The Worst Thing I Ever Did

Part I

This is a true story that happened when I was nineteen. Part one of three.

I’ve spent the last sixteen years trying to forget this time of my life. You can run from your past, but that’s not how I want to live.

“The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.”
― Aleksander Solzhenitsyn , Archipiélago Gulag I

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It’s a Friday afternoon in June 2009.

Beautiful day.

Some friends and I play a game of five-on-five basketball at a park.

Afterward, we start drinking. Six of us decide to pair up and see who can finish a fifth of E&J brandy first.

I get very drunk. I drive home. I don’t remember driving home.

I wake up. It’s maybe six or seven AM.

My two roommates aren’t here. I don’t know where they are.

I walk to the kitchen in my boxers. I’m parched. I grab an ice-cold Mountain Dew from the fridge and chug half of it.

I turn to head back to bed and sleep for another few hours. As I do, I glance out the window to a scene that would become tattooed in my mind.

My car is gone.

Only twisted metal and ashes remain.

The hood on my roommate's vehicle, parked just behind mine, is popped. I don’t know why. I would soon learn the latch, along with half the engine melted.

We share a driveway with our neighbors. They have a black Volkswagen sedan, which was unfortunately parked next to mine. The driver's side is charred. The black paint turned grey. The car is slanted, as both tires on that side are flat.

It appears my vehicle was the epicenter. This is difficult to process, but I have a pretty good idea of what happened—who did this.

There are a few police and firemen milling about, as well as some neighbors, taking in the scene. It’s a crime scene.

I feel sick. I don’t know what to do, but I know I need to go outside and face the music. I quickly throw on some gym shorts and a T-shirt, slide on my flip-flops, and head out.

I’m greeted by a heavyset middle-aged detective with a mullet who looks like he makes a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts every morning. He doesn’t look happy to see me.

“Are you ok?” He asks, “We didn’t think anyone was home.”

“I just woke up,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “I’ve got a loud fan in my room, and I’m on the other side of the house.”

I fail to mention that I was comatose from alcohol.

“Was this your vehicle?” He asks as he points at the remains of my car.

“It was,” I say.

“Do you know who might have done this?”

“I’m not sure..” I lie. There’s only one person who would have done this.

“Any idea why someone would burn down your car?”

“No idea.”

He gets the idea that I’m not going to cooperate.

“I’m gonna need you to come down to the station and answer some questions tomorrow.”

“OK.” I say.

“Do you know how much gas was in your tank?”

“It was just enough to get me to the gas station to fill up.”

“You’re very lucky. The firemen say, with a full tank, the house could have easily caught fire.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, as he waddles back to his unmarked Crown Vic.

My neighbor is standing there. A middle-aged woman with short brown hair. She lives next door with her husband and teenage son.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, and I’m just grateful everyone’s ok,” she replies.

“Thank you” is all I can muster. It’s hard to look her in the eye.

A middle-aged couple stops as they walk by with their dog. The man pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of the wreckage. I want to yell, “Hey! Fuck off and mind your business!” But I just turn away and walk inside. I feel like crying, but I can’t. I’m numb. I’m in shock.

My friend Dylan shows up some hours later with wide eyes, blinking constantly as if to make sure he’s not seeing things.

“Who are we fucking up?” He says.

I just shake my head.

How did I get here?

If you’re feeling generous:

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Thank you for reading!

Enjoy the rest of your day.

-Sam