ESSAY— The Designated Driver

By JON HOCHSCHARTNER--

There’s a “Simpsons” episode where Ned Flanders, Springfield's most upstanding citizen, flips out. Forced into the role of responsibility for too long, his repressed rage finally boils over. I think that's what happened last summer.

I was at the bar with my best friends: a pair of brother’s I’ll call Liam and Noel. As night turned to morning, Liam wanted to leave. But we ignored him, whiling away the hours shooting pooling and hitting on strangers.

We weren't very grateful. We relied on Liam to be the voice of reason, the stable one. Not to mention our designated driver. A few too many drinks later, and it was last call.

As the bar emptied out for the night, the owner stood on the sidewalk, surveying his kingdom. Two burly buddies flanked him.

Noel asked if they sold any reefer madness. It was a bad move. They started calling him a "narc." Ordering him to lift up his shirt. I got in their faces, telling them to lay off, and it all went downhill from there. Luckily, the bouncer got between us before a fight broke out.

Driving us home, Liam was furious. Yelling how we had nearly gotten beat up. How stupid we were. Noel flipped the radio on to drown him out, but Liam switched it off, resuming his tirade.

“Shut up,” I groaned, beginning to feel sick to my stomach.

I vomited out the window a few times. Bile stained my sweatshirt. Eventually, Liam pulled over and I wretched into the grass. Noel sat beside me, unhelpfully detailing his drinking plans for the coming night.

When I was through dry heaving, we piled back into the car. Liam was yelling at us again. He was through being our babysitter.

He was drifting into the oncoming lane. I thought it was accidental at first, so I told him to straighten the wheel. But it was like he was reenacting the car crash scene from "Fight Club."

I was sure he was only trying to scare us. Though not so sure he wasn't drunk enough to get us killed in the effort.

As Liam flew past the turn to my house, at a speed that felt well over the 55 mph limit, Noel and I grew louder.

"Stop the fucking car!" We shouted over and over.

But Liam kept on accelerating.

“If you value our friendship at all, stop the car,” I yelled, now hoarse.

That apparently did it. Liam braked hard and we went from speeding to a full stop in seconds. We were thrown forward in our seats. The car grinded into the road’s concrete shoulder, with the awful sound of crunching metal.

I'd had enough of riding with Liam. I did my best to get out, but the passenger door was pinned against the wall. Seeing my plot to escape, Liam sped off before I could climb through the window.

We hurtled down the twisting road. I reached over, and with my face in Liam’s crotch, I pushed the brake down with my hand. Again, we were thrown forward in our seats. Liam still had his foot on the gas pedal, and the car groaned with the contradictory commands. But we were still.

“Liam, get out of the fucking car,” I barked.

Liam didn’t say anything as the engine roared in place.

“Noel, get Liam out of the car.”

Noel hopped from back seat, swung the driver’s door open, and tried to pull his brother out. But it’s harder than “Grand Theft Auto” would suggest. Noel put him in a sleeper hold until he choked. But Liam clung to the steering wheel, unmoved.

“Get out of the fucking car,” Noel yelled.

With that, Noel kicked his brother in the throat. He pummeled him in the face, until his brother’s nose bled. The beating got so brutal that I put my free hand up to deflect the elbows Noel was delivering.

Eventually, we dragged Liam from the driver’s seat. Deciding to walk home.

Noel was parking at a pull-off when a police car stopped us. With our clothes torn, covered with blood and vomit, we must have been quite a sight. To be honest, I’m not sure why the officer didn’t arrest us.

When he asked me what happened, the best I could muster was, “It was a bad night.”

We did our best to show we understood the severity of the situation, Noel saying he’d had friends who’d died in alcohol-fueled auto wrecks.

“We all do,” the officer said.

After promising we wouldn’t pick up the car until morning, we piled into the back of his cruiser. The officer drove us home. At my stop, Liam and I had a truly bro-mantic moment.

"I love you, dude." He said.

"I love you too, man," I said, closing the car door.

Writers love to graft meaning onto their stories. It's hard for me. It often feels inorganic, like I'm not being true to my original experience. But it feels like this story is rife with morals. The one I've decided to latch onto though, is this: Responsibility can really weigh people down. It's a burden. You gotta share it.