact, the fuzzy nature of my current situation is amenable to me. While I’m incredibly interested in the (married) woman I have been spending time with, I am in no rush to take things to the next level. The fact that she has a whole lot of things to take care of should she take leave of her husband (no guarantees and speculation from me at this point how long it will take if it does at all) doesn’t scare me. I’m not going anywhere for a while and I can wait and see, within reason, what happens. She may be feeling some pressure to move things along but if she is worried about losing me in the interim it shouldn’t. I really care for her and I’m not a shopper. If I like something I stick with it. It’s not like the remote theory, you may be watching a show but constantly search to see what else is on.
That’s not me. Some of my needs are being satisfied. It may surprise you that a good conversation, a nice dinner, the hug and kiss of a beautiful lady and the knowledge that someone cares about me actually go a long way with me. And these can keep me going for a little while more.

I’m a romantic who doesn’t mind being divorced. I can look at it as a failure, because it was, but it isn’t the end of me. The old me. The one that believed in love. He’s still in there somewhere. That guy is ready for a new life.

Eventually

The 4th of July

This is part 2 of a series. It can stand on it’s own or you can honor me by checking out yesterday’s post

Railroad Ave

My home town was incorporated in 1853 but the area was first settled in 1651. The building that is now the Town Hall has an enormous carved granite plaque on its walls dedicated to its founding fathers. My family is represented by 4 brave men, 3 of which died in the Civil War. Equally represented on the wall are the Smith’s (not their real names).

My family was always a presence in town, the Smith’s spread out all over Metropolitan Boston as aggressively as they proliferated in town. It was only inevitable that the two families would one day merge.

In the late 1940’s my Grandparents on my father’s side, along with a few cousins all moved to an uninhabited stretch of land along the abandoned Railroad tracks behind the Fire Station. It was an undesirable lot of land in many ways. On either side of the tracks was wetland that was prone to flooding every Spring. The ground was soft and needed to be fortified to build on. The insects were abominable in the summer. The Fire whistle on the nearby station was devastatingly loud. But the prospect of one family owning a whole street was attractive. Despite the family legacy of my family in town, we weren’t a family of wealth or influence. We were poor. 4 modest dwellings soon went up as 3 cousins I barely knew, and my Grandparents set up residence.

Railroad Avenue was born.

By the time I was born in 1965 my Grandparents had long since moved to the other side of town. Grandpa was forced into early retirement, sick with Emphysema from a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. He wasn’t able to afford the maintenance of a house. Ellie, my father’s youngest sister moved with them and assumed the role of caretaker. Her other sister Margie took over the house with her new husband, my uncle John and would have 6 children. My father had moved out when he joined the Army in 1960.

My parents purchased a home barely 2 miles from Railroad Ave in 1964. Dad was an Oil Burner repair man/Oil delivery driver for a fuel company that coincidentally marked the entrance to Railroad Ave. He would work there until it closed in 1970. Until that point, my earliest memories consisted of my mom and I meeting him after work and walking down Railroad Ave where we would hang out with my cousins. It was a happy time for me, my earliest memories are of playing with my youngest cousin Mike, who was my age. Learning to ride a bike on the puddle-ridden dirt road of Railroad Ave remains one of my happiest moments. The many cheers of the large group of beloved family members still echo in my head. This would be indicative of most warm summer days of my childhood. Until July 4th, 1974 when it all came crashing down.

July 4th was a standing holiday on Railroad Ave. Despite being avid campers in the summer we were always there. Family and friends showed up with coolers of beer, armloads of food and enough fireworks to level the town. For nine-year old me, it was the best day of the year. We ran around like heathens, played wiffleball and watched the legendary horseshoe tournament that almost always came down to my dad and one of my older cousins.

