Three Tires Twice – Section 117

WARNING: This chapter deals extensively with drinking and driving. Thankfully, none of the instances led to death, pain, or emotional suffering. However, those who have suffered the tragic consequences of drinking and driving are advised not to read it.

“Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!” -Duke of Bourbon, Henry V

Bryon awoke to the sound of the rubber-less wheel rim screeching as the car barrelled down the street. He turned to the window just in time to see sparks fly wildly as the vehicle limped to the end of its shameful journey. Shocked, confused, and dreary from sleep, Bryon made sure he wasn’t dreaming. “What the FUCK,” was his natural reaction, “what idiot gets so drunk they don’t realize they’re driving on 3 tires?” It was only when Bryon saw me walking away from the car, oblivious to what I’d done, that he knew what happened.

“Andrew you fucking dumbass,” he muttered under his breath, before laying back in bed to fall asleep. He’d deal with me and the situation in the morning.

***

There’s plenty of things I’m not proud of regarding my bartending career but drinking and driving ranks comfortably at the top. I thought long and hard whether to include the following stories in my memoirs (as they’re less than flattering to say the least) but it wouldn’t have been honest to preclude them. Because to say there’s a problem with drinking and driving in the restaurant industry would be an understatement as ridiculous as Emperor Hirohito’s declaration that “the war situation has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage” after the nuking of Hiroshima. Maybe it’s gotten better since I quit bartending but drinking and driving is sadly a well-established part of the industry’s culture.

In Family Guy Peter Griffin once joked “Ireland has more drunks per capita than people” but in the bar industry you could argue there’re more DUIs per capita than bartenders and waitresses. DUIs are the Purple Hearts of the industry, if you serve long enough you’ll probably get one and it’s hardly a badge of honor. I’ve often said everyone gets a mulligan, but they’re people in the business who have more of them than Tiger Woods caught in a sand trap after happy hour.

There are many reasons (not excuses) for the prevalence of drinking and driving in the industry:

Stress, booze, drugs, wanting to party, and a fatalistic attitude (especially when you’re young). Rationalizations like “I’m fine,” “I’m not that far away,” “I don’t want to leave my car here,” etc. Trying to bond with staff, customers, or flirt with someone you like. The fact so many people do it, it’s easier (or lazier) than planning a ride home, and far too often people don’t expect to drink as much as they do. Because if history and human nature has taught me anything, it’s a fair segment of the population drink most of the time, no matter what.

They’ll drink if they are happy or sad, celebrating or mourning, whether their team won or lost, if they’re rich or poor, etc. It doesn’t matter if there’s peace, war, a pandemic, and I bet even in a zombie apocalypse a raging alcoholic would grab a bottle of rye before food, medicine, or a gun!

The point is there’s no lack of moments, circumstances, and ‘excuses’ to drink… and then unfortunately drive.

***

Then there are customers, who can be divided into four categories. You have the 1 to 2 drink people per sitting, who are harmless unless their alcohol tolerance is pathetic. There are social drinkers, who have 2-4 beverages on weekends, holidays, and special occasions, who are generally responsible. After this, you have hardened drunks who drink significantly more but know their limit, usually have a safe ride home, but can easily fall off the wagon and should be watched.

Finally, you have the fuckwads of the industry. Those who never handle their booze (whatever the quantity), always try driving home, and get more drunk than Boris Yeltsin after Russia lost the Battle of Grozny. Some of them are nice, some are rude, some tip, others don’t, but ultimately they’re potential lawsuits waiting to happen. These are the insufferable bastards who have to be babysat, warned, and especially documented. The customers you bring water to, constantly ask if they need a cab, and eventually under-pour for.

Sometimes you can talk to them but too many are like the Terminator: You can’t reason with them, bargain with them, and they never stop drinking and driving unless they crash and burn or forced to. With such fuckheads your options are limited: You can ask their their friends to intervene (unless they’re shit too) and you cut them off or ban them before tragedy strikes. Then there’s the nuclear option where you call the cops (or threaten to) but that’s a last resort. But whatever you do never say “drive safe,” as I’ll explain later.

