Hit and Runs.....

I started drunk driving at age 14. I remember most weekends sneaking out my bedroom window after my Mom had fallen asleep and the night would begin. I put her Toyota Cressida in neutral, rolled it out of sight, and was off to the races. In the early days it was all about joy riding. Once we found the liquor for the night, we would test the car's ability to do donuts in parking lots, go air born off ramps, or see if the speedometer really went to 120 mph. We actually went the distance to make sure our tracks were clear by detaching the odometer, refueling to the exact place the gage was when we left, and cleaning up all vomit, alcohol, mud, clothes, or other aftermath. In one case where I had sideswiped another vehicle I thought for sure I would be busted except for the fact that the next morning my Mom didn't notice and even for several weeks, until she assumed it was a parking lot accident where someone left the scene.

Though I was fortunate to miss many close calls, and today I am grateful that no one was in the way of my reckless rampage, I would end up paying a price.

I would end up totaling or losing to the impound 4 vehicles before my rampage was over. That was not to mention a total of 6 hit and run accidents. I escaped a few other mishaps like flying off the road into a pile of mud, ripping off my drivers side door accidentally, and I assume a number of things that only God knows being that I often woke up at the steering wheel at 8 a.m. unaware of how I got there.

One night I was leaving a party around 1 a.m. I certainly had drunk beyond the limit and had several other substances in my system. I stopped to pick up some nachos at the gas station before I headed home. Little did I know I would be sobered before the night was over.

I was driving along 9th street, no seat belt, in my steal green 1969 AMC Rambler at about 40 mph eating my nachos. Then the lights went out. The next thing I know I am on the floor of the car and the car is stopped. It was as if I woke from a sleep to a very bad dream. I could not feel my head and had no idea where I was or what happened. When I crawled back up to the drivers seat I saw smoke and steam bellowing from the hood of the car. I could smell anti-freeze and could taste blood. I was afraid to look in the mirror not knowing if I would recognize who I saw. I just reached up to touch my face and blood covered my hand.

I heard commotion from a gas station across the street and suddenly realized I could be in serious trouble. Did I hit another person? Car? House? I did not want to know and did not want this night to end in jail as I had just been there a few months earlier. I tried the ignition and the car started. I sped out of there in a worse state than I was in before I left the party. It was like an out-of-body experience. The car was leading and my spirit was just there to see where I was going. I just drove and drove and drove crying out into the now dark country road sky. I had not prayed for a long time. That night I cried hard that if "God" was listening He would save me. I can't remember ever crying harder thinking that my time was over and that my life amounted to nothing.

I pleaded for one more chance and by that point my car had finally sputtered to a stop. The radiator fluid had completely emptied and smoke was spiraling into the full moonlight. I walked to a light where a gas station was and used the pay phone to call the only girl whose compassion would bring her out of bed to pick me up. Angie and I had dated for 5 years through all of this rugged journey and had never once criticized me though I deserved some hard words. I heard her sob, as if for my soul, as she held my bloody face in her towel until I eventually passed out.



I woke up the next morning with a gaping wound on my chin and a second chance in life... again. Angie was still there by my side in the most unbelievable way. Like Shane, Dan, my Dad, Bob, and soon others, she would save me in a time I was indeed nothing.

We drove down 9th street that morning and saw the parked car I had crushed. The rear bumper was smashed into the back seat and the car was sent air born 50 ft into a yard, according to the police report.

This would not be the last second chance as it was that "God" had heard my cry, and certainly not the last time I would make a girl cry.

The Drug Test...

The voyage out of the pit may begin with a good shower, but to change the trajectory of my life, much testing would be required....

I managed to find another "temp" job at a printing company that paid $3.50 an hour. I was committed to do whatever it would take to make ends meet. I was done with mustard sandwiches, dirty clothes, and deteriorating conditions. My DUI had put me on probation again and cost me my license and every penny I would make for the next several months. I needed progress.

The work environment was silent rows of production lines, mindlessly packing boxes of paper under the watchful eyes of floor managers seeking to meet quota. Occasionally someone would not show up and the word would be literally, "suicide." The only communication I heard was the latest gossip going around and the venting of overworked, hungry and disgruntled souls. This place would be my home for the next 4 and a half years.

After temping six months, managing to get a GED and having no record of rebellion, tardiness, or days of absence, I was approached by the chief floor manager, Russell. Old timers at work referred to him as, "Russell, the one-eyed muscle." He had never spoken a word to me. I thought for sure I was being dismissed. He hands me an employment folder and says to me, "Be sure you fill out all the paper work and bring it in after your drug test on Wednesday." I was stunned. Like the last scene in "the Pursuit of Happiness," when Chris Gardner got the job at Dean Witter, a tear wanted to make it's way out at the celebration of crossing a mile stone.

Yet, I took a step back when I recalled the word "Wednesday." That was in less than two days. I ran over to a veteran old timer and asked, "how long does it take for drugs to be out of your system?" He said, "Dunno... maybe a week?"

I was toast. I had counted at least three different drugs in my system from the last couples days. I did not have the time. Would I have to start all over? I had been making progress.

I ran home to my new, somewhat clean apartment and asked my roommate Bob for the answer. Bob was like the Godfather of the "cool" party world and would have the answer to every question. It didn't matter that he didn't have a college education and used brain tissue mostly carrying multi-layers of bong resin. Bob was feared by all, all-knowing, and was my best friend at the time.