On this particular 4th of July the horseshoe tournament was interrupted by my uncle John, who came tearing out of the house yelling for my father. When he located him, he pushed my dad and began screaming about how my dad “stole it.” When pressed for details and a rational explanation he continued to attempt to fight my father, who fended him off admirably. A shouting match ensued, sides were taken and the day was inexplicably ruined for all. Once it was determined that my drunk Uncle was not to be calmed down by anyone, I was grabbed by the arm and we quickly left. I had absolutely no idea what had happened but what I did know was that it wasn’t good.

I certainly didn’t know that it would be the most formative moment of my childhood.

Ellie

We weren’t close. I’m sad to admit it. But she’s family.

My father has 2 sisters, Margie and Ellie. Margie had 6 kids and survived an abusive sonofabitch of a husband. He died and she met a man who would make up for all of the abuse and more. Sonny. He did everything right by her until he died ten years ago. Margie recently became unable to care for herself and she was forced to move to a nursing home.

Ellie was a far less accomplished woman. To be honest, she led a unaccomplished life. Born with Epilepsy she, by all accounts, used her illness as a crutch. She barely graduated from High School. She never worked a day in her life. She lived with my Grandfather and cared for him (he was sick with Emphysema from my earliest memory) until his death in 1983.

I worked at the local Supermarket through High School. Ellie and my grandfather lived on “the Pond”, a section of town named after an actual Pond, Martin’s Pond, a huge area of town notorious for lower income but hearty families. Many of my friends lived there, “Ponderonians” as it were. My kind of people. The entrance to “the Pond” was a street off of the main road that started as a long and steep hill. Ellie and Gramps lived on the very bottom where it flattened out. Gramps had a view of the water on one end of the house and the street on the other. Confined to an oxygen tank, he inexplicably chose the street view and sat in the window year round. He was notorious for his omnipresent face in the window. Ellie’s notoriety was to be seen slowly plugging up the hill with her obvious (and unexplained) limp as she pulled her makeshift shopping cart with her. She spoke and dressed poorly. She was the focus of a good bit of mockery among my Supermarket colleagues. Kids can be cruel and it wasn’t until they learned that she was my Aunt that they let up a bit, in my presence at least.I’d like to think that I wasn’t ashamed of her but I think I was. In the back of my head, however, I always reminded myself that she was family and you never turn your back on family.

It was easy to underestimate Ellie. She was an unremarkable person. My father didn’t care for her, his own sister. He had no respect for her. He thought that she could have done so much more and he believed that she hid behind her illness. According to my cousin Mike, who I am the closest to, her Epilepsy wasn’t a constant nuisance to her, her episodes were few and far between and there was no reason she couldn’t have worked, or volunteered or done something other than sit and watch soap opera’s.

I lost touch with her for a lot of years. We reconnected a little last year at the Nursing home. She ended up in the same facility as Margie. Margie is lucid and strong, Ellie has dementia. Catching up was not to be with her, she was on a loop in which she asked me the same questions every ten minutes. She was cheerful at least.

My relationship with Ellie wasn’t complex. But it has been a secret source of shame for me for many years. I could have been nicer to her, I could have kept touch with her. She was always nice to me.

It’s too late now. She and Margie contracted the CoronaVirus last week along with 59 other patients in the home. Margie is hanging on.

Ellie died yesterday.

Second chance

“You’re full of yourself”.
That one hit hard.
She didn’t mean it in a hurtful way.
She was trying to help
with my next girl.
The next girl…
who will that be
when I still want that one?
I made some mistakes.
I pushed.
I was excited.
I felt emotions long lost.
Ones that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
That I never thought I’d feel again.
affection…
intimacy…
connection…
long lost and thought dead
bubbling to the surface

I didn’t know at the time
it was the wine

how did I not see it?
She told me at the beginning
Not ready
Not looking
I need time
But through
and over the walls…
we connected
I saw the real you
and I liked it

but I didn’t show you the real me

I’m not insecure
I lack experience
I don’t have it all together
still picking up the pieces
I’m not full of myself
It’s a shield
a costume
flowing cape optional
my message to the world
that I’m still standing
shoulders back
chest out
not out of pride
or hubris
or arrogance
but to anticipate the next blow

how do I show you the real me?
get a second chance
at a first impression?

not full of myself
but full of life
hope
yearning
desire
gratitude
faith

and regrets

I failed to show you the real me


Routine speed trap

This is part of an ongoing series called Graveyard Shift. It can be read alone or you can roll back in my archives and start from the beginning.

