WHISKEY CAROUSEL

DAY 12: November 27

12 days of sober-dom seem far less impressive than 57 Jameson-free days, but hey, them’s the breaks.  You know what they say: You have to start at the bottom (again) to get to the top.  That’s a stupid cliché.  Sometimes I feel like they (whoever is in charge of deeming a phrase worthy of cliché status) aren’t even trying with some of these half-assed allegorical adages.  Clearly you have to start at the bottom to get to the top of anything, unless you have a ski lift or a helicopter handy in which case the saying would not only be stupid/ redundant, but stripped of its aphoristic title entirely.  ANYWAYS.  The point I was trying to make before that little diatribe was that I had a slip-up, but I owned up to it and now I’m moving the fuck on.  I channeled my inner-Denzel and handled the whole ordeal in stride, treading onward like a G.  I didn’t have a melodramatic ‘what does it all mean?’-type breakdown after my slight gaffe in judgment followed by some sort of divine catharsis and ending with me jogging through a scenic park while ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ plays from imaginary speakers in the sky.  Run-on sentences and imagined montages aside, the point I’m unsuccessfully trying to make is that I don’t feel like I’m back at the starting line again.  My body and, more importantly, my state of mind still feel like I’m nearing my 60-day mark of sobriety.

My tirade against certain mundane cliches boring you? I’m so sorry, how thoughtless of me! Here. Check out how hot I am. Thank about me naked for a second. Don’t even worry about all that scribble-scrabble on the left. Imagine my boobs.

Getting a little wasted in the faceded was gravy and all that, but the hangover alone was enough to remind me that the aftermath does not justify the act itself.  I was actually impressed with my former self’s grit, the perseverance.   It takes a lot of determination to be such a hot mess 24/7.   I spent every day feeling like THIS? That was the overriding theme of Day 1, the Sequel;  the heroine of the gut-wrenching saga battling perpetual nausea as well as a disgruntled monkey stomping the yards of her frontal lobe as she grimly waded through life’s daily normalcies.  How the fuck did I do ANYTHING before? 

Occasionally, a flutter of a whim of a thought will pass through my train of thought that does question my preeminent need for total and complete sobriety.  It’s normal to question decisions that affect every distinguishable facet of one’s life, correct?  Of course, Applesauce! (That’s you, replying to me in your head.) There are certain situations I find myself in, however, that don’t merely retort to the needling and chronic but why? self- enquiry, but sucker punch it to the ground and force it to eat its own socks.  And those socks have pee in/on them.  Monday night was one of those situations.  Eat that, enquiry.

Before I launch into the goings-on of late Monday, early Tuesday, let me first give a brief list of facts that are essential to any reader who wishes to fully grasp the severity of said night’s events.

BRIEF LIST OF FACTS

1. In the state of New Jersey, if someone has a suspended license as a result of a DWI and is caught driving for ANY REASON, this shit will happen: The driver shall be fined $500.00, shall have his license to operate a motor vehicle suspended for an additional period of not less than one year not more than two years, and shall be imprisoned in the county jail for not less than 10 days nor more than 90 days.
2. In the state of New Jersey, if someone is caught driving with no insurance, THIS shit will happen: Upon conviction, shall be fined $500.00, shall have his license to operate a motor vehicle suspended for an additional period of not less than one year nor more than two years, and may be imprisoned in the county jail for not more than 90 days.
3. I live in New Jersey.
4. I have been driving for the past 14 months with a suspended license as a result of a DWI and have no car insurance.  Also, my car is unregistered.
5. So far, nothing bad has happened.  So far.

MONDAY – HOW SHIT WENT DOWN

Since my Saturday night shift was permanently reneged as a result of my drunken indiscretions some 57 days or so ago, I’ve been scrounging for shifts at my bar like a horny cocker spaniel in heat. Ipso facto when the Monday night bartender sent a mass text to everyone last Sunday night asking someone to cover for her, I immediately replied with “YESYESYESPLEASEGODYES FORTHELOVEO JESUS CHOOSEMEIWIL SUCKYOURDICK.”  She fearfully adhered to my proposal and I was unstable with giddiness, feeling secure and monetarily sound for the completion of my phoenix tattoo that was scheduled for the following afternoon. Tits, tits, and fucking tits.

On my way into work my Jeep Wrangler made a strange skidding sound and I, in the crack-addled demeanor I was in at the time, alleged the sound could just be the car fixing itself from the inside.  It had been doing this weird thing for the past month or so where it would shut down whenever I stopped too long at a light or what have you, and I was hoping that the mysterious whirring emanating from the rear of my truck was a sort of ominous blessing, maybe a thank you for being thoughtful and covering a shift for a coworker in need.  Either way, I had 12 hours between the time of the audible weirdness and when I’d have to drive home, so I wasn’t too concerned.  I would deal with it after work; right now it was time for me to charm the masses and rake in the rewards.

