Member-only story
My Friend Chris Has No Fear
What’s his secret?
The two of us were laughing, hysterically. I was drunk and he was high. Stupidly, we were driving on the Bronx River Parkway, and even though it was 1 AM, the road was pretty crowded. At 20, we were old enough to know right from wrong, yet not smart enough for it to make a difference.
This is the point in the story where I would tell my Mom, either from the hospital or the police station, “I wasn’t driving,” my closest friend Chris was.
He always drove, ever since we were old enough. At 16, I remember taking the bus with him to some god forsaken strip of used car lots, deep in the heart of Queens. We searched lot after lot until he bought that 1969 Buick LeSabre for $600 bucks.
Back to that night on the Parkway; Chris was taking me to see his new apartment up by Fordham University. Clearly, not the best time to go for a ride, but that was Chris. Once he got something into his head, we were doing it. And I was happy to go along with my best friend.
The road was wrecked with potholes, and as we sped along, that beat-up old LeSabre bounced up and down like we were racing over speed bumps. In the darkness, the stream of his headlights followed every bump, never shining straight ahead. I remember thinking, “How can he see what’s in front of us?” Maybe that’s what we…
