San Jose. Bluebell Avenue. 1971.

The wind is whipping through my short blond hair. This has to be the fastest I’ve ever gone and I feel powerful as my bare legs pump the pedals of the Big Wheel just to the edge of losing control. The summer sun is rising fast this morning, promising to darken my bronze skin even more. I’m aware of these things peripherally as my focus is on the sounds of laughter down the block.

I’m riding the three-wheeler like I stole it because I did. It belongs to my older brother, Tim. He’s one of those laughing voices I hear at the end of the street. My sisters are up there too, they have to be. Tim is 10-years-old; he’s the oldest, but he’s following them because they’re riding with the girl who lives across the street from us. Yvonne or Yvette or something I can’t quite remember, but Tim has a crush on her and has been following the girls around like a lost puppy.

The fat, plastic tires on the back of the Big Wheel sound like sand paper on the concrete sidewalk, so I don’t notice at first that Tim and my two older sisters, Cindy and Pam, have turned around and are now heading back my way.  In a panic, I break hard, turn around, and peddle faster back towards home.

I don’t get far before Tim sees me on his Big Wheel. Enraged, he cuts me off on his bike. I try to dodge going up on a neighbor’s lawn, but this just makes it easier for him to drop his bike and yank me off the Big Wheel.  Lying on the grass, Tim on top of me, he punches me a few times which I try to block with my arms. Cindy and Pam come to my rescue. I knew they would. This isn’t my first Grand Theft Big Wheel.

Mom is at the door by the time we get to the edge of our yard. Danny, the baby, in her arms. My crying and Tim’s shouting must have drawn her out.  What are you kids fighting about now?

JackstolemyBigWheel! Hekeepstakingmystuff! Tim spits out.

Whoa, slow down. Why’s Jack crying?

He STOLE my stuff! Tim shouts, but slower and more clearly, arms waving around like a mad-man, which, except for his age, he kinda is right now.

So? He's littler than you. You didn’t hafta hit him.  Turning to me, And you! You can’t keep taking his Big Wheel. It's not yours. You need to learn to ask.

Mom makes me come inside, just to keep Tim from attacking me again, but I see it as I’m being punished. I have to be quite though because my father is still sleeping. He gets up about noon, has lunch with us when we’re not in school, then goes to work the swing shift at the General Motors plant in Fremont.

In a few minutes, I’ve forgotten about Tim and his Big Wheel. Mom wants me to keep an eye on Danny while she gets dad’s dinner packed for when he goes to work. 

Later that night laying in bed, I look at the bruise on my arm from where Tim hit me and poke it a couple of time to see if it hurts, before I curl up under a sheet. I fall asleep almost immediately, a smile on my face because I know I get to do it all over again tomorrow.

Next door to us was an older couple. The Johnson’s were retired.  If they had children, they were older and gone, but I never saw them so I can’t say for sure. They had a fence around their front yard which came up to my shoulders. I never was quite sure if the fence was to keep us out, or their little dog in.

The dog was terrier or something like it.  Smallish.  Yappy.  Liked to jump and bark and bark while jumping. I know this because I often ran past the fence taunting the dog.  Sometimes, I’d ride the stolen Big Wheel back and forth until Mrs. Johnson came out and chastised me for teasing the dog.  Her bark wasn’t any worse than the dogs, but it was one that got my mom’s attention and often got me sent to my room.  It took lots of practice, but I think I eventually found the right amount of teasing that would leave the dog hoarse and not get the attention of Mrs. Johnson.

Fall in San Jose was magical when I was a kid.  The days were long and hot. This was all pre-drought and we’d often get late summer thunder storms.  I was always fascinated with thunder storms. I could sit all night watching the lightening dance across the sky, followed by thunderous applause, the smell of the rain. It was fireworks when we were poor– a free light show, a delight to the senses. 

San Jose was still the Valley of Heart’s Delight.  There were orchards and fruit trees all over the place. In our back yard we had a cherry tree. The neighbors had peaches.  After we’d run ourselves tired most of the morning, we’d sit with other neighborhood kids and eat cherries and see who could spit the seeds the farthest.  And the peaches… taking that first bite into a ripe peach, juice dripping off our chins and down our arms. We didn’t have enemies. Tim wasn’t mad at me. Nobody had complaints. We were just a bunch of kids laughing and eating delicious fruit.  Bath was immediately after at the end of a hose and not a one of us was upset about “bath time.”