12 hours later: I’m in high spirits, with an extra 275 dollars in my wallet, which is a nice turnover for a Monday night.  As I’m walking to my car, the blinders that adorn my inner-face during work fall by the wayside and I remember the sketchy rumbling noise of yesteryear.  The car started just fine: it went forward as directed and I was sitting pretty in the safety of a heavy wallet and a moving car.

Just to be on the safe side, I loaded my negro baby (It’s cool, she’s black.) with gas and filled up all of her tires.  I think that the gas station attendant assumed me drunk because it was 3 AM and I couldn’t figure out the air machine, but fuck it, I knew I was sober. They should really attach a lever or something to that hose though, as an aside.  After he explained to me the logistics of the air machine, I did a little job back to my car to ensure my sobriety to any potential onlookers.  Drunk people don’t jog.  Or fill up their tires with air for that matter, but I didn’t want to risk the whole scene being viewed by some cop with binoculars watching the whole thing transpire with a bird’s eye view from some bridge miles away.  Look at this drunkard. What a jabroni. 3 AM, can’t even figure out how to put air in her tires.  Alright Chuck, let’s bring her in.  Oh wait, look, she’s jogging.  She looks pretty coordinated.  Maybe she’s just a bartender getting off of work, incompetent to air machines with no lever on their hose to push.  Let’s let her slide.

Confident that whatever was wrong with my car was gas/air related, I continued home.  It wasn’t until I neared the turnpike that I noticed something was unmistakably, definitely wrong with my car.  The low rumbling had metamorphosed into a hideous, deafening screeching that overpowered all other sounds, both in the car and in my head.

I should have just pulled over right then and there, but my sweet chariot was still moving and I didn’t want to risk a cop stopping to help my distressed vehicle.  Too many questions involved there.  Chiefly, the classic ‘May I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance?’ was my central concern. It would consequently receive the dubious ‘No.  No to all of that,’ reply on my part.  So I willed my little Dahlia (That’s my Jeep. Once again: black.) onto the turnpike, cooing words of encouragement and stroking her dashboard as a symbol of solidarity.

When I merged onto the four-lane highway, I was horrified to discover that Dahlia refused accelerate past a piddling 35 miles an hour.  That’s just a rough guesstimate, because my speedometer arrow was now pointing far beyond its limit at the the 110 mph mark, escalating my wariness to blind hysteria.  The screeching had now transposed itself unto the entire vehicle; a smoking, quivering cacophony rattling quite suspect down the New Jersey Turnpike at a very conspicuous 35 mph or so with an unlicensed driver at its helm.

I tried every trick I could execute while still in motion: I changed gears, I put the car in all-wheel drive, I put the car in neutral while slamming on the brakes (I was just grasping for straws at that point, making different combinations of things I’d already tried.).  Nothing was working. All right, let’s not freak the fuck out was the only self-coaching I (Where the fuck are you, Denzel?) could manage.  You clearly can’t get to your exit at this rate.  Pull the car over and restart it. Right.  Can do.  When in doubt, reboot. I wasn’t confident that what I was doing was even remotely legal, but with no other options I pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the turnpike.  As I laid Dahlia to rest, gingerly placing the gear into park, the clutch violently vibrated in my hand in such an aggressive manner that I whelped aloud, hastily turning the car off in terror.  Not exactly the response I was hoping for.

I tried restarting Dahlia.  Lady wouldn’t move.  I could still see the exit I had come off of behind me; the psychological warfare I had been gaming with my car had only gotten me ¼ of a mile closer to home.  Just breathe.  Give it a second and try again. Just breathe.  Drink your little can of grapefruit juice (I steal them from work. I like to stay hydrated on the drive home) and when it’s empty, try starting the car up again.  Apparently, in my distressed state, my mind figured that it would take the car the same amount of time to right itself as it would take me to finish a 4 oz. can of juice.  I obliged to this fantastical whim, squashed the miniature can in my fist with  newfound vigor, took a second to marvel at how big the tiny, quashed (Such a good word; why isn’t it used more often?) can made my hand look, and tried to resuscitate my jeep a second time.  Miraculously, the car started without a hitch and I was able to put it into gear and coast home to freedom.

I’m just kidding.  It wouldn’t budge.  It would’ve been really cool if that had happened though, right?  I’m not sure what lesson that would have taught me, maybe something like when times get hard, finish your juice or something, but it would’ve been a nice, concise story that would have someday turned into a parable of sorts, an Aesop’s fable or what have you.

Commence panic mode.  I called anyone who could feasibly offer some sort of something to the situation; my mom, my aunt, people who know about cars, people who know people who know about cars, people who are smart in general, in any facet…no one answered.  To their defense, it was 3:30 AM on a Monday.  In my defense, fuck that.  I was awake and in need, where the fuck was everyone else?

