Just another dead kid to remember on my runs.

In case you were wondering, Busch Light is the “road soda” of choice in my neighborhood.

It’s sickening, the sheer numbers of beer cans strewn about the ditches of the country road I live on. A whole hell of a lot of people must drive around slurping the foam from newly cracked cans, careful not to make the steering wheel sticky; squeeze half-full cans between their thighs while shifting; throw the empties out the window with one hand as they grab for a fresh can with the other. They must blow daily past my driveway while my girls circle their bicycles in the gravel, or jump blissfully toward space on our trampoline. There are new cans every day.

I used to take a garbage bag with me on our walks, stuffed in the bottom tray of the stroller. I thought I might be able to teach first Gretta, then Emma, about recycling, about cleaning up our own special patch of mother nature’s quilt. After a while I gave up, though. Gretta started understanding what the cans were, what they meant, started asking questions, and I didn’t have the heart for the answers.

This morning as I headed out for my run, I counted them like I always do. It’s kind of a throw-back to my days spent counting ceiling tiles in the nurse’s office, and it’s also a way to pass the time, to keep my mind occupied. That, and they’re hard to miss, there are so many of them. This morning I lost count by mile three, but the beer of choice was crystal clear: the assholes who make a sport of drinking and driving prefer Busch Light, at least around here.

Today I left my driveway headed south, taking every left turn I could until I returned to my driveway from the north five miles later — it’s the closest thing we’ve got to a “block” out here in the boonies. Because I’m a terribly slow runner, I had a lot of time to think.

Wisconsin is a beautiful state. We don’t have a whole lot of cities here; the population of our capital, Madison, is only around 250,000. For the most part, the state is a chain maille suit of smaller, independent communities like my hometown. The air is pure, the lakes are plentiful, the people are down to earth and the cultural opportunities are surprisingly solid. I have never wanted to live anywhere else.

But we do drink. What I’m about to say will not make me popular with my local readers, but I’m so fucking pissed tonight I don’t even care about the potential for angry anonymous comments: Wisconsin breeds a culture of drinking and driving, particularly among its small town inhabitants. It’s the plain and simple truth. My whole life it’s been normal. I know people around here who brag about it on MySpace, whose profile pictures regularly feature beer cans with straws posed next to the steering wheel. My alma mater, UW Madison, is one of the top public education institutions in the country; it also regularly ranks among the top binge drinking universities, more than once taking first place. We’re known for our beer and cheese in this state, but it’s more than that — it is perfectly acceptable in Wisconsin culture to drive to the bar, drink all night, and then drive yourself home. And that’s just those of us who bother to go to the bar — many, many others, would rather hop in the car with friends and drive all night through the breathtaking countryside. It’s called “road-tripping”, and everyone knows what it means. Everyone knows it means something different when they say it in other states.

And we lose people. It’s a numbers game, right? Only a matter of time? The first one I remember was ten, almost eleven years ago now. Three of my classmates drove drunk off an on-ramp and one of them died, though they didn’t find him until the next morning. I went home for the funeral and after the service, everyone headed up to the bar. To toast him, give him a proper send-off.

Just last year, Dave and I were at the wedding of another of my classmates. Yet another classmate left the reception after 12 or 15 pitchers of beer and proceeded to mow down and kill a pedestrian. They didn’t catch him at first, though, because he left the young man to die in the weedy ditch while he hid his truck in the woods across town. These are just two examples off the top of my head, but I thought of them both on my run today, as I counted those cans.

At four o’clock this afternoon I got word that another one died last night, at 9:42pm. He was a sweet kid, one I’ve known the better part of my life, a regular fixture at the bars. He was miles from home, and “alcohol was a factor.” He was “partially ejected and pinned” beneath his car, and died at the scene. He was a friend of my brother’s; my dad remembers a night they sneaked out his bedroom window because his own father had come home drunk and was threatening to beat him to a pulp. Like many kids in my hometown, I wonder sometimes if he ever had a chance. He was 29.

He was one of the best friends of the girl whose MySpace picture regularly celebrates her road trips. She changed that picture today to one of the two of them inside a bar. He is flexing a muscled arm, a pool cue leaned haphazardly against the other. She is laughing at whatever funny thing he has just said. They are safe inside the bar forever. No one has left yet.

And you know what? I bet they’re all at the bar toasting him right now. Later tonight, if I’m still out here on my front porch with my laptop, the Wisconsin air musky with the sweet smoke of the spring prairie burns, perhaps I’ll be able to wave to them as they drive by.

**Update, April 21: The kid who died received his third drunk driving ticket just last month. Had he lived, Saturday night would have been his fourth. So those of you who mentioned stricter laws? Apparently it wouldn’t have made a difference in this case. Three drunk driving tickets and he’s still getting behind the wheel, his buddies are still climbing in next to him (there was an uninjured passenger in this accident) and his friends are still joking about it on MySpace. Guess he won’t be making his April court date for that third offense, huh?