 

Sunday nights were some of my favorite times during the school year. After a weekend playing with my siblings, we got to curl up on the couch and watch Disney movies on T.V. Even our father was around at this time. Normally he would be working the graveyard shift at the GM plant in Fremont, but not on Sunday nights. He would sit with us quietly, drinking beer or wine or… something else until he dozed off, snoring. Truth be told, after a long day playing, I wasn’t good for a long night either.

This night, he didn’t doze. Or, if he did, it wasn’t long. He woke long enough to tell us all to go to bed as we had school in the morning.  I knew I didn’t have school, so I thought I was exempt. I went and grabbed a pillow and padded back into the living room hoping to watch the rest of the movie.

“What are you doing?” My father stopped me from getting back on the couch.  I just stared at him, hoping he would let me stay. “I told you to go to bed.” Again I said nothing, not sure that I could ask for what I wanted and not sure that he would acquiesce to my silent pleading.

Anger spread across his face in a flash and before I could react, he kicked out at me. My five-year-old body flew backward, crashing into a wall face first. In the hospital later, getting stitches in my face, my injury was explained away as childhood exuberance.

This was the nature of my father that I was too young to understand: gone most nights working; sleeping most of the morning; drunk most of the rest of the time.

Monsters are Real

I woke up Saturday morning to a quiet house. Saturday’s meant cartoons. Super Friends and Speed Racer and so many others. I didn’t know what time it was, but I was too excited to go back to sleep. I lay still for a second, listening for any sounds. There were none, but I didn’t expect to hear anything. As quietly as I could, I crept to the bedroom door. Gently turning the knob, I open the door, and lightly close it behind me, making sure to turn the knob closed instead of letting it “klatch” shut.

Turning left, I make my way along the hallway toward the bathroom. Hugging the walls, I quickly, but gingerly make my way along. I’m only eight, but I’ve learned how to be as quiet as possible. The middle of the hall creaks the boards under the carpet.  Along the walls, with my small frame, socks, and the carpet, I’m like a whisper in the wind. 

I feel like an Indian stalking deer in the forest. I’ve never hunted before, so I don’t know what I would do with a deer, I just know that I have to be absolutely quite to catch one. In my mind, it’s almost like a game, but one with dangerous consequences.

Once I reach the confines of the bathroom, I repeat the process of closing the door, gently twisting the knob so as not to make a sound. I close the door not for privacy, but for the added sound damping it will provide. Privacy is of no concern in this house where my step-father is a nudist and often walks around naked and has my mother do likewise.

I’m less cautious once the door is closed. The toilet seat has a cover that absorbs sound. I can’t be reckless, but I don’t have to be as deliberate and methodical. Once the seat is up, I reach into my pajamas and grab my penis – that’s the word Jim uses when we’re in the bath together – and aim carefully at the side of the bowl above the waterline. It’s a spot I’ve discovered that creates no splash. No splash means no sound. Inside the bathroom, I could barely hear it. Anyone outside the bathroom would have to have their ear pressed against the door, and even then, my excited breathing might be louder. Again, I think to myself, “What would an Indian do?” Peeing out in the forest down the side of a tree so as not to disturb the wildlife.

Billy Jack was an Indian. We have the same name – Jack – but he was tough and strong. He wouldn’t be afraid to make a sound, he’d fight the monster and probably win. I saw part of that movie awhile back, before mom shooed me off to bed. I wish I was more like Billy Jack. I wish I wasn’t afraid of the monster. I wish monsters weren’t real.

As my stream subsides, I’m careful to continue to aim along the bowl, walking it back toward me as it slows to a trickle. Noise is still the enemy right now.  I shake my penis a few times to rid it of the last few drops and tuck it away, then close the seat back down as if I was never here. Of course, I can’t flush. The whooshing water and the old pipes in the house could wake the monster.

I know that somewhere past half way on the bathroom door it begins to squeak, so I’m grateful for my thin, eight year old body and how it can easily fit through with the door less than half open. In the hallway, I retrace my steps, hugging the walls again. I make my way past my bedroom, stopping outside my mother’s room briefly listening for any sounds that they were awake.