So clearly I was on my own.  I didn’t have anyone to tell me what my next move was, but I knew whatever it was had to be done fast because cops are required by law to pull over and investigate any vehicle that’s stopped on the turnpike.  I deduced that the first few questions any cop would have for a young, nubile hottie stranded on the turnpike would involve sobriety (didn’t concern me) and a driver’s license (totally concerned me).

Oh, and by the way, when they say you have to go to jail for no less than 10 days and no more than 90 days, they mean they take you from your car to the jail.  No ticket given, marked with some some far-off court date after an attorney has plea bargained the sentence down to a fine and an online driving course.  They see you driving, they check your license, and that’s it.  Me, cuffs, cop car.  One phone call from a smelly public phone that would probably have been made in vain given that no one fucking answers their cell phones after midnight on a Monday.

I sat there for a minute or two to assess my situation.  It was shitty.  After all those times I had driven drunk or high or even just like an asshole and gotten away with it, this was going to be the one that does me in?  Really?  Were all of those close calls in the past for naught?  Even stone-cold sobriety couldn’t rescue me from the inescapable hands of the law?

Losing your attention again? I’ve got just the thing. Here’s a monkey taking a dump. See look, it’s funny because he’s on the toilet and he’s wearing human clothes, but he’s like…a monkey? Get it? I hate you.

Dahlia was a workhorse and her tired old legs had just given out on me.  Was it my time to do the same?  Was this it?

No.  Fuck that.  I was NOT going down like that.  Not after everything I’d done, all that it had taken get me to here.  Fuck. That. Noise.  If I’m going to get arrested, it better be for robbing an old lady or killing a priest because I am NOT going back to jail for some lame ass suspended license-type bullshit.

Clearly, my Denzel had returned, guns blazing, and was ready for action.  I put his street skills and slick leather jacket to work.

The first order of business was to hide my driver’s license.  Now in crazed ninja-mode, I chose to stealthfully hide it in an empty Tampon wrapper.  They’ll never look there, I thought.  I then hopped into the passenger’s seat, concealing my keys beneath its cushion.  I can say that the driver went back to the exit, searching for help, thought Ninja Applesauce.

Alibi intact, I could now move on to the bulk of my problem: getting my body and the car’s body home without having Dahlia impounded (registration) or myself impounded (driver’s license).

The coldness began to settle in as the last of the heat left my car. My trembling fingers clawed at my wallet, scouring every crevice and praying to find anything that resembled an AAA card.  In between an expired coupon for Chipotle and an expired coupon for shiatsu was an expired AAA card.  Small victory in a line of awesome victories! I thought to myself, forcing my frozen knuckles into a fist for an exuberant, if not puny, double fist pump.

They should shorten the amount of button pushing requirements and automated voice interactions if they don’t want people who are justifiably hysterical to babble unintelligibly to the first human voice they come in contact with.  Sure, I was rambling like a homeless man, but the lady fucking SHHH’ed me!

“Ma’am, ma’am, MA’AM.  Calm down and breathe.  I need you to stop talking for a second and listen to me.”  I ate the phone.  “You are on a private road,” she continued. “You need to dial #95 and they will help you.  Tell them you’re an AAA cardholder.”

I digested this new information, along with my phone.  “Wait, can you tell me the actual numbers?  I don’t have a touch tone.”  Silence.  “THE NUMBERS!  THE NUMBERS THAT COAGULATE WITH THE LETTERS H-O-U-N-D! CAN YOU HELP ME LADY!?!”

Silence again.  One Mississippi.  Two Mississippi.  Then, “Ma’am, I said POUND 95.  The pound button? On your phone?  You have a pound button on your phone.” I hung up without any parting pleasantries and regurgitated my phone.

Another five or six minutes passed while I fiddled with my phone maniacally, trying every which way to get my pound button to present itself on my call screen (fucking high-tech, new age phones with their fancy touch screens and their…symbols.) and then BOOM!  Some sort of holy combination of vertical screen-view, the function button, and a prayer filled with obscenities worked, connecting me to yet to another human voice.  This one was male, and cop-like.  I did my best to sound sober before I remembered that I WAS sober.  Just incoherent.

After giving him my exact location to the best of my abilities (I was not about to get out of my car and check the mile marker, as he originally suggested), I hung up the phone and waited, shivering in the combination of my excitement, blind terror, anxiety, and the 30 degree temperature.

I was still in the passenger’s seat and was not about to deviate from the original alibi at that point, so I decided to tough out the cold like a G, just in case a chance police car happened to mosey on through my neck of the woods.