Anyway, if you think it’s easy to prevent drinking and driving, and especially judge who is drunk versus just stupid, you’d be mistaken. Most people hate confrontations, serving staff have a million other things to do, and good luck policing dozens or hundreds of customers who get sauced regularly. Before you judge bartenders and waitresses keep in mind they make minimum wage, are often abandoned by managers or corporations, deal with no lack of rudeness and harassment, and frankly we aren’t babysitters!

Why should a 19 year old, 110 pound blond waitress be expected to confront countless old, obnoxious men who often creep her out all night (with impunity) every shift of the week? Of course responsibility SHOULD fall back on managers but far too many fail. Fail because they hate conflict and are often busy chasing skirts, stealing tips, and snorting coke. And while they could, and should, do more to stop drunks getting behind the wheel the sheer number of customers and excessive drinking makes this logistically impossible, even when managers care.

But there’s one thing I’ll state without hesitation. Whatever serving staff do they should never… EVER say “drive safe!” Nothing says you’ve over-served someone and passed the buck then this. Nothing says “please sue us if something unfortunate happens!”

One time a cute red head at a pizza chain said “drive safe” to a man more submerged than Moby Dick. Unfortunately, the music died out just then and most of the lounge heard it. I pretended to not hear it and concentrated on making the latest cocktail in case any patron was watching for my reaction. Afterwards, I told the young server her words were… “I’ll-advised” and went home bitter that most places never trained us how to deal with such situations.

Ultimately, how bars prevent (or more often don’t) drinking and driving comes down to the judgement and integrity of managers, bartenders, and waitresses. And by this point in my memoirs you likely realize the quality of such attributes among restaurant personnel is often found… WANTING. Either way, and I know this will sound controversial but individuals should take responsibility for their actions (as I did… ultimately). Responsibility for how much they drink, to not drive, to be decent citizens, and I dare say human beings. But if human nature, social media, and especially bartending has drilled anything into my skull time and again, it’s most people don’t take responsibility, especially when it hurts. Because why blame yourself when you can blame someone else.

***

But if you think I’m speaking from a high horse you’ll soon see I say such things from a perspective of personal, shameful experience… not out of self-righteousness.

Because if you think I’ve accumulated many entertaining (or infamous) stories about drinking and driving you wouldn’t be wrong. I lack no friends, customers, and especially colleagues who did it regularly. And while we were damn lucky to not cause human suffering and tragedy, that doesn’t mean we didn’t do stupid things or never came close to doing so. While the usual duo of time and alcohol means I’ve forgotten many instances (perhaps mercifully in this case), I remember some notable ones.

There was the time my friend Don insisted he was okay to drive us to another bar, on his motorcycle. My bartending instincts and common sense registered the red flags but my dad had just died so I thought “fuck it.” Our trek lasted 5 feet and 0.68 seconds as the bike fell over immediately and I was grateful to only suffer scrapes and bruises. I’m as adventurous as the next adrenaline junky, but I’d never been on a motorcycle before, and after that I’ll never ride on one again.

On another occasion my friend Martin got a DUI. I wasn’t there but one Saturday afternoon there was an unexpected knock on the door and I was surprised to find him standing in the yard. Martin was exhausted, obviously hungover, and clearly desperate. He’d just been let out of the drunk tank, his smartphone had died, and rather than use the police station’s line to call his parents he’d walked 20 blocks to my home.

Knowing what probably happened I invited him in and said “what did you do” in a friendly, jokingly manner. Martin had gotten fucked up, went to the Burger King drive-through, and the employee (seeing the obvious) told him to pull over as they ‘prepared’ his order. Then she called the cops and they came to arrest him. I tried not to laugh when he said “I wasn’t that drunk,” because that’s what they ALL say. Anyway, I drove Martin home, told him people fuck up, and he had my sympathy for when his dad unleashed hell upon him.

Then there was the time I was hanging with my manager Gordon, during an especially trying moment of my career. The context is irrelevant but let’s just say it involved a love triangle and we all worked together. Anyway, Gordon was a standup boss, a good friend, and there for me that day. But after at least 3 bars and countless drinks we pulled up to a convenience store. We bought what most drunks do: Chips, beef jerky, chocolate bars, cigarettes (for him) and a lack of shame.

