When I was in college, I rarely had to get in a car to go to a party or bar. I rarely ever went to a “townie” bar, and I never had to. We had parties every weekend at various Literary Society (think fraternity/sorority) halls, and we could walk everywhere. My campus was small.

One Saturday night during my senior year, a few of us decided to drive to the local liquor store to buy the kegs we’d be tapping for a party. I must have had the money for the keg, which is why I was going. I was also 21.

We got in the car, and I quickly realized our driver was not good. I realized he’d been drinking all day. He was drunk. I was in a car with a drunk driver. It was too late. Telling him to pull over and let me drive would have started a fight, and I had no intention of doing that while he was behind the wheel. The only thing I could do was buckle the seatbelt, white knuckle the armrest, and try to be nonchalant about the whole experience with the driver, who acted like this was an everyday regular occurrence.

Every day in America right now feels like that drive–riding shotgun with a drunk driver.

The postscript to the drunk driver story is that, luckily, I got back to campus alive with the full keg. The driver managed to keep on the road for the short trip. He probably helped me carry it to the party. I’m sure he tapped the keg and kept on drinking.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t fill a cup.

What’s the moral of the story? I guess we hold on for dear life.