I always drove in my rear-view mirror, rarely watching the road in front of me. I was far more concerned with what may be coming up behind me instead of events unfolding before me. For good reason: Nearly every time I climbed behind the wheel of my car I committed a felony DUI.
I know what you're thinking, "Why drive drunk? Why not call a cab?" Several reasons. First, after a few cocktails, sound judgement sails straight out the window. "I'm fine. I can make it home. Heck, I drive better after a few drinks!" Second, taking a cab home meant leaving my car behind, resulting in a subsequent trip back to the bar in the morning. I'd have to hire another cab or find someone to give me a lift. Who wants to suffer all that with a hangover? Not me. Third, calling a cab to drive me home every night would result in the hasty onset of bankruptcy. To my mind, drinking and driving always won out as my most reasonable option.
I know what you're thinking, "Why drive drunk? Why not call a cab?" Several reasons. First, after a few cocktails, sound judgement sails straight out the window. "I'm fine. I can make it home. Heck, I drive better after a few drinks!" Second, taking a cab home meant leaving my car behind, resulting in a subsequent trip back to the bar in the morning. I'd have to hire another cab or find someone to give me a lift. Who wants to suffer all that with a hangover? Not me. Third, calling a cab to drive me home every night would result in the hasty onset of bankruptcy. To my mind, drinking and driving always won out as my most reasonable option.
For some inexplicable reason, fortune smiled on me when it came to squeaking out of DUIs. Three times I found myself pulled over for drunk driving and three times I side-stepped incarceration.
My first brush with the law happened at the ripe old age of 17. After chugging a couple brewskies at the church softball league, I weaved my way through the streets of Orange County, CA. Flashing police lights in the rear view mirror signaled an end to my late-night journey home.
A surprisingly attractive female officer approached my window. "How much have you had to drink?" she asked while shining her mag-lite in my face.
"Uh ... one beer." I lied.
"One beer? You smell like a brewery." She pulled out a pad and pen, "What's your father's phone number? I'm going to call him out here to pick you up."
MY DAD?? Not that! Anything but that! "Uh ... couldn't you just take me to jail?"
20 minutes later, my father showed up and drove me home. That was the longest two-mile ride of my life.
My second scare came a few years later. Earlier that evening I managed to throw back a dozen or so cocktails before meeting up with some classmates to work on a film school project. Fortunately, the assignment burned six hours of my life, allowing me to sober up a bit. We finished up around 3AM, at which point I climbed into my car and jumped on the freeway.
The CHP (California Highway Patrol) nabbed me a few minutes later. The officer pulled me out of my vehicle and administered a Field Sobriety Test (which I passed with flying colors). However, the breathalyzer told a different story, registering my blood-alcohol level at .08 (a legal limit at that time).
Once again, the officer cut me a break and advised me to call a sober friend to come pick me up... then he left! So I did what any red-blooded American kid would do ... I got back in my car and drove home.
The last incident occurred while serving as the designated (drunk) driver, assigned the task of chauffeuring my intoxicated roommates home from a wedding. Hands down, this occasion should have ended in handcuffs. My blood-alcohol levels must have been twice the legal limit (if not more)!
I saw the cop car in the distance, traveling toward me on the opposite side of the road. My hands flashed to the proper angles of 10 and 2 on the steering wheel. As he passed, I locked eyes on the rear view mirror in time to see him flip around and light me up. He caught me dead to rights. Fear wrapped its icy fingers around the midst of my soul and squeezed. I looked at my buddies, "This is it, fellas... I'm going to jail."
The officer approached and poked his head in my window. "Where you guys coming from?"
"Uh... we're ... uh..." I stammered, attempting to mask my breath. "We're headed home from a wedding."
He sniffed the air, "I smell alcohol."
"Yeah," I replied. "These guys have been drinking. I'm the designated driver." Designated driver?! He's NEVER going to believe that load of manure!
The cop took a step back and studied me. "Okay," he said. "I pulled you over because you have a headlight out. Be sure to get that fixed." And with that, he walked away!
We just sat there, stunned.