As we left the store I noticed the police cruiser and instantly turned to walk away from our car, but Gordon was oblivious and moved towards the driver’s side of the vehicle. I shuddered once I heard “excuse me sir, we saw your car swerving back and forth.” Those weren’t the exact words but I stopped and tried to appear not guilty. But given our erratic walking and junk food in our hands I knew we were dead in the water. “At least I wasn’t driving,” I quietly consoled myself.

Yet remarkably the cops did everything go give Gordon an out. Maybe it was near the end of their shift, they didn’t want any paperwork, or they simply took pity on him. But the officer was easily the most polite and diplomatic policeman I’ve ever encountered.

After telling Gordon once more they noticed his car swerving the officer waited for him to realize the opening to walk away and leave the car there for the night. Unfortunately, Gordon was stubborn, hated authority, and initially argued with the cops. I can’t remember most of the exchange but once the officer said “SIR, I strongly suggest you leave your car here tonight!,” I finally intervened. I said “thank you officer, of course,” grabbed Gordon’s arm, and led him away. And while Gordon was pissed the rest of the night he thanked me the next day, after he’d sobered up.

I had no right to judge him but I remember thinking (bitterly given the consequences of my DUI) “I saved you $6000 dollars, a criminal record, and a lame driver safety course… you dumb ass!”

But of all my friends exploits Fred’s takes the cake. The man drank like a fish, more than anyone I knew, and I’m surprised he never killed anyone. During one of Fred’s benders he launched his car onto a curb, causing his muffler to fall down and drag on the road (just like on TV). He refused to fix it for several months and given he drank and drove during the whole period I don’t know how he wasn’t pulled over.

Another time Fred, some buddies, and I went to the pub and then back to my house for more beers. It was a long night, with us drinking from 9pm to at least 4am and my friend was more liquified than usual. But we were younger, dumb, and let him drive. And he drove alright…

Fred drove to the bar and later to my house. Then he drove from my home to the liquor store and back again. Finally, he drove back to his place just as the sun began to rise. If the odds of getting a DUI that night were 1 out of 6 he’d rolled the die 5 times and got lucky! Because his BAL (Blood Alcohol Level) by the end of the night/morning was higher than Kiefer Sutherland’s when he tackled a Christmas tree.

Unsurprisingly, Fred’s luck inevitably ran out. He got his well earned DUI one night when he over imbibed and drove to a 7/11 to get taquitos. On the way back he hit the roadway median at a… considerable velocity, propelling his car into the air. If some accounts of the incident are true, which is debatable, the vehicle flew 50 feet before smashing ingloriously into a smashed heap on the side of the road. He could have been killed, but was miraculous fine. To Fred’s credit he quit drinking and sorted himself out afterwards, which is more than most alcoholics can say.

***

If you think my stories about driving home with three tires are potentially interesting, or at least scandalous, I have no idea if it that’s true. Because it may not surprise you that if I got home without realizing I didn’t have 4 tires (twice), I also don’t remember much from those evenings. Needless to say, I drank and drove as much as any friend, colleague, or customer I’ve mocked, and that’s nothing to be proud of.

Regarding the first incident I can’t remember where I worked, what car I drove, or even what year it was! But I know it was in one of the darker periods of my career, given I was drinking and gambling more than usual. What I do remember was the bar I went to, I lost money on VLTs, and I drunk myself into near oblivion.

After foolishly getting behind the wheel I soon hit something that dislodged the front passenger’s tire from the vehicle. I don’t remember the exact moment but I quickly became annoyed by a far more bumpier ride home than usual. Somehow, I drove half way up the city’s main road, and down most of another major one to my house, without being pulled over, reported, or hitting anything.

Most likely it was a weekday, very late at night, and there weren’t check stops. But I was lucky to get home alive and with my car MOSTLY intact.

Late next morning I woke up to the familiar calm but stern voice Bry used whenever I fucked up badly:

“Andrew!,” Bryon started.

“Bryon go away, I’m exhausted,” I responded bluntly.

“Andrew!,” he started again.

“WHAT!!,” I shouted in pure annoyance.

“What the fuck happened to your car,” he came to the point, “…where’s your tire?”

Suddenly it came back to me, what I remembered at least. I was hungover as hell but my subconscious at least knew what happened. “AH FUCK,” was my initial thought. “Give me… give me two seconds Bry,” I finally said. Then I slowly got up, put on whatever clothes were closest, and went outside with Bryon.