Surprisingly, when I reach the family room, it’s dark and empty. It must be earlier than I thought, but I haven’t quite figured out the big hand and the little hand to tell the time. When you have a mother and three older siblings always telling what to do and when, who needs to tell time? I'm anxious about my next steps. If I turn on the TV and sit close, I can keep the volume down. But if that’s still too loud, it could wake Jim. And even though I can’t yet tell time, I already know that commercials are louder than shows and movies.

If nobody else is up yet, I assume that I’m too early so I decide to error toward caution and not turn on the TV. But I don’t want to go back to bed. If I fall back asleep in bed, I could miss cartoons. So, I lay out on the couch, hoping that when one of my older siblings wakes, they’ll come turn on the TV and wake me up.  The other thing I know: older kids always catch the brunt of the monster’s wrath if we accidentally wake him too early.

Laying there on the couch, I think about being an Indian again, making my way through the forest stalking prey. Sleeping outside under the stars. Not being afraid of things like Billy Jack isn’t. As my mind wanders, I drift off to sleep.

Something wakes me. I don’t know what. I can’t hear the TV, or anything else. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the couch, but based on the light in the room, it couldn’t have been long. Suddenly, I sense that I’m not alone. I look down my body and panic. The monster has me in his mouth.  I don’t know what to do. If he knows I’m awake, it could get worse. Using all my self control, and all my imagined Indian skills, I pretend to remain asleep.  I try not react to what’s happening. I try not to feel anything below my waist.

The feeling of being watched overwhelms me. I look up and see my mother standing at the end of the couch, above my head. I can’t quite make out the expression on her face.  Not anger. Not disappointment either, but maybe something in-between. I think she might say something to Jim, so I look down. He hasn’t noticed her; he still has me in his mouth.

I expect fireworks. Rage and shouting in 3… 2… 1. But it doesn’t come.

Confused, I look above me again, to where my mother used to be. She’s gone. A quick glance around confirms she’s not in the family room either. I’m alone with the monster again.

Years and years later, I would ask my mother about this day.  Did it happen? Was she there? Did she know? She says she wasn’t there, and didn’t see, and didn’t know until later when a neighbor saw something between my eldest sister and Jim. At that time, my mother would call the police.

Two San Jose officers knocked on the door one night, looking resplendent in their dark blue uniforms and shiny badges. They came to arrested Jim. Mom ushered us kids into a bedroom so we wouldn’t have to see. She thought it would have been too traumatic; I think we would have wanted to cheer.

It’s not a far stretch to think I was maybe still half asleep that morning. But for me it seems unlikely. Could you sleep with a monster attacking you? If she wasn’t there, I think I imagined her there because I wanted her to know. I thought she *should* know. And I was probably a little disappointed that she didn’t. She was my mother and she was supposed to protect me from monsters and instead, she married one and brought him into our house.

Monologue

Monologue.

Cold.

Why is it so cold? And why does everything hurt?

Think! What happened? Where are you?

I’m on the ground.

Where on the ground?

I dunno… it’s cold. Rough. On my face.

You’re on your face? Where?

I don’t know!

Open your eyes; look around.

I can’t see.

Where are your glasses? [I move my arm trying to feel for my glasses with my hand.]

“Don’t move. Don’t try to move. Just stay down.”

Who is that guy? I don’t recognize his voice. [I try to lift my head to see who it is.]

“Just stay down. Everything will be alright.”

Oh god. He’s holding me down. Why’s he holding me down? What’s wrong? What isn’t he telling me? [Panicked, I try to lift my head again.]

“Lay still. You’ll be ok.”  A woman’s voice.

There’s a woman here too? What’s going on? Why are all these people here? Why are they holding me down? Everything hurts. Am I... am I… broken? Is there something I can’t see? Can’t feel? What’s wrong with me?

Ok. Let’s figure this out. You were walking on the sidewalk. Adam and Ken were there.

Jesus it’s cold. My teeth are chattering. Can they hear that? Do any of these people have a blanket?

Think! It was night. Late. We were walking. Why were we walking? 7-Eleven. We were coming back from 7-Eleven. Playing Ms Pac-Man.

No. Not just that. There’s something more. Before Ms. Pac-Man where were we?

“Hey Jack. It’s gonna be okay buddy.” Adam! He sounds okay. [I try again to lift my head to look at Adam] Why won’t anybody let me move!

“It’s ok, Jack. You’ll be okay.” That’s Ken. He sounds okay too.

