Lucky Lightning

1986
A Summer Saturday

I am sixteen, and during the course of the past several hours, five cans of Budweiser have made their way past my rebellious lips. This is the first time I've ever had more than a sip of alcohol, and I am lumbering home at quarter to two in the morning: way past my mother's strictly-enforced curfew of midnight.

I woozily approach the front door and, after eight or nine random stabs, fit my key into the lock.

Slowly, painstakingly, I open the door and slip inside, breathing hard. I gather together each and every last functioning brain cell to help me strategize.

To get to my room I need to walk upstairs and right past my mother's bedroom. Unfortunately, she is a light sleeper who leaves the door open.

I decide to tiptoe quietly up the stairs and hope for the best. While stepping gingerly onto the fourth carpeted and unusually slippery stair, I stumble and slam down hard on one knee. Then I make matters even louder by slurring "shit!" into the pre-dawn scene. Over the booming thunder-beat of my heart, I can hear my mother emit sleepy sighing grunts and turn over in bed.

Springing into action, I abandon all pretense of stealth and make a break for it.

Alas! It is too late.

Finding herself awake and unsure why, my mom decides to pee, and we all but collide in the hall. We're inches from one another: she barely awake, me barely standing.

Two seconds pass.

An abrupt inspiration provides my sudden script: "You're sleepwalking," I enunciate carefully, soothingly. "Go back to bed."

Without a word my mother turns, walks back into her room, and gets into bed. I am left in the hall, stunned, my mouth hanging open. It worked!

I make my way to my own bedroom and climb under the covers, my heart still stomping a hard beat and my vision beginning to slant and spin. I thank God for the miracle, undeserved as it was, and promise I'll never, ever, ever do this again.

That kind of lucky lightning just doesn't strike twice.