[This fiction is dedicated to the Lexington, KY Police Department.]
If I hadn’t gotten pulled over, I would’ve made it home. Probably.
A bunch of us were out drinking and touring the bars on a Friday night. I was spending new money; I’d just gotten my first pay check from my first REAL job… a real defined as an occupation with a decent paycheck, holiday pay, sick days, PTO (paid time off) plus medic al and dental. Not only could I afford to be sick, but I could afford the co-pay AND not lose a day’s pay healing. It wasn’t a particularly difficult job; mostly clerical work. But I was pretty content, given that most of my other gigs had been temp factory labor. There’s nothing wrong with that sort of work – it can even be noble – but when you’re in debt up to your ass for a college education, spending your days working a job that doesn’t require a high school diploma isn’t exactly good for the ego.
But I’d gotten a REAL job with a REAL PAYCHECK. Needless to say, I was really happy and I wanted to celebrate. My friends were excited, too. I’m sure they were tired of me eating their food and drinking their booze because rent took most of my paychecks. I couldn’t remember the last time I was able to buy a round of drinks. It felt nice to be one paying for a change, to be able to give something back.
We started out early. The sun was going down. Since I made it clear I was going to be buying at least the first three rounds, I got out of having to drive. The designated driver, Stan was a solid guy and a good driver who knew the side streets pretty well. His wife Reba came along because she was always good for a few drinks and because she needed the night out almost as much as I did. A mutual friend, Chuck, tagged along, and we were going to meet some other friends later on into the night. The first few bars were fun; we toured through an Irish Pub, a few sports bars, and a German-style bierhaus with over 500 different kinds of beer. We even walked in and out of a few clubs looking for live music to set the evening to. The weather was decent. Not too hot. Not too cold. I was in good spirits most of the night and wasn’t too concerned about anything. Life was starting to look up – finally. After all the shots of whiskey and pints of beer, I felt more human than I had felt in a long time.
As the night crept on into early morning and bars started closing, we decided to pack it in. Stan drove through a Taco Bell on the way home to pad our stomachs against the impending hangover that was sure to greet us in the morning. After we ate our cheap ass burritos, I felt like I could make it home. Yes, I’d been drinking, and yes I could’ve crashed on Stan and Reba’s couch and gone home in the morning. But I really wanted to pass out in my own bed; maybe I’d slept on too many other people’s couches, or maybe it was the booze and my generally high spirits. When I told them I my intentions, Reba asked,
“You sure you can drive?”
“Totally,” I answered, all confidence. “It’s a straight shot. I’ll be home in no time.”
“You’re welcome to crash on the couch,” Stan said. “You know how comfortable it is.”
“And I’ll cook us all breakfast in the morning,” Reba added.
“Nah,” I answered. “I can make it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Call us when you get home,” Stan warned.
“Ok, fine. See you later on.”
When I got behind the wheel, I felt good. I felt fine. My hands were steady. I buckled my seat belt and double-checked my mirrors. I pulled out of the parking lot, hung a careful right. The parking lot dumped into an empty backstreet through a mostly residential neighborhood. I was careful to keep my hands on the wheel at the ten and two positions. Before I put the transmission in drive I made sure the radio was on a heavy metal station (good for staying awake) and that my window was rolled down. I had the route memorized, since I had driven it enough times sober. One stop light that crossed a major traffic artery—which I saw as the only major problem with the route; directly through the light there was an exit ramp down to my street; then, hang a right and a short three minutes home. Easy. I felt clear and I knew I’d be in my bed very shortly.
I made it past the first light and down the ramp. There was hardly any traffic. The light at the end of the ram[ turned green before I got there, so there wasn’t any need for me to slow down. I envisioned myself pulling into the parking lot behind my apartment. Yes thought.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound and red and blue flash of sirens behind me.
Fuck! I considered my options. Home was less than a quarter of a mile away. I’d heard somewhere that the cops couldn’t do anything if you were in your driveway – but then again, did I hear that when I was out drinking? For some reason, a shifty-looking bartender serving watered down drinks came to mind. Never trust a bartender who uses too much ice.
I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. I was careful to turn on my blinkers to indicate vehicular distress, then I lit a cigarette and waited.
The flashlight in my eyes was blinding. “Can you put that cigarette out, sir?” I knew better than to think it was a request.
“License and registration please, sir.”
“I have to reach into the glove box,” I said. I’d seen too many episodes of Cops where some poor bastard gets shot for trying to comply.
“That’s fine, sir.” The cop flashed his light over the inside of the car. God damn illegal search and seizure asshole, I thought. This is probably the highlight of his night. I reached over and got my registration, dug my license out of my wallet, and handed them over. I still couldn’t see the guy’s face. For all I knew he was a cracker with a used cop car and nothing better to do.
“Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?”
“You liked my car?” It was a red Grand Am. Cops like to pull over red cars.
He wasn’t amused. “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
“I had a beer,” I answered. “a few hours ago.” Keep it simple. Real simple. He probably smelled the booze on me, so there was no point in denying it. Keep the story as close to the truth as possible. Makes it more believable.
“You had a beer a few hours ago?” Echo. That’s how they set the trap.
“Yeah. You know, I was out with friends. Ate some dinner.”
“Where’d you eat?”
“Taco Bell.”
“Ok, sir. Would you step out of the car, please?”
FUCK! “Sure thing officer.” I opened the car door and stepped out in as sober a manner as possible.