Think! 7-Eleven. Ms. Pac-Man. Before that. Something important. Something big. There was music… Dance! There was a dance at the school. Ken and Adam were there. Julie and her sister Janet. The Christmas dance.

It’s December! That’s why I’m so cold. Freezing.

“Don’t move him! I’m a nurse.”

Whoa. That is so weird. It’s like those white shoes aren’t’ connected to anything. Up – disappear. Down – click. Up – disappear.

Where’d all these people come from? Why are they here?

There here for me.

We were walking down the street. From the dance. From 7-Eleven. From Ms. Pac-Man.

Sidewalk. Walking. Crosswalk.

Lights! There were lights. On us. Too long. I turned… there was a pair of headlights. So bright. Then… nothing. Darkness.

Oh god. It was a car. I was hit by a car!

Fantasy and Science Fiction

I was in the second semester of my junior year at Los Gatos High and I was in my favorite class: Fantasy and Science Fiction. This was an English elective taught by Mr. Bradburn. He was this way-out hippy type who wore his hair a little longer than the other teachers and often pulled it back into a ponytail. He liked to sprinkle his lections with words like “groovy” and expressions like, “far out, man,” and liked to talk about his younger days surfing in Santa Cruz. He was quirky and we all loved him for it.

 

Today’s topic was a fantasy short story about a young girl with a weird genetic mutation. The girl’s parents, when she was twelve, moved out in the middle of the night and left her to fend for herself. Mr. Bradburn said, “Man, you can’t do worse than that to a child.”

 

Without thinking, I said aloud, “Yes you can.”

 

“How? Stand up, tell us what can you do that’s worse than that?”

 

I stood stiffly, frozen in place, looking at my feet. I had known, but I didn’t remember. Like someone who was in a car accident – one moment they're driving and the next moment they wake up in the hospital. They know they were in an accident; they can feel the pain, see the broken bones; but they don’t remember the accident. That’s how I was – until today. Suddenly, I remembered. Mr. Bradburn’s words were still ringing in my head, “What can you do that’s worse than that?”

 

It was a Saturday morning and I was eight. I had woken up early, about 6:30, and nobody else was awake. I wanted to watch cartoons but I knew I would get in trouble if I turned on the TV and made too much noise. Jim, my step dad, hated it when we made a lot of noise and we often tiptoed around the house to avoid his wrath. Rather than go back to bed, I curled up on the couch to wait for one of my brothers or sisters to wake up.

 

When I woke again sometime later, the house was still quiet, but somebody else was up. Jim was kneeling next to the couch. He was mostly naked save for a small Kimono which was untied and hung loosely from his thin, 6-foot frame. He was always naked around the house. He was fond of saying, “the human body is a beautiful thing and nothing to be ashamed of.” This morning, he’d pulled down my pajama bottoms and was using his mouth. I didn't want to see what he was doing and looked away and I saw my mother standing in the hallway. She was naked too; Jim insisted she always be naked in the house. I looked back at Jim but he hadn’t noticed she was there. It didn’t matter. When I looked up again, mom was gone. I was eight years old and I was alone with the boogeyman.

 

“You don’t know. There’s nothing worse,” Mr. Bradburn challenged me.

 

“Yes, there is. I know.” I was cold suddenly and felt very alone. Why couldn’t I just let it go? Why couldn't he realize there were much worse things? I didn’t know what to say to his challenge. Surely he knows there’s worse than that, doesn't he? I don’t have to tell him. But he didn’t know. This was Los Gatos and they didn’t speak of such things here.

 

“Speak up or sit down.”

 

Before I could stop myself, the words just came pouring out, “I was molested by my stepfather over a two year period starting when I was seven.”

 

The room was quite for a moment before Mr. Bradburn shouted, "Boom! That’s worse.” Then he continued on with his lesson as if I'd not said anything. So, I sat back down. I felt like everyone was staring at me, but when I looked around the room nobody would make eye contact. I thought I had just made a big mistake.

 

After class, and over the following weeks, none of the other students in Mr. Bradburn’s class said anything to me about my comments. At the end of the semester, Diane, the girl who sat next to me, wrote in my yearbook: “I admire you so much for what you said in class. It helped me with problems that I was having at home just knowing someone else had suffered as I had. Thank you for sharing.”