Sure enough there was my car, parked sloppily next to the sidewalk, sans a tire. I don’t know if we continued our tense conversation. Instead, I recall being annoyed at how much it would cost to fix… yet also grateful I didn’t work the next few days so I could deal with it. Then I realized my dad was coming to pick me up for lunch that day (I’m glad it wasn’t the other way around), and he’d be there within 30 minutes.

I was hit by adrenaline and ran into the house to shower, dress, shave, and gargle mouthwash. After this I saw a text from my dad that he’d just pulled up. Unfortunately, it was sent a few minutes ago and since I hadn’t come out I shuddered upon hearing footsteps coming up the side of the house. “FUCK, I hope he doesn’t see the car,” was all I hoped.

Once I saw my dad’s perennial friendly smile after opening the door I felt relieved, he hadn’t seen my latest disgrace. But despite looking presentable I was still hungover and since my dad was the smartest man I knew I tried looking sober. So I switched over to bartending mode and put on the act I used whenever hungover at work: I asked simple questions about his life, tried to act interested, and made sure to make no exaggerated gestures. More worryingly though, I knew there was a big chance he’d see my car, again sans the tire, when we left the house.

I figured I’d a 50-50 chance depending where he parked, because if it was to the right near Bryon’s room I was screwed. As we left the house I made sure to stay on my father’s right to block any viewpoint he could get of the car. This worked, despite my clumsy walking, until we got to the sidewalk. Because sure enough he hadn’t parked to the left of the house but a few vehicles up from my car. In a last ditch attempt to hide my disgrace I pivoted, sloppily, to my father’s left side, but wasn’t fast enough and he saw the vehicle.

As my father saw it he was surprised to say the least and I waited for a damning indictment. However, by that point in his life my dad had mellowed, deep down knew my flawed nature, and let me save face. I was grateful because had the incident happened 10 years earlier he would’ve torn my head off. Instead, he gave a weak chuckle and asked what happened. Knowing he was going to give me a pass I produced a lame lie, saying I’d hit the curb at the end of the street last night due to ice, the tire was in the trunk, and I’d deal with it tomorrow.

My father could, perhaps should have reminded me there wasn’t ice in the middle of May and asked to see the tire but he just nodded and asked where I wanted to go for lunch. The moment was not exactly my proudest one as a son. I was grateful to be the good son but told myself it was time to shape up and quit horsing around.

***

Unfortunately, my moral compass and judgement back then were often compromised and it didn’t take long to relapse and screw up. Because within 6 to 12 months (I think) I’d lost another tire in a second infamous journey home. Again, I don’t recall the date, car or where I worked. All I know is I was going through another dark period at a toxic place, and fell into heavy drinking and driving home again.

I remember even less of this event in question, either from shame, drinking, or my subconscious repressing it to protect any dignity I had left at the time. But I recall the bar I went to and the probable moment another of my passenger’s side tire was separated from the vehicle. I remember a violent thump, loud noises, and my car being ‘slightly’ more difficult to drive. Had it not been for the 10s of 1000s of hours of videos games I’d played since 1991 I’m sure I would never have made it home.

However, unlike my previous trek with 3 tires this time I recollect the end of the infamous journey.

After passing the last major intersection near my home and with less than four blocks left, I suddenly woke up to my predicament. I realized the rubber on the tire had all but eroded and sparks were flying around like the firebombing of Dresden. Even worse, the steering was stiffening and I knew my car was about to fail. After seeing the drug store at the corner of my street I jerked the wheel hard left and despite the loudest screech of metal on tarmac I’ve heard, I successfully pointed the vehicle towards home. My car stalled out and wouldn’t go on any farther just as I reached the house.

Unfortunately, this happened in the middle of the street and obviously I couldn’t just leave it there.

I was grateful it was past 2 am and none of the neighbours were awake or outside. But given the noise and commotion from my car wasn’t exactly subtle I had little time until someone on our street realized there was a car stuck in the middle of the road… without a tire! Panic seized me and I nearly froze up. But then I realized Bryon had worked a night shift and had just gotten home (indeed, his house had the only lights on).

