Bad Boy Driving

During the early 1970s my college comrades and I drank at the Hi-hat Lounge in Brighton. The girls were young, the drinks were cheap, and we could sell drugs at the bar. Qualludes and mescaline. Neither of them were the best available in Boston, but we were always in supply, so the bands playing on Commonwealth Avenue came to see us before and after gigs. I even sold LSD to AeroSmith and they invited us to their show. They weren't big yet, but the band attracted co-eds from every university within 25 miles. My friends and I crammed into my VW Bug.

"Can you drive?" Peter Gore asked from the passenger seat. We had hitchhiked across America in 1971. a carload of drunks begged me to drive their Riviera from Reno to San Francisco. Peter had to sit in the back. We drank warm whiskey through the Sierras. He didn't trust me behind the wheel.

"Of course I can drive." I had only dropped a 'lude and guzzled several whiskey cokes. I had been driving since I was 16 and only had 7 accidents. Most of them weren't my fault. At least the way I told it. Something about his question bothered me and I said I was going to run every red light to Kenmore Square.

"Don't do that." Peter buckled up his seat belt. No one in 1971 wore one. We had all seen too many films where the passengers burn in their cars, thanks to a defective seat belt. The other passengers were more enthusiastic, then again they were in the suicide seat.

I blew the light at the first BU dorms and then another by the Boston Club. The traffic was light, however we were approaching the Charles River Bridge. This was a more intersection. The cars were coming from the right and left.

"Don't." everyone cried out with good reason and I braked too late to avoid tapping into the back of a Mustang.

"Asshole." Peter was pissed.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, then I'm sorry." I realized too late what an asshole I was and got out of the car to examine the damage to both vehicles. My fender was bent. Maybe $200, but the Mustang bore a major dent. Maybe $1000, which was a lot of money in 1971. The driver was puking out the open door. He wiped his mouth and said, "Sorry, for running that light. Are you okay?"

The drunken fool thought the crash was his fault. He even offered money to pay for the damages. Peter pushed me back into my car and we laughed about the story later, Peter calling me, "Boston's worst driver."

Maybe I was that evening, but Palm County police had a world-class violator in their sights the other night. The driver refused to stop for the officers in pursuit. He ran red lights, crashed into another car, a fence, fled the scene, and when they finally stopped him, the cops cited the offender with 50 tickets. One was not wearing a seat belt.

All sounds too familiar.

I wonder if Peter Gore wherever he is thought the same thing.

"Asshole."

That's me and I have company too.