Teacher: DWI

Teacher’s cabin


There’s not much to tell. That is, it’s all a bit fuzzy.

Let’s see. This was many, many years ago—I’m retired now—but at the time I had just started teaching high school. The weeks were long, longer than weeks seemed to be before. There was so much pressure and tension during the week, trying to please everyone, motivate the kids, placate their parents, follow all the rules the administration was imposing. If I had been more mature, I could have handled it better, but I was a late bloomer.

By the time Fridays came around, I was ready for a drink or several. We teachers would meet at a nearby bar or one of our homes, drink ourselves silly and then somehow miraculously get home. We didn’t live in the cities, or even really a city, so drives from one small town to the next were long and, on Friday nights, weaving.

I remember one night in particular. Viv’s cousin was visiting from Minneapolis and brought with him the makings for strawberry daiquiris. I had never had a frozen mixed drink and was happily consuming them as quickly as he could blend them. I’m not sure how my roommate and I made it home, but we did. I woke up the next morning on the stairs. Ellie was on the bathroom floor with her shoes in the hamper.

Looking back, I think the town would have tarred and feathered me—all of us—if they had known, and if they had the same standards then as they do now. With the passing of time and increasing of maturity, this kind of activity lost its attraction. Thankfully, I saw the light before the flashing lights saw me.