The Hinge

Sometimes things almost turn out differently.

Hi.

My friends recently threw me a surprise birthday party. It was a gathering of my writing group, who over time had morphed into something much deeper: a group of friends I love and trust enough to open up to completely.

At some point, the conversation drifted to hinge moments. Not the dating app, but those moments where your life could have turned one way but instead went another. The forks in the road where, in some parallel universe, an entirely different version of us exists, living a completely different life.

Near misses. Dodged punches. Almosts and so closes.

It made me remember another birthday, and the closest I ever came to becoming someone else entirely:

It was 2002. Corine and I had just moved back to California after spending the late ‘90s (and our late teens) living in Paris. Saying that always makes me sound fancier than I am (and if you know me, you know I hate fanciness), so I’ll quickly add: I spent most of those winters in Paris shivering. I was so cold and underdressed one winter that my mother-in-law, a woman of grace, means, and unparalleled kindness, took me to Printemps Haussmann—a department store so extravagant it has stained-glass domes, a gloved doorman, and its own metro station. She guided me through with poise and purpose and bought me, to this day, the most expensive jacket I’ve ever owned.

After moving back, Corine and I struggled to settle in. I was in my early 20s and, to be honest, not particularly good at anything other than playing John Frusciante songs on my guitar. That guitar was essentially the only piece of furniture in our apartment. Alongside the jacket and some heirloom jewelry Corine had, it was probably the most valuable thing we owned.

I got a job at a ‘telemarketing company’ (a generous term) where I cold-called old people to pitch in-home care insurance. I didn’t understand half the words I was being asked to use, but I was glad to have a job. Rent was $475, and even that felt like a stretch.

The place was wild.
It was run by a guy named Craig who had a spiky mullet and drove a Camaro. He had a chipped front tooth he’d suck on for emphasis between words.
Craig would haul in the TV/VCR combo from his living room to replay MMA fights. Between calls, he’d cheer while sucking on that tooth. “Look-a that dipshit”—thwick—“don’t even know how to stand when he’s throwin’ a punch.”

After work, I’d go home to Corine, and we’d take turns cooking while watching Montel Williams on the neighbor’s TV through the curtains.
They’d play it so loud that if we opened all the windows, we could hear just fine.

I’d always admired hard workers, the people who sweat to put food on the table, and I never thought of myself as more deserving than anyone. As I scraped together the life I wanted, I pictured myself working just as hard and felt ashamed that my job was a sit-down one where I didn’t get to use tools other than Diet Coke and a headset.

At the time, I was waiting to interview for what I considered my first real job. One that might let us afford our own TV instead of squinting through the neighbor’s curtains.

Corine’s mom lent us money to buy a car: a Toyota Corolla. It was already 8 or 10 years old but felt new to us.

My first car with power windows—my first car that was built during my lifetime! It felt like my future was assembling itself, piece by piece. Corine was the anchor, the common sense I didn’t have. She seemed to know everything: the Latin roots of words, how to navigate apartment rental paperwork, where to find the best deal on the TV we were saving for.
I didn’t know shit.
The one thing I did know was how to drive, which mattered because Corine’s citizenship paperwork wasn’t sorted out yet, and I was the only one legally allowed behind the wheel.

The version of me I wanted to be was slowly coming into focus — still distant, but starting to make sense.

For my birthday, Corine took me out. She always had a way of spending three minutes getting ready and making it look like she’d spent all day. She was so elegant and didn’t even have to put much effort in.
I wore the only pair of pants I owned without holes.

At dinner, we had wine and talked about my upcoming interview. Corine played interviewer, asking questions that started out serious but grew sillier with more wine.

“What color Crayola crayon are you?”
I thought about it, remembering a crayon from my younger sister’s toy box.
Razzle Dazzle Rose
Ridiculous, of course, because I hate fanciness — and pink.

She raised her glass. “Sing your second-favorite Beatles song.”
I hesitated.
“How bad do you want this job?” she teased.
I whispered the opening lines to ‘Long, Long, Long,’ — the second-most spectacularly beautiful Beatles song, just as the staff came out with a chocolate cake, singing Happy Birthday.

We had a glass of champagne and got in the car.
This was the first time I’d ever had to ask myself this question: was I okay to drive?
How do you know?
I was definitely tipsy.
Probably a little drunk, but I could walk fine.
These were the days before widespread public awareness about where the line is.
I didn’t know.
So I drove us home.

It's a long stretch of dark highway from El Dorado County to where we were living in Sacramento anyway.
And I had this new car.

Rolling down the window, the December air felt great on our warm faces at highway speeds.
Still giggling, we had switched—I was asking Corine the interview questions.
‘Conjugate the verb Être in French”

Then, something came over me—the darkness, the wind, the intoxicating idea of freedom — or freedom sprung from intoxication.
“Let’s see what this car can do,” I said.

80mph.
90mph.
The little Toyota hummed along smoothly, a cloud beneath us.

“Rocketman” was playing on the stereo.

95mph

Then, behind me, the sky exploded with color: red, then blue. Angry light filled the car, reflecting off signs and casting dark shadows in spilled color.
The road alight in bursts of urgency.

Fuck.

Of course, it was a cop. Corine’s eyes went wide. My heart sank. I glanced at the speedometer—still hovering near 95—and thought back through the question I’d asked myself moments earlier.

I eased off the gas, signaled, changed lanes.
I was fucked.

My mind raced through all the things I’d just started to build: the job interview, the tiny, fragile steps toward adulthood. All of it teetering on the edge of a dumb mistake.

The siren chirped.
Corine put her hand on my thigh, a gesture of solidarity—or pity, as the car coasted toward the shoulder.

Then, to my absolute bewilderment, the lights—and the cop car—blew past me, jostling the Corolla as it disappeared into the darkness forever.
Gone.

I exhaled, half laughing, half crying, as the realization washed over me.
I hugged Corine with tears in my eyes, grateful to whatever was in charge.

Nearly, so nearly, I had been someone else.
That night could have rewritten my future, my family, my life as I know it. But it didn’t. Some other emergency, some other dumb mistake, saved me.
Thank you.

That was the last time I ever drove with any alcohol in my system whatsoever. And the last time I needed a reminder of how fragile, how hinge-like, these moments can be.

I’m lucky. I have no idea what I nearly missed. But I’ll never forget how close it came.
I’m still dumb, but I’ve never again been that dumb.

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The Ardor playlist cover photo is by Orson St.Ofle — the best of all of the good ones.
Give yourself to your loves, because love is the only way through.

I love you.