Flying High

When Sarah and I returned from our two-day trip, I left my car at the airport and rode home with Sarah. Sure enough, our ramp friend brought over some good Colombia marijuana and cocaine. He also wanted to stay, but we made him leave. About six flight attendants were at Sarah’s house, and we partied until well after midnight. Our group could have gone on forever, until Rhonda Bulluck, a good friend, and one of the sweetest people you would ever want to meet, decided she needed to drive home. It was late, and we had been doing drugs and drinking since mid-afternoon. Rhonda lived in North Atlanta. We tried to convince her to spend the night, but she said that she had to get home to pack for a trip to Mexico. She rolled two joints to take with her. We weren’t really worried, because she had driven home late many times before. Only this time she didn’t make it. She fell asleep at the wheel, and her car went off the overpass bridge. Her neck was broken in two places, and she died instantly.

We got the news early that morning when we all were awakened by two police officers ringing Sarah’s doorbell and pounding on the front door. We all got up very quickly: Some of us were in our nightgowns with rollers in our hair; some were still in our street clothes, and one girl who arrived late was in full uniform. We were all dazed and hungover. We tried to make sure no signs of our partying were visible, but shit was everywhere.

First, one officer asked us a lot of questions. The other officer was taking notes on a small pad.

“Do any of you know a Miss Rhonda Bulluck?” The officer asked no one in particular.

“Of course we do, she’s our friend and co-worker.” Sarah spoke up.

“Was she here last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did any of you see her use drugs or drink alcohol while she was here...uh...last night?’’ The officer continued his interrogation.

“No sir, Rhonda didn’t use drugs, at least not to my knowledge. I have never seen her use drugs, and she certainly didn’t use drugs here last night. We held a prayer meeting.” Sarah said, and we all nodded in agreement.

The officers looked around the room and saw all the beer cans, wine bottles, and butts in the ashtrays.

“So she was here last night at your...uh...prayer meeting, you say. Right?” He was being sarcastic. “Do y’all usually drink and smoke at these...uh...prayer meetings?

“That depends.” Sarah responded, just as sarcastically.

“Well what time did she leave?” he asked.

“After midnight, around two o’clock, I think.” Sarah answered again, and we all agreed. “Now, what is this all about, Officer? Is Rhonda in some kind of trouble?”

The officers looked at each other, and the one taking notes spoke for the first time.

“I’m sorry to inform you, ladies,” he hesitated, “your friend was killed last night. We think she fell asleep at the wheel, and her car went over the bridge at Interstate 285 and 75. There were no skid marks.”

We all screamed, and Collette fainted. Dominique Van Stinchcomb went into shock.

“Could there be some mistake, Officers? She was just here,” Sarah asked, wanting confirmation. We were all crying and comforting each other.

Both officers shook their heads. For the first time, I think, they felt our pain.

“The reason we asked you ladies these questions is because we found marijuana in the car. Did she say she was going straight home, or did she make a stop?”

We shook our heads to say we didn’t know. We were only half -listening. All we could think of was that our friend was gone, just like that!

The other officer said, “I’m sorry to bring you ladies such bad news.” And they started to leave, but turned back to us and said, “Oh! By the way, we found these in her car after the accident.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the two joints Rhonda had rolled and taken with her when she left.

We stared at the joints. Rhonda could never roll worth a damn, but then, neither could I.