Birthday Bashes and Broken Cars

About a month before my 20th birthday, my parents told me they were getting a divorce.

“Fucking finally,” I said.

I couldn’t have cared less.
I was pissed they hadn’t split up sooner.
That I’d had to endure both of them.

At that point, I was out. I was gone.
I saw them maybe once a month—working to make it less than that.

I had one request:

“I want to throw a birthday party at the house.”

I explained I had always envisioned throwing a huge kegger for my 21st.
But since they were splitting up and moving, I’d have to make do with a kegger for my 20th.

Surprisingly, she agreed.
I was shocked. But it was way too little, way too late.

I put her and the kids up at the Sheraton.
It had a pool. That’s all she cared about.

“Dad can fuck off. Just make sure he’s gone.”

I told all my friends.
Plans came together fast.

A couple bands.
Jason and Gabby bringing drugs.
We even plastered flyers around town—with MapQuest directions.

The week kicked off with a party at a friend’s house.
Jason brought LSD.

I took somewhere between 15–20 hits.

LSD had become one of my favorites.

The day before the party, we came down and “relaxed” at Foxfield Races.
Ironically, that’s a wild party itself. But it was our rest.

I remember the walk to the races from the car.
Still tripping. Starving.
Surrounded by walking hot dogs.
All of them sounded like Jerry fucking Seinfeld.

After the races, we got a ride with Karen and Mandy—two cute girls we invited to the party.

We had the signs up. Kegs ordered. Band hired.

Then, That Damn Car broke down.
On my birthday.

Literally as Derek and I were driving to the house, the transmission dropped out the ass end of the car.

“Thanks, car. Shitty birthday gift.”

We hitchhiked the rest of the way—arriving just before the band.

No one showed up.

Well… Jason and Gabby. The band. Derek.
But none of my other friends.
Not even the close ones.
Not my work crew.

We drank one of the kegs ourselves.

Turns out, putting the house address on the flyer was…
Too effective.
It was so far out in the country no one came.

The car got towed back to the dealership.

Luckily, I had a warranty—it covered repairs and a loaner.

The dealership wasn’t thrilled about that.

Understandably—they’d already replaced a bunch of wheels.
I had several reckless driving tickets.
They refused to let me drive the Plymouth Prowler they had on hand.

Boompa stepped in. They agreed to get me a rental instead.

I got a silver four-door Dodge something.
Leather interior. Nice. Big.

But strict rules:

• No leaving the state
• No speeding
• No driving past 11pm

I said “sure”—with zero intention to follow any of it.

A day later I started chatting with this girl online.
She invited me to a party in DC.

“Bring friends.”

I called up Derek:

“Let’s go.”

We printed MapQuest directions.
The club was called The Showboat.
Right off 29 North and into the Beltway.

I was unfamiliar with how this car would handle.
I’d dialed in the Sebring. Knew every slide, every scream.
This thing was different.

I was in the right lane, just vibing.
Crystal Method blaring.
Probably doing 75–85 mph.

“That’s it,” Derek said, pointing to the exit.

I didn’t hesitate.
Cut across three lanes of traffic.
Slid into the exit lane just before the guardrail.

I forgot I wasn’t in my car.

I was going way too fast.
The ramp curved hard.
Posted at 25.

Rear wheels started to fishtail.
I corrected. Too fast. Inches from the rail.

The exit dumped into an intersection.
A minivan was stopped at the red.

Still going north of 50.

I made the call.

“Brace,” I shouted.

I put the car into the guardrail.

Rear passenger side hit first.
Metal crumpled. I kept the wheel cranked.
Pulled the handbrake.
Nose tipped in.

We stopped—just next to the minivan—
Right as the light turned green.

They pulled off.
We jumped out.

Damage was cosmetic.
Airbags didn’t trigger.
License plate flew off—we found it up the ramp.

We got back in.
Made the same light.

Parked a few blocks away—hid the damage.

We were insanely lucky.

The club was a blur.
We partied.

Got back to Charlottesville around 3am.
I crashed at Derek’s.

Woke up and drove to the Pharmore parking lot—next to the shitty Roses store.

No cameras.

I scattered the bumper and license plate debris in front of the car.
Then went inside, bought Advil and water.

Came out and used the payphone to call the police.

“I’d like to report a hit and run.
Happened in the parking lot.”

Then called the rental company.

The cop and rental agent showed up around the same time.

“Red truck. Pulled out fast. Didn’t get the plate, but I think it started with ‘N.’”

Rental guy lost it.

“You lying piece of shit rich kid!”

The cop shut down.
Wrote it as a hit and run.

Pretty sure he knew I was full of shit.
But that guy’s tantrum shut down any real questions.

I complained to the rental manager.
Said their rep harassed me.

They gave me another rental.

I didn’t crash the second one.