DRUNK DRIVING HOUR 1973

My college tuition in 1973 was $2000 for the year. My other expense was for an unheated bedroom in a coldwater apartment in Brighton’s Bug Village. $55 a month. I hacked a cab for Boston Taxi to pay tuition and living expenses. The company garage was next to the old Boston Arena. If a driver booked more than $100 a night, the percentage split jumped from 45/55 to 50/50, driver/company.

My classmate Hank Watson and I were the company’s top earners. The two of us started the evening shift after our last class at 4. We drove everywhere. Roxbury, Southie, Beacon Hill. We drove everyone. Nuns, college girls, drunks. Our paths rarely crossed during our travels. Hank and I regularly rendezvoused at 1:30am to catch last call at the 2 O’Clock Lounge in the Combat Zone The headliners finished the night to the three-piece band; drum, organ, an sax playing funky bump and grind music. A 7 oz. pony Bud costs $1. More expensive than the Hi-Hat Lounge in Allston.

Tuesday night was the best. The 3-piece band played our requests. We tipped them with our tips. IN DA GADDA DA VIDA was priceless on a stand-up Hammond organ. The girls got paid a commission pushing drinks to the suckers, but not to us. We were hippies. Not suckers.

That evening we stayed after hours. Five minutes to finish tequilas with two dancers. Claudia was 19. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Once she hit 18, she had run away from the Church’s Home for Wayward Girls. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. Hank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class, RADICAL ECONOMICS, with Barry Bluestone was scheduled for 9am. The strippers said nothing about economics and spoke about the life; the touchy suburban husbands, drunken sailors from the Charleston Navy Yard, infatuated college boys. I learned more from them than my Philosophy 101 class. None of their tales were metaphysical. Most of the dancers were from the inner city.

My favorite was Claudia. 18. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. Hank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class, RADICAL ECONOMICS with Barry Bluestone, was scheduled for 9am.

Six hours away. It was time to leave.

“If you want to go, then we have to go now.”

Claudia was glad for the ride. Taxi drivers often drove down dead-end streets for sex. She trusted me. I had the twenty-year-old sit in the front. Any weight on the back seat triggered the meter. The Combat Zone to Forest Hills was A $4 fare. Claudia was a good tipper. The money was better in my pocket than the greedy owner. Claudia talked about her childhood. Nuns. Beatings. Priests. Wandering hands. I came from the South Shore suburbs. Bullying, predatory priests, isolation. I mentioned none of it. I was having trouble staying on the road. Tired, not the tequila. Claudia asked at her address, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My head was strapped to the end of a helicopter prop.

” Drive safe.”

”Will do.”

I headed back to the garage, ignoring the radio dispatcher's calls to drivers. Any fares in Dudley Station were stuck in Dudley Station, until the train opened at 6am. I stepped on the gas. Columbus Street was naked of traffic. My Checker cab had some tiger. I hit 50. Too fast to avoid a Mustang burning the stop sign at Centre Street.

I t-boned the Ford at the doors. My car snaptailed across the intersection at 1000 rpm. The car came to a stop against a curb. The steering wheel in my hands. The windshield shattered from the impact of my head. I dropped the steering wheel and touched my forehead.

No blood.

No missing parts.

The Mustang had been t-boned at the doors. A young black man lay sprawled across the front seat. door. I walked over to the wreck. Steam vented from the engine. People exited from the nearby projects. Blood leaking from the man’s ear was not a good sign. The crowd had some things to say.

“That look like my Uncle Milton.”

“That white boy killed Milton.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” I leaned over Milton. He looked young to be an uncle. Milton wore a red silk suit. Wilson Pickett style. I clocked him as a musician. “Can you hear me?”

“White boy, you done kill me.” Crimson bubbled from his lips.

The crowd grew in size. Almost thirty people. It was a little after 2. No one in their pajamas. An older man held a gun by his side. I eyed him, as if I were not white. He didn’t buy the lie. Mob. Riot. Headlines. I stood alone. A Boston cab drove between us. Hank was behind the wheel. Shaleen stepped out of the back in pink hot pants slendor.

“Leave the white boy alone. He’s good people.”

A bad ending to this night was further detoured by the whoop of a police car’s siren. The crowd backed away from the smashed Mustang. Shaleen had done her job. Hank drove away in a hurry. This was none of his concern.

“Get in the car.” The officer behind the wheel ordered with urgency. I obeyed his command. The patrol car pulled out, as an ambulance pulled into the intersection followed by another Boston Police car.

“I think I killed that man.”

“Not at all. We’ll write it up in your favor. You’re from Boston, right?”

He could tell from my accent.

