January 30, 2009

I rummage around in my purse for my driver's license and a plastic container of Tic-Tacs. (I rarely carry those commercial peppermint candies, but I had found a box in a drawer that morning and had stashed it in my plaid carry-all, all the while thinking: "for future reference.") My legs begin to shake. My abdominal muscles begin to contract and decontract as my heart beat becomes faster, seems to expand and thump the wall of my chest. David puts his hand on my leg. I try to calm myself.

I remember pulling out of the gas station. I remember seeing blue lights by the side of the road and saying, out loud as if to jinx, "That poor fucker..." No sooner had the words escaped my mouth than another set of blue lights became visible in my own rear view mirror. I checked my speedometer. 35, the speed limit or even 5 miles below it. "Is he following me?" I asked my dear companion. With a tone simultaneously delicate and firm, David replied, "I think so. You should turn right." I turned my car onto a side street and heard the whooping of flashing government automobile like warped and amplified bird call in the night.

Now, as a uniform-clad man approaches my window, I begin to whimper. "You're my designated driver," David says simply, the whites of his eyes reflecting rotating lights of the police car behind us. I lower my window. "Ma'am," the officer begins, his statements so markedly matter-of-fact in stern drawl, "D'you know why I pulled you over?" I, for the first time, answer this question truthfully: "No, sir." "Your headlights were off." I quickly switch them on and explain that I had only turned them off for the visual comfort of other patrons at a gas station. "Well, that's somethin' we look fore in drunk drivers," the cop continues. He pauses ever so briefly.

"Have you been drinkin' tonight?"

"No, sir," I respond, the taste of five Tic-Tacs lingering in my mouth. I gesture to my boyfriend. "He has been," I relay, "but he is of legal age. I'm his designated driver." The policeman looks at my license. "How old are you?" he asks me. "20."

For what seems like two hours the cop stays back in his car, my driver's license in his hairy, white hands. David's external calm is rock-solid. I try, by squeezing his hand in mine as I imagine every worst-case scenario possible, to suck some of it from him.

There is a tap at the passenger side window. The cop is back. I open the window and reach for my license. "Alright, ma'am," the officer says. I notice for the first time that he is wearing sunglasses. It is well past midnight. He gestures to David, who looks straight ahead. The police officer proceeds to say, "Now you take his man on home and let him sober up."