15 minutes passed.  Then 16.  17.  At 18, my nerves got the best of me and I called again.  I just wanted to ensure that a tow truck was indeed on its way and that I had, in fact provided an accurate and detailed geographic representation of where I was (Going north on the New Jersey Turnpike between exits 9 and 10.  I can see the sign for Exit 9 from where I’m sitting.  There is also a Silver Alert a quarter of a mile ahead of me and a sign for Forman Mills just beyond that. You know, Forman Mills, the furniture store?  FORRRRRMAAAAAN MILLLLLS.  That’s their jingle.  Not really a jingle if you think about it but NEVERMIND PLEASE SAVE MY LIFE.).

After repeating the identical verbal depiction again of my location, my car, and myself (I am scantily clad and sitting in the passenger’s seat!), I was told that yes, the call had gone through the first time and it would probably take another 20-30 minutes.  I prayed that my tiny mile-a-minute beating heart would hold out until then and that I wouldn’t suffer the same fate as my sweet, beloved Dahlia had.

My eyes were glued to the rearview mirror like a parolee at a titty show his first time out.  My blinking reduced to that of a nocturnal-dwelling creature of the night.  My eyes burned and watered, but I cared not. Every passing car was either a cop car or a vagrant, drunken ne’er do well looking to run my little black soldier into the median.  I braced myself for impending impact, fastening my passenger’s seatbelt and forming a double-knuckled death grip on the side rails of Dahlia’s passenger door.

My face was so close to the rear view mirror by the time (47 minutes later! What if suicide hotlines gave that kind of downtime to frantic, poison-swallowing callers?) the tow truck guy appeared that I banged my forehead against its cold glass in a manic frenzy.  I hopped into my driver’s seat and swiftly extracted my license out of its tampon sheathe as he ambled toward my distressed vehicle, his head encased in a halo of glorious, halogenated light.

The tow truck driver was a bit surprised at the amount of emotion that greeted his tap on the window.  Tearfully, I rolled down my window, pulling his tarnished yellow jacket in for a through-the-driver’s-side-window embrace.  He beamed a knowing, benevolent smile and stroked my hair, whispering soothing messages into my ear.  Or maybe that part didn’t happen.

I retrieved my car keys jammed underneath the passenger’s seat and attempted to collect all of my earthly belongings (Ma’am you don’t need to dissemble your cassette player, I’m just taking you home.).  I then attempted to collect myself (I was still weeping, but with class.), and finally hopped into the elegant warmth of his immense vehicle of tow-etry.

As we embarked on our journey to exit 12 and my sobs had reduced to intermittent whimpers of joy, Ronnie, my savior of all things turnpike-related, must have reckoned me emotionally stable enough for  human interaction because he finally began to speak. “I’m really only supposed to take you to the next exit and then have AAA come out and tow you the rest of the way, but you’re on my way home, so I figure I’ll just drop you off at your house.”  Before I had to get on my knees to express my appreciation via mouth, he caught wind of my immense gratitude/desperation/mentally unsoundness and added, “I mean…you seem worked up enough as it is, and you’ve been so nice.  Most people aren’t as nice as you are when I gotta come tow ‘em.”  Gracious that my guardian angel wasn’t a perv and incredulous that anyone would be mean to dear, tender-hearted Ronnie, I burrowed through my bag in search of a token of my thanks.  I emerged with a broken earring and 33 one-dollar bills.

“Here,” I said meekly. “It isn’t much, because I didn’t make that much at work today (lie). I’m not a stripper, I swear.  I bartend.”

Ronnie laughed, a mixture of amusement and pity.  “I can’t take all that,” he said, to my relief. I had a feeling my car was going to cost me an appendage and my firstborn.  I quickly chopped the money in half and thrust it at him.

“Here, at least take this,” I cried, my sincerity reverberating all around us.  “I need to give you SOMETHING.”

“Aw, I don’t want to take this,” he said bashfully as he begrudgingly took the measly $16 (most tow trucks charge $200 or more) out of my hand and I was pleased.  Sixteen dollars is chump change in the grand scheme of my night and the disastrous repercussions of having a cop beat Ronnie to the punch.

Once we arrived at my apartment, I bid farewell to my Ronnie with a gracious squeeze around his portly midsection, adding a genuine, “Drinks are on me next time you’re in New Brunswick.”  He apparently has a penchant for Jack Daniels, which my bar has in spades. I hope I see Ronnie again, I really do.

So yeah.  That happened.  I’m housebound until Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest, which sucks, but at least I didn’t end up in jail.  It was also kind of nice waking up the next morning and thinking, ‘FUCK! My car is FUCKED.  But at least it was nothing I did this time.  At least I don’t have a string of lawyers, tickets, and a pending jail sentence to worry about for once.”

All in all, the lesson I learned from that whole ordeal can be summed up in five words: Thank God I wasn’t drunk.  If I had been, I probably would have just passed out in my car, assuming that the situation would right itself in the morning.  Which would never have happened and I’d probably be unceremoniously shaken awake by the sound of a cop tapping on my window and a flashlight blinding my retinas.

THE END