 

I realized then that I had been keeping this dark secret and it was hurting me. My words had the power to help others and suddenly, I wasn’t so alone anymore. I had spoken out in front of thirty-two strangers and this huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew I shouldn't keep it inside any longer; I had to let it out. I was a victim, yes, but what happened to me wasn't my fault. Everything I do after that, whatever I become, is my fault.

 

Everyman

I am everyman, but I am no one

I am seen yet invisible

I look like you, him, them

but I am not like one of them

I am everyone everywhere,

good, bad, different

I am a thought, a whisper, an idea

I am a lifetime of conversation,

but no words can define me,

or papers capture me,

no ink will contain me

no books can bind me.

I am what you see but

if you see me, you will not know me

for to know me,

you must talk to me

you must listen with your heart

as I speak with mine.

I am pain and anger

love, hope and joy

brother to some, companion, friend

father to one – she is my life

my soul

my happiness

I am the gift and the debt

I am balance

in an unbalanced world

I am complexity in simplistic form

I am the great american novel

wrapped in a plain cover

this is who I am

yet it is not me

I am a man with no past

with hope for the future

a family to dream

Death can wait.

Christmas Dance (pt2)

I woke up lying face down on the cold asphalt. I didn't know where I was or why I was on the ground so I started to roll over to sit up. Right away a pair of hands held my shoulders and a man's voice I didn't recognize said, “Stay still. Don’t get up.”

My glasses had been knocked off and I couldn't see anything clearly. All the things in front of me were diffused as if filtered through a rainy windshield. There were a lot of lights but I couldn't see any faces clearly and none that I knew. I also wasn't able to recognize any of the voices of the people holding me down. Then I had a dreamlike vision; I didn't know if it was real: a pair of white shoes, seemingly not attached to anything, rising and falling. Then I heard a woman’s voice, loud and strong, “Don’t move him. I’m a nurse.”

I tried to roll over again to see what was going on, because it still hadn’t dawned on me that I was the one she was talking about. Again the hands on my shoulders kept me down, but this time it felt like there were more of them, and some at my side holding my waist and legs. That’s when I got scared. I heard Kyle’s voice but I couldn’t make sense of what he was trying to say.

I began feeling pain all along my body. Everything seemed to hurt at once, but some places more than others. And I started shivering uncontrollably, which didn't help the things that hurt. It was a cold night, but mostly, I think, I was shivering from adrenaline.

At the hospital I was examined, cleaned up, and bandaged. My foster parents, Roberta and Big John, showed up and the doctor told them I had a concussion and a lot of scrapes and sprains. The right side of my face from eyebrow to chin was one big road rash and my right ear stuck out now, red and swollen. I had similar scrapes and swelling on just about every joint on the right half of my body. They ace-wrapped my knee and elbow, splinted two fingers on my right hand, and a nurse put a butterfly bandage on the cut over my right eye. As banged up as I was, the doctor felt that x-rays weren't necessary.

“Wake him every hour,” the doctor said. “Ask him a few questions when you do. If there are problems, bring him back in right away.” and with that we were off. I was given a pair of crutches and released at about three in the morning.

Back at the Reynolds house, it was decided that I should sleep on the couch so that Roberta, Big John, and Kyle's older sisters, Debbie and Donna, could take turns waking me on the hour. When I woke late the next morning, I was confused all over again: why am I on the couch and why do I hurt so much? Roberta, Kyle, and Debbie were sitting in the living room staring at me which added to my confusion.

Slowly, I remembered what happened the night before, but I didn't remember anyone waking me every hour. “You guys forgot to wake me up in the night.” I managed to croak out.

Roberta laughed that throaty laugh she has (which I always thought was from her pack-a-day habit), “No we didn’t, dummy.”

Kyle said,“We woke you every hour, just like the doctor told us.” He had a big shit-eating grin on his face. As I was his best friend, I assumed the grin as him being happy that I was alive.

“How come I don’t remember?” I asked, trying to get myself into a sitting position.

Roberta laughed some more, “You carried on conversations until we told you to go back to sleep so we could get some rest.” If the Bronx accent wasn't enough, using words like "conversations" and "yous" always reminded me that Roberta grew up in New York.

“I did?” I felt so groggy and confused. I didn't even remember walking out of the hospital.