The driver dismissed Milton as someone from another race with a derogative racial slur. They were Irish. Same as me, only I was 50%. I was supposed to feel the same way. I didn’t. The police dropped me at the taxi garage off Mass Avenue. I had to file a report. Who, where, when. I picked the glass from my hair. Two days later I was fired. Milton had survived the crash and sued Checker Taxi for damages. A week later, Boston Taxi in the Fenway hired me. No questions asked. Crashes and accidents were all part of the job.

Hank joined me. I stayed away from the Two O’Clock Lounge. Not on purpose. Just for good luck. I drove afternoons around Brighton Square. Irish working-class people. A little better off than Southie. Short rides. Good tips. My spot was the corner of Washington and Market Street. One afternoon a drunk sat in the back. His weight activated the meter. He lay down, as if to sleep. I asked, “Where to?”

" Nowhere. I want someplace to sit. Just turn on the meter.” He threw $5 at me.

”This isn’t a hotel. You have to get out.”

”I don’t have to do anything.”

I threw back the $5 and shut off the Checker cab. I opened the back door and dragged out the drunk. He swung a punch and flopped against the taxi. People watched the altercation from the sidewalk. He tugged at a revolver in his waistband. One quick punch. Hard to his jaw. He dropped to the street. I grabbed the gun from his hand and drove off. I threw the pistol in the Charles River. Guns were never my thing. That night, when I returned to the garage, I expected the dispatcher to ask about the incident. Nothing. No one had called the police. The Irish knew how to hold their sand about things of their business. I hoped it was all over. Nothing really is.

Several afternoons later, I was sitting on the porch with Beer Barrel. His heavy head on my shoes. Asleep while I translated a German lesson on Bertolt Brecht's MOTHER COURAGE. A black 1973 Dodge Coronet slowly pulled up Malbert Road. It stopped before the ‘eyesore of Brighton’. Two men got out of the ubiquitous vehicle. Well-known for use by undercover police throughout America. I didn’t know them. They didn’t look like cops. Once maybe. Not now. One of them said my name. I got up to run. I figured this was about the Brighton Center assault. The younger of the two men said, “No reason to run. We are from a law firm representing Milton Lipsom in the case against Checker Cab.”

“What do you want with me?”

Beer barrel growled. I hushed him. He lay back down without taking his gaze off the two men. He was a good dog. None of us owned him. At least no one living there ever said Beer Barrel was theirs.

“The law firm wants to tell your side of that accident. They will pay you $100.”

“Is Milton okay?”

“He’s fine. Just a few stitches to the inside of his mouth.

“$100?”

He held up an envelope.

“Can I give you this?”

“Just put it on the porch and then step back.”

“Sure thing, we’re not here to give you any trouble.”

He put the envelope on the porch. It held five $20 bills. Almost three days of work.

“There’s a paper in there with the court date. You will be on the stand for a few minutes.”

The court date was in another three weeks. I wanted to ask where they had found me. I hadn’t been in hiding and the dispatchers at Yellow Cab knew my addesss.

“And if I don’t show?”

“You don’t get the other $100. Up to you.”

The two men got in the 1973 Dodge Coronet. They u-turned. I went back to Brecht and Beer Barrel fell asleep. He was good at that trick.

Three weeks later, I showed up at the Suffolk County Courthouse at Pemberton Square. I wore a suit jacket, a white shirt, and jeans. Judges like clean-cut. I hadn’t cut my hair. I wasn’t guilty of anything. I checked the docket. The hearing was posted for the second floor. The corridor was quiet. Almost as if it were a national holiday. I looked at the paper. This was the right place, then I spotted Milton Lipsum on a bench farther down the hall. I walked up to him and sat down. He was dressed Soul Train slick in a dark blue suit. He smiled and said, “I know you.”

“Yeah, sorry about the crash.”

“Don’t be. Neither of us is dead and I might get some money out of this. I don’t know how, but the lawyers saw I have a good case.”

“And you remember what happened?’

“I do now. Where is the judge?” He stood up to try the courtroom door. Locked.

“What about the lawyers?”

“Haven’t seen them either. This is the right place. The right time. We are supposed to be here. I guess we can wait a little.”

Milton told me about his band. They played at the Sugar Shack downtown at 110 Boylston Street and the 123 Lounge in Roxbury. I recounted seeing James Brown at the 1970 Newport Jazz Festival. We both explained our evening of the crash.

“We lucky to be alive.”

“I thought the same. No more drinking and driving for me.”

“We have been here for over forty-five minutes. No one is coming. So we might as well go. You want to get a drink.”

“Sure. What about the Two O’Clock Lounge. It’s close by. ew can walk there,”

“He shut his eyes, as if he were trying to divine a better place. Opening his eyes, he said, “Sounds good to me. As long as it’s not the Hillbilly Ranch.”

We went. Claudia was happy to see me. I introduced Shaleen. She was happy to be that Milton was alive. We drank and I left him at the bar. I never saw him again. I’ve never drove drunk again. Only as a passenger.

I hope the same for Milton.

We were survivors.

For that night and beyond.