Without hesitation I burst from my car and stumbled like a drunken fool to the side door. As I got inside Bryon saw me and gave me that “what the fuck” look whenever I screwed up royally (and this one topped the list). Because, he’d just seen what happened from his window (again) and was headed out to confront me.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t impressed, let alone polite, when he addressed me. As always I can’t remember much, but the exchange went something like this:

“Andrew, what the fuck, you idiot, how did you do this… again?” I’m sure he tried to continue berating me, fairly, but I was panicked and didn’t want to be arrested.

“Bryon…” I pleaded beyond desperation, “you have to help me right now, please… we have no time.” I think he tried saying something more but I interrupted and likely said “Bry, my car is in the middle of the road, we have to move it before the neighbours see it and call the cops!” I probably added “you can yell at me later,” but by then we were out the door to deal with the… situation.

We ran out to the car and I told Bry it wouldn’t move. He saw what was left of the tire, jumped in the driver seat, and told me to push the car as hard as I could when he said so. Bryon was always a cautious driver but that night he hit the gas harder than Robert Muldoon evading the T-Rex in Jurassic Park. Once he said “NOW” I pushed the car harder than anything before or since in my life (or I assume I did). Maybe it was adrenaline, desperation, or pure luck, but we got my car around the corner (5 houses down) and left my vehicle on a side street close enough to the sidewalk to warrant no suspicion. Unless someone walked right next to it they wouldn’t notice the missing tire.

As Bry and I shuffled inside we went to the couches upstairs and collapsed. We were exhausted and needed a minute to catch our breaths and decompress from the freak event. But Bryon soon sat up and looked me in the eye… coldly. I knew I was about to get a harsh reckoning from my best friend.

“Andrew, how the hell did you do this… again?” Most likely I said nothing, either due to near alcohol poisoning, or shame. “You’re gonna kill someone if you keep doing this,” he continued. Again I said nothing… trying to process these words and the event in question. That’s all I recall from that night, because either I passed out on the couch or went downstairs and face planted on my mattress soon afterwards.

***

The next day, or day after as I likely spent the next 24 hours sobering up, I returned to the side street to assess the damage. Fortunately, while 99.9% of the tire’s rubber was gone, the rest of the car was fine. “Thank fucking God,” I whispered to myself. Then I phoned a tow truck to get my vehicle to Canadian tire to remedy the situation before work the next day.

I still remember the initial reaction of the tow truck driver to the missing tire. I’ve never heard someone say “what the fuck?,” in a more calm and genuinely surprised fashion before. After an awkward silence I said, half jokingly, “come on man, you must have seen stuff like this?” Because I refuse to believe someone in his profession, especially in my province (which more years than not ranked as the highest with DUIs per capita), hadn’t seen such a spectacle.

But the man merely shook his head in a subtle way to signal his disgust. Then he removed what was left off the tire rim, put it in my trunk, and drove my wounded beast of a car to Canadian tire. Whatever small talk we made during the journey was likely awkward and brief.

As I approached the man at the automotive department I wasn’t confident my tire warranty would be honoured. I may have been a drunk intellectual who knew more about books than mechanics but I knew the chances of the warranty covering a freak event weren’t great. We went to my car and opened the trunk to observe the… remnants of the tire. The man picked it up and analyzed it. It didn’t take long for him to point out the tire needed at least (some measure of tread) left and as it had less rubber than a rubber duck in a desert (AI suggested that one), I knew my gambit had failed.

Thus, we went back to the till and I asked for the most economically viable option for a new tire. I was grateful the man, a young immigrant from India, was beyond polite, professional, and never asked how the hell this happened. So I bought a new tire, spent a few hours sobering up in the automotive lounge, then drove my disfigured car home.

***

If you’re expecting a funny anecdote to finish the chapter or a soul-bearing account on how these events made me a better person you’ll be disappointed. The truth is, as entertaining or regrettable as such instances were, in the end they were stupid, pointless, pathetic, and especially preventable. Truth was I was lucky… damn lucky I never hit anything or killed anyone. And damn lucky I never died despite how many times I drove drunk or rode with others who did. Maybe that’s not fair given some people do it once, after a few drinks, and kill people and ruin lives.

But the industry and Bryon’s death taught me life is rarely fair about who lives and who dies.