August,28, 2005
A young and idealistic “Officer Jimmy”, as he was then known had been stationed at his favorite speed trap, the intersection of 2nd and main. It was at the bottom of a hill and cars came down it way too fast. This particular intersection was home to a very busy crosswalk and Jimmy, as every other cop in town was concerned about someone getting hit by a speeder. A lot of stops were made there out of a regard for safety and of course revenue generation and many tickets were issued. Officer Jimmy wasn’t big on tickets, he was more about keeping people safe. He believed that “Protect and Serve” was a lost notion, that cops now were all about busting heads and acting tough. Not him. He would never be like that. He always tried to live by his father’s famous mantra, “Always be nice. Until it’s time not to.” He had heard it so many times he might as well have had it tattooed on his forehead. It was his go-to first reaction in almost all situations and it had served him well.

Until that night.

Jimmy had been sitting in his car getting caught up on some reports when he spotted the headlights come over the hill. He immediately saw that the driver was operating erratically and speeding. He put his report book on the passenger seat and studied the vehicle’s approach to the intersection. He watched as the car screeched to a stop well over the line. Jimmy waited until the car crossed the intersection, pulled out behind him and hit the siren and lights. The driver pulled over immediately and Jimmy could see him fumbling in the glove box. He approached the car from the drivers side and pointed his flashlight at the driver. A clearly disoriented and intoxicated young man squinted back at him. His pupils were dilated and when he spoke all doubt about his condition was removed.
“Good evening Officer.” His voice was slurred.
“Good evening. License and Registration please.” The young man handed them through the open window. Jimmy reviewed them quickly, put them in his breast pocket and ordered him out of the car. The young man complied. He was wobbly as he stood up and he reeked of alcohol.
“Been drinking tonight?” Jimmy asked him.
“Yessir.” The young man replied. “Do I get points for honesty?”
“You do, but you lose points for driving shitfaced at 11:30 on a Tuesday night.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Sir?, I’m not a sir. It’s Officer McInerney. And I’m not sure ‘Sorry’ cuts it when we’re talking about public safety.”
The young man bowed his head sheepishly.
Officer McInerney gave him a thorough sobriety test which the young man summarily failed. He knew it. He put out his hands and waited for the handcuffs. Jimmy had another idea.
“This your correct address?” He was holding the young man’s license.
“Yes.”
“That’s two blocks from here. I’m going to follow you home. You’re going to go in your house and you are going to stay there. And you will think twice before doing this again. Got it?”
“Yes, Officer.” The young man was clearly relieved and elated.
“Get in and go. Slowly”, Jimmy instructed.
The young man got in before Jimmy could change his mind. As promised he drove home. Slowly. Jimmy followed him home and watched the young man park his car, get out and walk to the front door. He waved to Jimmy, showed his keys in his hand and went inside. Goodnight Henry James Douglas. He felt pretty good about how he had handled the situation.

Later that night his quiet shift was interrupted by dispatch ordering all available units to a vehicular crash across town. He could already hear the Fire Department and EMT’s sirens en route to the scene. As he threw his Crown Vic into gear and headed out he heard over the radio, “Multiple injuries, possible fatality.”
When Officer McInerney arrived on the scene his stomach momentarily sunk. The two vehicles had collided head on. There was glass and debris everywhere. EMT’S and Firefighters scrambled as they attended to the victims. He immediately recognized one of the vehicles. His heart almost stopped.
He looked around and there was a bloodied Henry James Douglas being pushed into the back of a cruiser, handcuffed. As his head was ducked into the cruiser Henry turned to look at him. They made eye contact. Jimmy momentarily fought off the sinking feeling in his stomach as he rushed to assist the first responders with the accident scene.
This is not going to end well…