I died once.

Well, at least that’s what my friend told the cops.

They picked him up walking along the side of the highway in the middle of the night soaking wet. He told the police officer that I and our other friend had drowned-–which must have been a pretty shitty ending to the best night of his life.

We were heading back from the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo when things took a turn. Bon Jovi headlined that evening and my friend loved Bon Jovi. I mean he fucking loved him. So the three of us took the 40-or-so mile trip up from our small gulf town to the big city for a once in a lifetime arena rock spectacular.

We had been doing some drinking and I was chiefing a respectable amount of reefer in the back seat, being the only stoner of the group. But that night, things were different, and my buddy was so stoked after the show he actually hit the joint a few times--something he very rarely did. And for good reason. Shit always got weird when that dude smoked weed.

He was also driving. Well, that is until he steered off the side of the road and into a ditch, at which point we collectively decided it would be in our best interests if our other friend--the one who wasn't blasted out of her goddamn mind--drove us the rest of the way home. So they switched seats and our travels continued.

At some point, we stopped at a gas station to go to the bathroom. My buddy--the one having the best night of his life--wanted to stay in the car and listen to the radio and was adamant we leave the car running for that purpose, which we did. It wasn’t a very good idea. 

When we came back outside the car was gone. He left us. That son of a bitch crawled into the driver’s seat and left his friends at a fucking gas station in bumfuck Texas in the middle of the night, high and drunk and underage.

When I called him on my Nokia 3310 to ask where the fuck he was, he exuberantly shared he was on his way to the beach to buy beer (his tall, scrappy look and facial hair was enough to fool the near-sighted guy working at Buddy's) and assured me he would come back for us before hanging up his cell and promptly turning it off.

Luckily, we weren't too far from home and a fine TX fella brought me and my companion back to my folks’ place in the bed of his truck. We hopped out, thanked the fair Texas stranger and then I gave her (my friend) a ride home, came back and went to bed.

Sometime after I fell asleep, my mother came into my room and asked if I was in a car wreck. "No," I replied, confused. Ma then informed me she was talking to the police and, as I slowly pulled the ziplock baggie of marijuana from my front pants pocket and slipped it under the mattress, told me my pal had totalled his car--crashed it into the Dow reservoir, to be exact-–and then swam free before walking the empty night state highway upset that his dear friends hadn’t been so lucky. He wanted to be arrested.

Welp, the next day his mom called mine and said I was a bad influence on her son and we weren’t to hang out any longer. I didn’t mind the rep, of course, and my buddy let me take the heat--because that’s what friends are for. And looking back on that evening, all I can say is this.

That Bon Jovi’s one helluva drug.

(And we’re all just livin’ on a prayer and that night gave James a bad name.)

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