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. We started after our last class, catching the evening shift at 4. We drove everywhere. Roxbury, Southie, Beacon Hill. We drove everyone. Nuns, college girls, drunks. Our paths rarely crossed, but we tended to meet for the last song at the 2 O’Clock Lounge in the Combat Zone. A listen to the three-piece band, drum, orga, sax playing funky bumsp Sand grind music. A 7 oz. pony Bud costs $1. qqqqe 2 O’Clock loungeq worked throughout the evening. At final ride for the strippers of th. The drinking age was 18. Hank and I rendezvoused at 1:30am to watch the headliners finish the night.

Tuesday night was the best.

The girls got paid a commission pushing drinks to the suckers.

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.

One evening we stayed after hours.

Neither of us were aiming for magna cum laude.

The strippers taught us life, not abstract algebra, although there was a connection between the two,

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

6 hours away.

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

Claudia was glad to go. She had a jealous biker boyfriend. I had her sit in the front. Anyone sitting in the back triggered the meter. The Combat Zone to Forest Hills was $7. Better in my pocket than the greedy owner.

Claudia talked about her childhood.

Nuns. Beatings. Priests. Wandering hands .

“A-huh.” I was having trouble staying on the road. Smoking weed and tequila was a deadly combination. Claudia asked at her address, “Are you okay?”

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

I headed back to the garage, ignoring the radio dispatcher. 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 70.

Too fast to stop for 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 driving wheel was in my hands. The windshield shattered by the impact of my head. I dropped the steering wheel and touched my forehead.

No blood.

No missing parts.

The Mustang was bent in half. A black man lay out the 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.

“That look like my Uncle Milton.”

“That white boy killed Milton.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” I leaned over Milton. He wore a red silk suit. Wilson Pickett style. “Can you hear me?”

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

The crowd grew bigger. Someone had a gun at 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.”

This future was detoured by the whoop of a police car. The crowd backed away from the smashed Mustang. Shaleen had done her job. Frank drove away in a hurry. This was none of his concern. The police were by my side.

“Get in the car.” The officer behind the wheel ordered with urgency. I obeyed his command and we escaped, as an ambulance pulled into the intersection.

“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. I was free. No manslaughter, because Milton survived the crash. He had been drinking too. The cab company was angry. Milton was suing them for damages. They fired me. Six months later, his lawyer called my house to ask me to testify against the cab company.

$100.

I received a check.

No one showed for the court date, but ever since that night I’ve always thought that the state should have a drunk driving hour. No one on the road but drunks.

2am to 5am.

Made sense to me and probably Milton too.

We were survivors.

For that night and beyond