"How do I beat this test?," I asked. Bob, in his epic cool voice and cigarette in hand said, "Simple... Just start drinking water now and don't stop til' you get into the office. By that time, all you have to pee is water. You will pass!" So I followed the wisdom of my chief advisor and started drinking water by the heap fulls. The morning of my test had arrived. I had already peed twice and felt pretty comfortable bouncing over in my Chevy Chevette, though I had no legal tags, registration, insurance, or license. I was going to pass this test. In the waiting room I continued to stand by the drinking fountain loading up. I had to go again, but thought, "I better save this one for test time."

Sure enough, they called my name. I headed into the small room, was handed a nighty and told to change into it and wait for the nurse. I changed and waited. The urge to go had mounted astronomically. Beads of sweat began to dampen my face. I was still waiting and no one was coming! I entered into a small panic as I started to pace the floor back and forth like a catatonic Schizophrenic. I was even dancing in the hope to turn back the tide. It wasn't working. "Should I just pee in the sink next to me?," I wondered. "No. This was the pee that would save me. I must hold on!" And that is literally what I did. I looked like my 6 year old son, Ben, with both hands latched on for dear life.

At that moment, two female nurses walked in holding a pee cup, ready to lead me through the process. They looked startled as they saw my desperate, helpless, beat red face dripping with perspiration. "Can I just take it now!," I humbly demanded. "Umm..okay, sure, that would be okay," the head nurse said next to the trainee obviously caught in a first time senerio. She held out the cup, which would mean one thing...I would have to let go.

I don't know why I thought it would work. Did I think the two gallons of pee pressing at full force would just cooperate and go back to the blatter until I made it to the restroom? Not a chance. I let go to grab the cup and instantaneously in super sonic force, like one of those giant super soaker squirt guns, a line of pee shot through the nighty like it wasn't even there. The two nurses acted quickly both dodging the bullet by flying in different directions as it hit the wall between them. I ran down the hallway to the restroom leaving a trail behind. From the distance I heard the shout, "On the left." Then another crackling voice trying to contain the laughter saying, "I have never seen that before."



Somehow I made it out of there without officially dying of humiliation. I managed to have a few drops of pee left for the cup that custodian workers would not have to clean up. Sure enough, like Bob said, I passed. But the road for progress would still demand more tests before my soul would know joy.

From The Pit...

The Party Shack....

In January of 1989, when the rest of my graduating class already made their decision as to which university they would continue their education, I no longer showed up for school. My twin sister would be approaching graduation with honors, and excellence in vocal performance and drama, while I vanished in the shadows.

Though "the Party Shack" I lived in provided a refuge for a time from the pain I carried along, many darker shadows began to take hold of my life. My father had come on a surprise visit from Georgia. He found out where I was living and knocked on the door one late morning. When I opened the door, a very puzzled and somewhat troubled look was on his face. He noticed I looked a little different since the last time he had seen me. Perhaps he remembered a shy kid still playing a little basketball, interested in music, who stuttered and struggled a little in life, but had "Brende" potential. Perhaps he had hoped to see a small resemblance to his own highly esteemed resume of accomplishments in medicine, writing, music, and psychiatry. Or perhaps at least some small glimmer of my older brother who had graduated summa cum lade at Yale and himself was an accomplished concert pianist and former chess champion of Kansas.

He was at a loss for words that morning. Though he did not know I was not only using marijuana and alcohol but now harder, more addictive and dominating substances, I felt like my eyes were confessing the story. Perhaps he was bothered by the coffee table covered with beer bottles and an empty 5th of Jack. Certainly there was the stench coming from the ash trays and garbage piled high for over 4 weeks, literally drawing hundreds of flies. It was an art form to open the garage door from the kitchen to throw out an empty beer can without letting in more than a dozen flies swarming over the "landfill" that never made it to the curb. There was the fact that I myself was dirty and carrying a kind of homeless smell in my clothes I no longer changed very often. For some reason we also had a dog and cat, but no litter box. This "pit" is where I would make a greatest descent.

When my father looked in my eyes that day, he knew death had taken hold somehow. He knew I was gone. I didn't have to tell him that I was beginning to use LSD that was causing me to forget vocabulary words and talk with a kind of slur. I didn't have to explain that I had been introduced to cocaine and crystal meth that I preferred to administer through a needle in my arm. He couldn't see the STD I was carrying. I'm not sure if he even knew that I had been arrested a few weeks prior for a DUI. Yet, there I was before him in some surreal way, alive, but dead.

I remember we left from the "Shack" and went to a bowling alley where he was attempting to find me. I can't remember making any coherent responses to his stumbling questions. I only remember feeling sure that my life was over, or soon would be. I had no questions for him and no thoughts to share. I only hoped the time would be short so I would not have to feel so awkward, squinting into the light of reality. He was gracious to me that day and I remembered hoping that he could see me again some day, some how, in true "Brende" form.

Not much later I was evicted, but not before I was required to clean the pit. I spent one whole weekend filling over 40 large hefty bags with goopy, smelly trash and fly larva after four successful bug bombs had cleared the way. This motley memory I believe was the foreshadowing of the spiritual work required to bring back my heart and soul from the dead.