After a few minutes, my buddy broke the silence, "Did... did that just happen?"
I hate to say it, but I'm convinced the officer was relieved we weren't a car full of gang-bangers and let us go to avoid the paperwork. No complaints here!
My first brush with the law happened at the ripe old age of 17. After chugging a couple brewskies at the church softball league, I weaved my way through the streets of Orange County, CA. Flashing police lights in the rear view mirror signaled an end to my late-night journey home.
A surprisingly attractive female officer approached my window. "How much have you had to drink?" she asked while shining her mag-lite in my face.
"Uh ... one beer." I lied.
"One beer? You smell like a brewery." She pulled out a pad and pen, "What's your father's phone number? I'm going to call him out here to pick you up."
MY DAD?? Not that! Anything but that! "Uh ... couldn't you just take me to jail?"
20 minutes later, my father showed up and drove me home. That was the longest two-mile ride of my life.
My second scare came a few years later. Earlier that evening I managed to throw back a dozen or so cocktails before meeting up with some classmates to work on a film school project. Fortunately, the assignment burned six hours of my life, allowing me to sober up a bit. We finished up around 3AM, at which point I climbed into my car and jumped on the freeway.
The CHP (California Highway Patrol) nabbed me a few minutes later. The officer pulled me out of my vehicle and administered a Field Sobriety Test (which I passed with flying colors). However, the breathalyzer told a different story, registering my blood-alcohol level at .08 (a legal limit at that time).
Once again, the officer cut me a break and advised me to call a sober friend to come pick me up... then he left! So I did what any red-blooded American kid would do ... I got back in my car and drove home.
The last incident occurred while serving as the designated (drunk) driver, assigned the task of chauffeuring my intoxicated roommates home from a wedding. Hands down, this occasion should have ended in handcuffs. My blood-alcohol levels must have been twice the legal limit (if not more)!
I saw the cop car in the distance, traveling toward me on the opposite side of the road. My hands flashed to the proper angles of 10 and 2 on the steering wheel. As he passed, I locked eyes on the rear view mirror in time to see him flip around and light me up. He caught me dead to rights. Fear wrapped its icy fingers around the midst of my soul and squeezed. I looked at my buddies, "This is it, fellas... I'm going to jail."
The officer approached and poked his head in my window. "Where you guys coming from?"
"Uh... we're ... uh..." I stammered, attempting to mask my breath. "We're headed home from a wedding."
He sniffed the air, "I smell alcohol."
"Yeah," I replied. "These guys have been drinking. I'm the designated driver." Designated driver?! He's NEVER going to believe that load of manure!
The cop took a step back and studied me. "Okay," he said. "I pulled you over because you have a headlight out. Be sure to get that fixed." And with that, he walked away!
We just sat there, stunned.
After a few minutes, my buddy broke the silence, "Did... did that just happen?"
I hate to say it, but I'm convinced the officer was relieved we weren't a car full of gang-bangers and let us go to avoid the paperwork. No complaints here!
During my drinking days, driving a car presented a perpetual state of terror resulting from a perpetual state of drunkenness. It took well over a year into my sobriety before my DUI anxieties alleviated. My first traffic stop while in recovery came at the unfortunate expense of a couple of rookie cops.
One evening, while on my way home from an AA meeting, it suddenly occurred to me that I was low on cigarettes. Without a second thought, I made a right turn into the nearest 7-11. No infraction there, right? Wrong. I happened to be in the far left lane, prior to making the turn, and cut across three lanes of traffic. Oops! Of course, a couple of rookie cops happened to be cruising up behind me at the time.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to use "rookie" as a derogatory term, but these guys still had the price-tags on their uniforms. They were fresh.
Just as I put my car in park, the officers pulled in behind me and flipped on their lights. So, I hopped out and walked back to meet them. I later learned this to be an unwise behavior during a traffic stop. Apparently, distancing yourself from your vehicle signals the officer of an intent to keep them away from your car, whereby raising suspicion. I did not know this.
