Cheers!

Cheers!

Well, OK, I had had alcohol. I was back from a happy hour gathering so of course I had had alcohol. But I had been very reasonable. No abuse, that’s for sure. Anyway, as a regular drinker, I don’t feel the buzz anymore.

The fact is, rain was mainly responsible for all this. Puddles on the road that act as mirrors to reflect the beams of oncoming vehicles and literally drive you blind. Hard falling rain so strong that wipers can’t work properly.

Furthermore, traffic jams were so numerous that night that there was no way I could have driven too fast. Of course, traffic jams are to be expected on that highway. But that night, it really was hectic. Because of the rain. Constant stop’n go. At times I thought I finally was going to be able to drive a distance but the car in front of me would invariably brake suddenly, and all the painfully gained momentum was lost.

And how stuffing it was in my old jalopy! Rain fell so hard all I could do was open my window a crack. And I constantly had to wipe off the fog that formed on the windshield.

The line of cars came to a complete stop. I could see the traffic lights some five or six hundred feet ahead. They had changed from red to green three times. Still, nothing was moving. Of course, this highway crossing always is a very busy one since traffic must go through it to reach the famed Falls and their lightshow at night. But I couldn’t help feeling there was something wrong in not being able to move at least a little.

It happened so suddenly. Nobody was coming on the other side of the road. On an impulse I pulled out and rushed ahead. There was no way I would miss the green light this time. OK, maybe I was speeding a little bit but not that much.

When I arrived at the intersection, I noticed that a policeman was directing the traffic, his hand raised to stop the line of cars I was just passing. Unsure of what to do, I gunned it. A reflex action. Yes, that was a reflex action.

That’s when they came in sight. They were crossing the road just ahead of me. There was a man. He had covered his head with his blazer. He was holding a little girl by her hand. With his other hand he was clutching an umbrella and was trying to protect the child from the rain. He was turning to her. And there was a young teenager too. He noticed me coming and opened his mouth, presumably to utter a scream. I hit them all at the same time. There was a dull thump followed by a loud crashing sound as their bodies shattered the windshield.

I was doused with broken glass, rain—and blood. I jumped on the brakes. The pavement sure was slippery because the car didn’t seem like it’d ever stop. When it finally did, I opened my door and stupidly slipped and slumped on the road. I really had a lot of trouble standing up again.

Bystanders were already rushing in to help the victims. As for me, I was holding to my car so not to fall again. I was craving a cigarette but had quit months before, so I didn’t have any. Later, as a policeman was leading me to the patrol car, I asked him for one, but he said he was a non-smoker and sneered I could satisfy my crave in a short while with a breathalyser.

At the local police station a moment later, I flunked the alcohol test. I thought it was impossible. Surely the gizmo was badly set. I was put in a cell and immediately fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was almost dawn. I still had a sour taste of wine on my breath when I exhaled. An aged policeman soon appeared to handcuff me and lead me from my cell. I thought I was set to appear before the judge, but the cop said it would be later that day. The policeman opened the door of a small room and led me inside. There were a table and two chairs welded to the floor. The cop sat me on a chair and fastened one side of my handcuffs to it. He then went out and locked the door.

He returned five minutes later. A woman was with him. He indicated the other chair to her. He slowly put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

“You’ll be OK?” he asked.

She nodded. He went out without a word. The woman then turned to me and regarded me gloomily.

“Do you know what restorative justice is?” she asked.

I hadn’t expected that question. Still, I managed to offer an answer.

“Er… It’s when a crime victim agrees to forgive the perpetrator in exchange for a restorative act, isn’t it?”

She kept looking at me gloomily.

“That could be one definition. There are others,” she said.

She took a large envelope out from a cotton bag. She pulled a photo from the envelope and placed it on the table before me. It was a family picture, one among millions of similar family pictures. It had been taken while on a vacation on some tropical beach. There was a woman, a man, a young boy and a little girl, all smiles, their skin golden with suntan. I of course recognized the woman at once. She was right in front of me. I recognized the others as well. How could I ever forget their faces?

“They were killed on the spot. If you doubt it, here is the proof,” she said while slipping more photos on the table.

These, taken at the morgue, were horrible. The man and the boy had had their heads crushed. The little girl simply looked like she was sleeping. This was even more horrible.

“Last night, you killed four people.”

I painfully swallowed.

“Three. They were only three,” I objected.

“Four,” she insisted. “I died too. Without them around, there is no more sense in living.”

“But it was an accident,” I retorted. “It is sad, but it could have happened to anybody, even to you.”

I realized too late how insulting this answer probably was to her, but she left the offence uncommented.

She continued.

“You were so drunk you couldn’t even stand up.”

“No, no. I was just so nervous; I did have a glass of wine or two, but I wasn’t drunk at all. With all the campaign they do around drunk driving, people sure know what they risk. I for one do.”

“You’re lying. You still smell like a wine barrel.”

She took out still another photo. I could see myself on it, crouched on the wet pavement, struggling to get up.

“This one was given to me by a witness,” she said, “just in case you would try to deny. Now are you still going to pretend you weren’t drunk? The breathalyser test indicated 265, more than five times the legal limit.”

“How the hell can you know that?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. She fished out a newspaper clipping from her bag. It had been yellowed by time, but it was very familiar to me. First, the title: “19-Year-Old Girl Struck to Death by Car”. And the photo: a figure lying on the pavement, covered with a tarp. A sandaled foot poked out from underneath.

She pushed the page toward me.

“That was your first murder. Now you’re at four. Five, including me.”

“Hey, I was found not guilty! It was deemed an accident!”

“No. You were found not guilty because of a procedure mishap. Witnesses were adamant you were stinking alcohol at ten feet.”

She remained silent for a while. Then she said:

“This young girl was my sister. She was to be 20 one week after.”

The woman remained silent for a moment. Then she pulled from her bag a 12-ounce bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

“Now it’s over. Our family has shed too many tears already. You like being under the influence? Try mine for a change. So there won’t be a third time.”

I sneered:

“What is this shit? You really expect me to swallow that? There's poison in your booze, it's obvious. Do you really think I'm that stupid?”

She gave me a bewildered look, apparently flabbergasted by my question.

“Oh yes, you are stupid,” she said. “And you can't even see it, which doesn't help matters. But you're going to have hard liquor on me, whether you like it or not.”

She filled one of the glasses and threw its content in my face. I remember thinking she'd thrown lava at me. I screamed in pain, frantically trying to extinguish with my free hand the fire that was devouring my face and eyes.

The door opened with a bang and the policeman rushed into the room.

“Mary? What happened?”

“I threw acid in her eyes, Dad. She's never driving again. And I don't care about the consequences: my life is over anyway.”

I heard her coming toward me. She lifted my ravaged face, approached, and whispered:

“Restorative justice. My definition.”

Then she walked away, but not without giving me a little more support:

“Now, Madame, drink your fill. And cheers!”

*

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