“Will you come to the back of the car with me, sir?” I was able to get a better look at him. The cop was short and skinny. “Come back here and stand on the line please.”
So fucking polite. We went through the whole roadside waltz. I held my arms out and touched my nose. I counted backwards from 100. He made me walk the white stripe --- but to be fair, I couldn’t walk in a straight line if I hadn’t been drinking. I tried pointing that out to him. It didn’t seem to matter.
“Ok, sir,” he said, holding up the breathalyzer – a red and white tube about ten inches long and two inches around with a gauge on it. Roadside cock. “Breathe into this please.”
I considered refusing. If I refused, he’d have to take me in and get a blood test. By the time that happened, I’d be sober.
“Breathe into the mouthpiece, sir,” the tone was insistent. I must have taken too long to think about it. “If you don’t, you automatically lose your driving privileges for six months.”
Shit. Driving Privileges? Cop talk. I took a breath and exhaled. The cop read the gauge. “You need to take this seriously sir.”
“You saw me,” I answered. “I took the test.”
He hit the reset button. “Do it again.” I did. He looked at the gauge. He made a huffing noise.
“Sir,” he said. “I KNOW you’ve been drinking. You won’t get out of this by trying to void the test.”
“But I’m NOT trying to void the test,” I protested. “I can’t help it. I have lung problems. Asthma.”
“You’ve got asthma?” His tone was doubtful. “You think it’s a good idea to smoke when you have asthma?”
“Yes,” I insisted. “Look, I know I shouldn’t. It’s hard to quit. Harder than heroin. All my friends smoke. You go to bars, you’re around people who smoke. Am I supposed to live in a bubble? I was diagnosed when I was kid. You know how many breathing tests I’ve done? It’s nothing new.”
That one made him think. I wasn’t lying – exactly. I’d had a touch of asthma when I was a kid, but I hadn’t had an attack in years. I kept looking at him. My eyes were adjusted to the nighttime and I was able to make out his features. He was young, but not too young. He wasn’t a rookie – but I figured that since he hadn’t really come on too strong. Rookies always get a rush when they get to assert their authority. For a moment I thought maybe I’d talked myself out it.
He motioned me towards him with one hand and reached for his handcuffs with the other. “Step forward, sir. I’m taking you in.”
“WHAT FOR!?”
“Reckless operation of a vehicle,” he answered. “I can’t haul you in for a DUI, but there’s no way you can drive home.”
“You have my license,” I told him. “You KNOW it’s right down the street. It’s a straight shot. Come on, man. Let me go home.”
He got the cuffs on me and was leading me to his car. “Come on, man. YOU CAN FOLLOW ME HOME,” I tried. “I won’t swerve. I’m not drunk. I’m not even BUZZED. Come on.” He shook his head. He wasn’t going to budge. FUCK.
We were riding downtown. He had the radio on one of those classic country stations. This song was playing on the radio that I remembered from being a kid. I had this image of an old guy dressed like a hobo playing a tuba on the Hee Haw show. “Sixteen tons, and whadoya get? Another day older and deeper in debt.” Tennessee Ernie Ford? Johnny Cash? All I knew was I hated that country shit. Made me think about the past. Made me think about the fact that I was tired of being poor. Made me think about my daughter. I hadn’t seen her in a while. Made me think. Fuck this, I thought.
“How long you been a cop?” I asked him.
“15 years.”
“This is a pretty lousy shift to be in for that long. Somebody not like you?”
“It’s easier for me to spend time with my kids.”
“Do THEY like that you’re a cop?”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“I bet not. I bet all the other kids think they’re narcs.”
Silence.
“You like being a cop?”
“Sure I do.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be out arresting real criminals instead of harassing people on their way home?”
Silence.
I continued. “I mean, you know that somewhere out there, somebody’s getting shot at. Somebody’s getting robbed. Somebody’s getting raped. Somebody’s getting hurt. And what are YOU doing? YOU’RE arresting ME. And I wasn’t hurting anybody.”
He didn’t talk. The song on the radio had finished and they were playing something just as annoying. Loretta Lynn? Anne Murray? Some other big hair taffeta wearing bitch whining about men.
“They must think you’re a shitty cop,” I said, “to keep you on the graveyard shift.”
We passed my place on the way to the downtown lockup. I didn’t bother mentioning that. When we got to central booking, he walked me in. Didn’t look at me once. Then he took off his cuffs and disappeared into the night, off to pull over more red cars. I didn’t talk to the booking officer. I let them take my fingerprints and my picture. They gave me my one phone call. I knew better than to call Stan or Reba. They would be passed out. I tried another friend. He didn’t answer.
“I didn’t get anybody,” I told the officer.
He pointed over to a bunch of chairs. There was a television. “Take a seat over there,” he said. “You’re going to get released in four hours.”
Are you serious? “Really?”
“Yeah,” he answered, not really paying any attention to me. “So take a seat. Don’t talk to anybody.”
I found an empty seat amongst the crowd of Saturday derelicts… clearly not dangerous enough to merit a jumpsuit and a cell, but enough of a public nuisance to have to sit four hours and watch Gilbert Godfrey on USA Up All Night. Mostly drunks. Some homeless people. There were a couple of kids who looked like runaways. Some women that probably got picked up for prostitution. No one talked; we were all watching the TV. The movie was a bad one. I was thirsty.
