The images of that night still unsettle me. One still disgusts me.

He was a thin man, long-haired, mustachioed. With a loud voice, he called plaintively into the night for Ginger, his dog. The anguish and concern he felt over his runaway animal was obvious.

But I didn't feel any pity for him.

My eyes kept returning to other parts of the tableau in front of me. Two young men lie still on the ground, as if someone had placed them there in their sleep.

Their faces are blocked from my memory now, but I recall thinking that they looked peaceful.

Nearby were two crumpled cars that had been forced into a brick wall. A third car was in so many small parts, I didn't recognize what it was.

The man calling for Ginger was in a fourth car, still intact on the road's shoulder. He appeared uninjured, hyper, periodically standing and pacing. A police officer gently but firmly pushed him to sit back down, to wait for medical assistance.

That was better treatment than I would have given him.

Spared by time

I was a young reporter in Orlando at the time, about 15 years ago. I'd worked late that night, either New Year's Eve or the night before. I don't remember.

I do remember being depressed. Having recently broken up with a boyfriend, I was questioning the choices I'd made. Deep in thought, I drove slower than usual that night.

Suddenly, a car's headlights loomed behind me, stayed a second, then zipped around on my right. The driver was in a hurry and disappeared into the dark.

I turned at the next intersection onto winding, two-lane Goldenrod Road, near my apartment complex. There were few lights on the street. Most drivers knew to take it easy on Goldenrod.

I suspected something was wrong when two people appeared, walking aimlessly in the road. The man and woman didn't respond when I slowed to warn them that that was dangerous. They seemed like zombies.

A little farther, around a curve, I encountered the debris, the man calling for his dog, the wreckage, the bodies.

I shouted I was getting help and doubled back. Soon police cruisers were entering Goldenrod.

Later that night, I couldn't stop shaking. And I couldn't sleep.

Slowed reflexes

The following Sunday, the pastor of my church told the congregation that the two victims were church members. One was the youth pastor; the other a teen-ager he was helping.

They probably died on impact, the pastor said. Two people also were injured.

He didn't mention the name of the driver who caused it all. He said police charged the man with driving under the influence.

A police source later explained to me how the man could emerge from such a devastating wreck relatively uninjured.

He was so inebriated, the officer opined, that his body probably didn't have time to tense up before impact. The alcohol and/or drugs had so slowed his reflexes.

Ginger reacted. The dog probably leaped out a window before the crash, the officer guessed. The dog was never found.

I didn't follow up to find out whether the driver was convicted and punished. It had become another reporter's story.

But I learned what I needed to know.

A drunk is not fun or cute, especially not behind the wheel. He or she is just plain deadly.

If you plan to drink on New Year's Eve, let someone else do the driving.

Email damos@enquirer.com or phone 768-8395.