Tweedle-Dee's hand shot to his weapon. "Please stay by your car, sir!" he commanded in his best big-boy voice. His partner, Tweedle-Dum, circled around to the other side of my car.
I stopped in my tracks, slightly annoyed, "Uh, is there something I can help you fellas with?"
Dee relaxed from his combat pose, opting not to shoot me. "Where you coming from, sir?"
"An AA meeting."
In a brilliant display of investigative prowess, Dum stepped forward and asked, "You comin' from the alcoholic AA?"
"No," I snapped, graduating from annoyance into outright irritation. "I'm coming from the Auto Club. I was short on cash and couldn't afford the third 'A'."
"You been drinking?"
"That's right," I said. "You got me. Well done, Grissom. I just came from the AA kegger down the street. You guys must be buckin' for CSI!"
The mentally deficient line of questioning ended there. They searched my car, found nothing, wrote me a citation, and let me go. I had to pay a fine for my traffic violation... and it felt great! For the first time, in a long time, I endured interrogation by johnny-law with absolutely no fear of incarceration. Admittedly, I was a bit hard on those boys, but I just couldn't resist the Mack-truck sized openings they presented. Perhaps I'll see them again some day and apologize.
The point is this: I'm lucky. After over a decade of daily drunk driving, I escaped with nary a DUI. What's more amazing, I managed to avoid killing myself or someone else. Many a time do I remember getting behind the wheel when I had NO business operating a vehicle; flying down the highway with one eye closed so as to counteract my double-vision, only to arrive home, stumble up my driveway and pass out on the front stoop. How I managed to avoid an icy metal slab in the county morgue baffles me.
I guess God had a bigger plan for my life.
One evening, while on my way home from an AA meeting, it suddenly occurred to me that I was low on cigarettes. Without a second thought, I made a right turn into the nearest 7-11. No infraction there, right? Wrong. I happened to be in the far left lane, prior to making the turn, and cut across three lanes of traffic. Oops! Of course, a couple of rookie cops happened to be cruising up behind me at the time.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to use "rookie" as a derogatory term, but these guys still had the price-tags on their uniforms. They were fresh.
Just as I put my car in park, the officers pulled in behind me and flipped on their lights. So, I hopped out and walked back to meet them. I later learned this to be an unwise behavior during a traffic stop. Apparently, distancing yourself from your vehicle signals the officer of an intent to keep them away from your car, whereby raising suspicion. I did not know this.
Tweedle-Dee's hand shot to his weapon. "Please stay by your car, sir!" he commanded in his best big-boy voice. His partner, Tweedle-Dum, circled around to the other side of my car.
I stopped in my tracks, slightly annoyed, "Uh, is there something I can help you fellas with?"
Dee relaxed from his combat pose, opting not to shoot me. "Where you coming from, sir?"
"An AA meeting."
In a brilliant display of investigative prowess, Dum stepped forward and asked, "You comin' from the alcoholic AA?"
"No," I snapped, graduating from annoyance into outright irritation. "I'm coming from the Auto Club. I was short on cash and couldn't afford the third 'A'."
"You been drinking?"
"That's right," I said. "You got me. Well done, Grissom. I just came from the AA kegger down the street. You guys must be buckin' for CSI!"
The mentally deficient line of questioning ended there. They searched my car, found nothing, wrote me a citation, and let me go. I had to pay a fine for my traffic violation... and it felt great! For the first time, in a long time, I endured interrogation by johnny-law with absolutely no fear of incarceration. Admittedly, I was a bit hard on those boys, but I just couldn't resist the Mack-truck sized openings they presented. Perhaps I'll see them again some day and apologize.
The point is this: I'm lucky. After over a decade of daily drunk driving, I escaped with nary a DUI. What's more amazing, I managed to avoid killing myself or someone else. Many a time do I remember getting behind the wheel when I had NO business operating a vehicle; flying down the highway with one eye closed so as to counteract my double-vision, only to arrive home, stumble up my driveway and pass out on the front stoop. How I managed to avoid an icy metal slab in the county morgue baffles me.
I guess God had a bigger plan for my life.
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