Some Cautionary Tales
December 3, 2004
Ten Ways I Almost Killed Myself
Or
Son, Don’t Do What I Did
By Bill Trippe
1. 17, drunk at a lake in New Hampshire, my friend Chucky and I decide to bring a cast-iron chair from shore to a diving platform some 20 yards away. It is too heavy of course, and a few yards from the platform we lose our grip. As it drops to the bottom of the lake, the chair catches my ankle, taking me with it. A few frantic seconds later, I free my foot, but not before I have swallowed enough water to leave me retching over the side of the platform. I am fine.
2. 18, drunk and stoned in my friend Scott’s car, we pick up three girls and head for a party across town. A block from the party, we are broad-sided at an intersection. Scott’s car is pushed onto the sidewalk, shearing a hydrant off in the process. I am bathed in glass from the exploding windows and drenched in the deluge from the hydrant. A friend finds me wandering away from the accident, hysterical, imagining I am bathed in blood. Except for a few scratches, we are fine.
3. 15, I am hitchhiking to a nearby subway station when two guys pick me up. A few minutes later, the driver tells me they are not going to let me out, and their glassy looks confirm trouble. Without thinking, I open the door of the car, now going about 40, and declare that I am getting out unless they stop the car. With my feet scraping the pavement, gravel flying, they realize I am serious and stop the car. I am fine.
4. 14, I am on the elevated train tracks in a gritty neighborhood in Boston. From the street, some tough throws a paint can at the oncoming train and has the astonishing luck of derailing it. I slide from my seat on the back of one car, hit the floor, and slide the 45 feet to the front of the car, hitting the wall feet first. In the aftermath, I am somehow nominated to help shuttle people from the crippled train, along a narrow catwalk, to the platform. I am fine.
5. 16, I am riding shotgun and Shithead is driving a borrowed car. (Yes, we really called him that, and, no, I don’t remember his real name.) Going 90 on a divided road near the airport, Shithead cuts the wheel — he wants to fishtail — but instead he loses control. The aftermath is spectacular. We have taken out 200 feet of chain-link fence and wrenched 50 fifty feet of guardrail from the divider, twisting it across the road. Every surface of the car is destroyed. We are fine.
6. 17, I am riding shotgun again and Chucky is driving. We are drag racing on a bridge over the Mystic River when the right front tire blows out. We veer into the curve, built high for exactly this kind of calamity. The passenger compartment comes right off the chassis, coming to a rest on the rail above the river. We climb out the driver’s window. We are fine.
7. 18, my college roommate Erick and I have driven through a blizzard, stoned, to buy tickets to a concert. A half-mile from campus, Erick loses control on the ice, the car slides off the road, hits the embankment, and flips into the woods. I get my first non-hockey concussion, but am otherwise fine.
8. 17, I am riding shotgun with Chucky again when he decides to burn rubber outside a mobbed-up East Boston bar. We hit a puddle, and plow into a row of Cadillacs and Camaros. The patrons pour out of the bar, but the tension is quickly cut when one of the Camaro owners recognizes Chucky to be his cousin. We are fine.
9. 16, we are hanging out, all buzzed on one thing or another, when apparently I say the wrong thing to Shithead. He is a big ugly menacing kid, all red hair, freckles, and aviator glasses, but I can’t see this is now because he is holding a gun to my face, screaming incoherently. I somehow put a parked car between us and dive underneath it. Someone else talks Shithead down, and a few minutes later we are back to partying.
10. 19, I am on an underground trolley, stopped in a station, when fire erupts from the dashboard. I have the bad luck of being in the backseat of the trolley. The driver gets up and bounds off the trolley, leaving us all to fight our way off. With the smoke billowing, I push open a window and dive out. It’s a long way down to the platform, but a trash barrel breaks my fall. I am fine.
Posted by Bill Trippe at December 3, 2004 2:26 AM