Later in the day, Roberta asked if I wanted to call either of my parents and let them know what happened. The last number we had for my mother wasn't working and we had no other way of reaching her. It had been a while since we'd heard from her and I knew that she could be anywhere in the state now. I wasn’t sure we should tell her anyway; there wasn’t anything she could do and it would just make her worry.

With my father, I was a little concerned that he would read it in the Los Gatos Daily which might cause trouble. He didn’t seem to take any interest when I saw him in town three weeks ago, but I felt that calling him was the right thing to do.

I dialed the number I had memorized years ago and my dad picked up, “Hello?”

“Hi, dad? It’s me, Jack.”

“Oh, hi. What’s up?”

“I, uh, I just wanted you to hear it from me. I was in an accident last night. I was run over by a drunk driver.”

“Oh?” There was a long pause then and I’ll never know what he was thinking, but what he said was, “How’re you doing in school?”

“Um, fine, I think. We just finished the semester and I'm pretty sure I passed everything.”

“Good.”

“Uh, well, okay. I, uh, I just didn’t want you to read it in the paper and worry, so I called.”

“Okay. Thanks. Bye then.”

“Bye.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps some worry or concern for my situation, but his attitude took me by surprise. Maybe he assumed because I was calling that I wasn’t hurt, or at least not hurt badly. He didn't even sound concerned about school though - it was just something to talk about. At that moment, I realized that I was truly a foster child now. My mother had disappeared and my father didn't care. Things could only get better!

Christmas Dance (pt1)

Kyle, Andre, and I were together again and it was almost like it was when we first met at Fisher. We’d all grown some, change a little, and had experienced different things since I'd left. Andre and Kyle had drifted apart and hadn't seen each other in a couple of months. Now, however, the three of us were hanging out like we had before. This time, I was the glue of the friendship – a roll that Kyle had two years before.

Since none of us had girlfriends, it was no surprise that we were without dates when it came time for the Christmas Dance that December. For sure there were girls in our lives - Kyle and Andre had been hanging out with Julie and her younger sister Janet. Both girls also went to Los Gatos High. I had met a lot of new people since I moved back to town two months ago, but I was too shy to ask a girl to the dance. So we were all going stag and planned to meet up with Julie and Janet at the gymnasium.

At about seven, Andre showed up at the Reynolds home and the three of us walked the few blocks down to the high school. The girls were there before us, and we all went in together to the dance. Once inside, I may have danced the least of anyone there, but it was fun for me to talk to old friends from Fisher. Occasionally, Julie or Janet would drag me out onto the dance floor, but mostly I stayed off to the side talking with different people.

Almost exactly at ten, the girls' father showed up to take them home. Since we’d lost our main dance partners, we decided to head over to the 7-ll across the street to play Mrs. Pac-Man. Playing video games was something new for me and I was liking it and learning quickly.

Sometime around eleven, we realized that it was probably time to head home. Although Kyle’s mom wasn’t the type to get upset with being a little late, especially from a dance, we knew that if we were really late, we’d be in trouble. Anything after midnight would be considered "really late."

We walked quickly up Los Gatos Boulevard toward the Reynolds house - my foster home. We knew Andre still had about a twenty minute walk from there to his house. As we walked, we bragged about our video game skills and talked about the girls we danced with and we talked about the ones we didn't. Just what you’d expect three teen-aged boys to talk about.

Shortly after the intersection for Highway 9, somewhere near Filmer Street, we stepped off the sidewalk and into the crosswalk to get to Kyle's house. I think that I was on the outside and Kyle was next to me. Andre hadn’t yet stepped off the curb when I had this nagging feeling that something was wrong. The cars that were turning off Hwy 9 would normally light us up from behind before flashing past as they completed their turn, but one set of lights behind us didn’t flash past - they kept us framed longer than they should have.

As I turned to look behind us, I saw a pair of headlights coming right at me. It was the last thing I remember before waking up on the pavement a few minutes later. Kyle and Andre told me later that I went up and over the right front fender of the car. Somehow my leg must have clipped Kyle (he had a huge bruise on his leg), knocking him down and away from danger. Andre said he was untouched by either fender or flying limb and, after his initial shock, went running after the car.

He didn’t have far to run, he said later, the car crashed into a telephone pole half a block further up. Just as he got to the driver side door, the woman stumbled out and fell into his arms. Her last conscious words to him were, “I didn’t hit anybody, did I?” She was the definition of falling down drunk.