After Midnight

Image Credit: Dustin Wilson, 2018

At age sixteen, Dustin Wilson was a typical high schooler: A popular football

player with a lean muscular build, hazel eyes, and dark brown hair. His friends had just

picked him up, though he had to beg his mom to let him go because his bedroom looked

like the aftermath of an E5. But Dustin promised to clean his room the next day, so his

mother gave in. He hopped in the backseat of the turbocharged, cherry coupe and it

soared off like an eagle hunting its prey.

It was a regular summer night, the kind most teenagers experience at some point

or another once they become licensed drivers—get behind the wheel, pile in a bunch of

friends, and cruise the back roads—that sort of thing. This was before the dawn of the

smartphone, but distracted driving was still very real. Music, booze, high speeds . . . all diversions that can land even the most experienced drivers in hot water. At one point, the group stopped off at a local filling station for its version of the Big Gulp. One of the benefits of the Big Gulp was to load up on sugary soda, which appealed to just about any kid of any age. It was only natural that the oversized cups would appeal to a group of teens in the mood for party games. Cups have been used to entertain partygoers for decades. It wasn’t uncommon

to play Quarters and Beer Pong, but the group of friends came up with a new idea. They filled their cups with soda and spirit and rode off in search of a good time. But . . . no good happens after midnight.

The driver of the car, Luke, turned left onto Millers Lane, which sat between St. Rt. 60 and Chandlersville Road. On one side of the road rested a small residential development partially surrounded by open farmland. About a mile in was a wilderness area where thick foliage, mostly mature hardwoods, canopied over the earth. Occasionally, the remnants of a deceased oak were visible from the side of the daytime road and served as a marker of the life that was there before man disturbed it with their streets and houses. Late at night, however, their memories faded into the dark.

The road itself was pretty straight, but a culvert under the road created a hump in the asphalt that, when crossed at enough speed, could cause the same kind of butterfly effect in the belly as a roller coaster after it sets off down that first initial peak at the top of the climb. It’s a similar adrenaline pumping feeling thrill seekers chase as they climb up this and jump off that. Luke pressed his foot on the accelerator, and for a few short seconds he was a race car driver who, after making up for lost time in the pits, found himself chasing the checkered flag in close second place. He came up over the culvert

and the car soared through the air with enough force and speed to push him into a first place finish. The crowd from behind cheered as he made his way back around for a victory lap.

Of course, the teens weren’t really on a racetrack and nothing had actually been won. But it was enough excitement to warrant another go-around from the crew. “Do you want to do it again?” Luke asked. The vote was unanimous--only, in this race, the winner would be declared as the one who let the least bit of his drink spill from his cup. It’s unclear whose idea the game was, or whether they’d played it before this night. It’s not even clear where the teens had acquired the 80 proof, clear grain. But, one thing remained clear . . . no good happens after midnight.

Once again, Luke pressed his foot down onto the pedal. The car took off at high speeds. Luke held onto the wheel as the car took flight over the culvert. As the rubber hit the ground, Luke lost control of the car, flinging it across the golden parallel lines in the middle of the road and stopped by the force of the oak grave. Like the memories of the trees that faded in and out of darkness, so did Dustin. He was trapped in the car by the seat belt, though something else kept him from exiting the car without the help of the paramedics. Unable to move the limbs that carried him to the car hours earlier, Dustin had no choice but to lay completely still as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It’s impossible to know exactly what was going though his mind during those brief moments of cognizance. But it is probable that the only person in his universe who mattered to him the most was the one who birthed him into the world. There’s no love like the love of a mother. It’s a love that no amount of disappointment or

sorrow can shatter. Despite the physical pain he felt, concern for her was above all else, as he could be heard saying, “I hope my mom’s not mad at me.”

A week later, Dustin woke in the hospital bed—lucky to be alive. He’d learned of his fractured femur and punctured lung. He’d been told about the steel plate surgically placed in his neck.

“Is there any chance I’ll ever walk again?”

Nothing could have prepared him for the words spoken by the cold, emotionless doctor. “No,” he said, “You’ll never walk again.”

It was weeks before he had enough strength to sit in a wheelchair—a milestone in his life that no one could have prepared him for. Instead of driving himself to school and trying on the new football cleats that sat on his bed, he had to learn a new kind of reality. He had a long way to go before he’d ever recover from the accident he and his friends were in that night. But one thing’s for sure . . . no good happens after midnight.