No, I’m not talking about the Chuck Berry song. Today, July 16, 2009, is the end of my thirty days of absolutely no driving. If I had just given up, I’d be able to get the BAIID installed in my car tomorrow. It would probably be a relief to Gramps and Mom, who have to drive me around all the time.
But it would be no comfort to me. I am a firm believer in taking chances. Greatness will never be yours unless you roll the dice. The only true losers in the world are those who never put anything at risk.
I don’t merely want to drive again. I want to be able to drive with complete impunity. No breathalyzers on my car, thank you very much. The problem is, in order to buy my way into this particular gamble, I have to sacrifice a few days of driving. That’s right, I still can’t drive because my lawyers are submitting the motion to reconsider. One way or the other, on July 27, I will be driving again. I just don’t want to have to blow in a tube to do it.
If this works, not only will I get my full driving privileges back, I will also have a hell of an excellent chance of having my entire DUI case thrown out. Sounds like a pretty good prize, huh? Well, if I come up with snake eyes, I’ll have to go through the incredible expense of installing the BAIID (which I will have to pay for every month for 11 months), and my DUI case takes a shot in the foot. It will be just one more bullet the prosecution can put in their gun.
The stakes are high for me, but I’m ready to play. This is no longer just about me, this is about proving a point. Don’t just put on their studded leather dog collar and accept failure. There is always something you can do. Victory is not assured, but those who don’t seek it will never find it.
One way or the other, tube or not, I look forward to be able to drive myself again. I’m tired of getting ferried from Elmhurst to Schaumburg and back again, every day. At least my grandfather is no longer the person who is driving me. He was recently declared legally blind, so he can’t drive, either. No, now my disabled mother drives me. She can’t turn her head, so I have to check every time she needs to change lanes. It’s annoying, but at the very least I’m not screaming anymore.
I can’t tell you how many times my grandfather nearly got us killed. Weaving across lanes, going through stop signs, running up curbs, you name it, he did it. I was screaming myself hoarse, and while I wish I could say they were very masculine sounds, I suspect they were quite girly.
I miss driving myself to McDonald’s, to the bank, to the comic book store, to Borders, to Zippy’s for their wonderful Zipp Stix, to Burger King on Tuesdays for 79-cent cheeseburger day, to the forest preserve, to the library, to bars, to friends’ places. Fuck! I miss it all.
I just have to last another eleven days. That’s all. Talk to you then.