Bad Passenger

Bad Passenger

It’s the end of my sophomore semester in high school and I’m at a party in the woods near Minturn with my boyfriend Jim and his buddy, Ed. I’m nursing a diet coke at this woodsie while the other 25 kids are having lots of beer from a keg that someone got from Town Liquor with a fake id. They’re singing the football fight song and some of the cheerleaders are in a loose formation, laughing as they strike a pose while the guys raise their beers in a loud toast and chug in unison. There’s a small firepit blazing and someone’s tossing a log onto the fire. Glowing embers rise up in spirals like fireworks. It’s a beautiful night. Stars twinkle above the slender silhouettes of aspen trees and a hint of pine scents the cool autumn air.

I look at my watch and see it is 11pm and call out to Jim, “Hey, we have to get home before our moms kill us.” Jim smiles and tosses me the car keys. He taps Ed on the shoulder and motions for him to come on along. It had been decided way before the kegger that I would be the designated driver, because I was always ‘the responsible one’ in situations like this. Our curfew was midnight, so we had to get a move on.

Now I’m in the driver’s seat of my boyfriend’s old blue Rambler, waiting for them to get in. Jim slides into the passenger seat beside me, while Ed gets in the back. But just as he closes his door, George jumps in too.

Oh no.

Of all people, George was the school troublemaker and tough guy; red hair, freckles, big, tall, and mean looking in a Western plaid shirt, faded jeans and scuffed rattlesnake cowboy boots. School rumor was that he had been arrested before and he scared me. It was obvious that he’d had many beers and maybe something else. And he was in a bad mood.

“Take me home,” he demanded from behind me.

Jim replied, “Hey George, take it easy. Linda will get us there, no problem.”

Jim and I exchanged a silent wide-eyed glance as I shifted the car into drive. My shoulders tensed so tightly I thought they would snap.

I’m unsure what was said those next few minutes as I silently hoped George wouldn’t lose his temper. He was bigger than all three of us, probably had a knife, who knew? I was terrified. Trying not to hyperventilate, I steered the car up Battle Mountain on winding Hwy 24, which went past our school and led out of Minturn toward the small mining towns of Red Cliff and Gilman. Neither town had a population of more than 400 people.

George lived in Red Cliff. His dad worked in the mines and was rarely home during the day. I got the impression that his dad had a mean temper too and I heard that his mom had passed away when he was in grade school. He’d had it pretty rough in life already.

Suddenly, the fake friendly ambience ended when George bellowed, “Stop the car! Stop it now before I kick your head in.” His huge cowboy boot was now ominously pressing against my skull.

If he kicks my head, the car will fly off the road and plunge us into the icy river below and we’ll all die.

“George, this is a highway, we can have her pull over by the dirt road to the school. It’s right up here,” Jim assured him calmly.

“I gotta piss. Stop right now!” he snarled.

“I’m pulling over, George,” I said with as much bravado as I could muster.

“Yeah,” Ed agreed, “I gotta pee too.”

Jim looked at me as I pulled into the gravel side road. I knew something was up between the guys. I swallowed hard.

On cue, all three doors opened at once and the fight began. In the pitch black of the night, I heard a punch, a groan, gravel shifting, silhouettes of angry young men swinging at each other. One of them went down. I held my breath and listened.

“You son of a bitch!” Jim shouted.

The doors snapped open. Ed and Jim jumped in, breathless.

“Hit it! Get outta here now,” Jim ordered.

In the rearview, an outline of George’s pale shirt caught in the glow of the red taillights as he lay prone on the dirt road. Gravel spewed under the wheels as I sped toward Minturn, while the guys examined their wounds—a bloody nose, a torn shirt, and a scraped arm.

“Shit that dude can kick,” Ed cursed.

“Son of a bitch. I hope he’s drunk enough not to know who beat him up. Damn,” Jim rubbed his arm and winced.

Adrenaline raced through me as I gripped the steering wheel and focused on keeping within the speed limit. The last thing we needed was to be pulled over by the cops. I was shaking by the time we pulled into Jim’s driveway.

“Come on in, Ed, and wash up. I need to change my shirt before my mom sees me.”

We walked inside through the kitchen door and into the warm light of home and safety. Only then could I take a deep breath and thank God we were all okay.

Jim tossed Ed a washcloth for his bloody nose, then peeled off his torn shirt and balled it up in a wad. I saw him stash it under his pillow. He smiled and blew me a kiss as he pulled on a fresh green shirt and buttoned it up quickly. Ed said, “I’ll see ya later,” and slipped out the door to head home across the street.

And when Jim’s mom got home from her bowling league, she’d see us kids just getting back from a party. All good, all smiles. I promised myself this would be a secret my parents would never hear about. They’d only believe that I’d had a great time at the party and no one would be the wiser.