Monday, August 29, 2011

Monologue #3 "Talking my way out of a DWI"

Age: 25

So my girlfriend and I had gone to a BBQ this particular evening. I mentioned in an earlier monologue that a few things go perfectly with BBQ. One of those things is beer. See kids, that's what we call in "the business" foreshadowing.

I finished off a sixer of tall cans and smoked a liberal amount of pot before my girlfriend and I started to feel a little frisky and decided to go back to the apartment and get busy. We said our goodbyes to our people and started to head home.

I was driving a red Honda Civic 2-door standard (or coupe, if you will) at the time. Being a broke ass irresponsible 25 year old to say that the car had been poorly maintained was being extremely modest. The brakes were in dire need of being changed and were making this fantastic scraping metal grinding on metal sound. Some of y'all know of the sound in which I'm referring. The car had an expired inspection sticker. I had an expired license and no current proof of insurance, and I'm unsure whether or not I had current registration. I was a ticking time bomb.

I had grown very adept at down-shifting to stop at red lights unless I had to stop abruptly, and then I was treated to the amazing screaming and grinding of the brakes laboring to stop the car. I hated that sound so I tried my hardest no to have to stop like short. It was pretty awful, but I was a dumb kid who thought I was indestructible. I didn't have a care in the world. It was my life and fuck you for telling me how to live it.

I always took back roads to avoid seeing the police whenever possible. On this particular route I would have to go through one single red light. ONE SINGLE RED LIGHT. We zigged and zagged through the neighborhood streets as we neared the red light. The light turned yellow as we were about 20 feet away from it. There were two choices: slam on the brakes and endure the awful screeching sound or run the light. I chose the latter.

Unbeknownst to us there was a city police officer camped out in the adjacent parking lot staking out the intersection for speeders, reckless drivers, and runners of red lights. We ran the light. He saw us and promptly pulled out. I was fucked. Luckily my adrenal gland was up to the task of sobering me up so I could chat with the nice police officer.

"ACT SICK!!!" I said to my girlfriend as the cop was approaching the driver's side door.

"OK!!!" she shouted.

"I got this... don't worry." I calmly replied as I composed myself for the impending encounter with the Lafayette PD.

I rolled down my window and before the cop could begin his "license, registration, proof of insurance" routine I began talking.

"I'm soooo sorry sir. My brakes are failing, and I'm having to downshift to stop. My girlfriend and I are coming back from dinner. I think she ate some bad fish. I'm trying to hurry home so she doesn't throw up in the car." I replied with this mix of truth and half-truths.

He looks over at her and she gives her best Meryl Streep impression. And the Oscar goes to...
He looked thoroughly convinced.

"Did you have anything to drink at dinner?" He asks.

"No sir, not tonight. I have to get up early in the morning for work, and I don't like drinking if I've got to work in the morning." (lie)

"Well, what's that??" he asked pointing to the 12 oz. beer can in my cup holder.

"OH SHIT!" I thought to myself.

"Oh, that??! That's an ashtray (which it was)." I replied.

Someone had left an empty beer can in my car after a night at the bar last week and there it remained as my ashtray. I picked up the can and gave it to him. He could clearly see that there was absolutely no liquid in this can and unless I was a 5 pack a day smoker it was impossible for that beer can to have been from anytime in the recent past.

"Someone left that in my car last weekend, and I've been using it as an ashtray ever since." I said. "Please don't give me a ticket for having an open container... just pretend its a Coke can."

He looked somewhat convinced.

"Can I see your license?" he asked.

"OH FUCK!" I said to myself as I smiled and began reaching into my wallet for my expired license all the time hoping he wouldn't notice the expired inspection sticker. I was also repeating in my mind "Move on" trying to use Jedi mind tricks to rid myself of my current nuisance.

"Here you go, sir." I said as I handed him my license. He looked it over.

"You know this is expired, right?" he stated.

"WHAT?!! Reaaaallly??" I exclaimed channeling Bill Murray in my best half-serious/half-joking tone.

"Yessir, its December and it expired in October." he says.

"NO WAY!! I thought that was next year." I said continuing to channel Bill Murray.

"I tell you what, I know your girlfriend is sick but if she has a valid drivers license I'll let you go as long as she drives the car home." Apparently he believed us and didn't want to take me in, due to the massive amount of paperwork involved in such a simple traffic stop.

She pulls out her license, hands it to the officer, and he surveys it.

"Little lady, you OK to drive?? How's your stomach?" he asks in his most concerned tone.

"Oh, yessir. I'm a little sick, but I'm SURE it won't effect my driving." she says.

"Well, it looks like you're driving HIM home." he made sure to accent 'him' as to make sure I knew he was doing me a huge solid. "First thing Monday morning I wanna see you going down to the DMV and renewing your license." He said as I was getting into the passenger seat.

"Yessir! Thank you sir!! Thank you so much, I'll also get my brakes checked too while I'm taking care of things I should have taken care of long ago." I said.

My girlfriend jumped into the drivers seat, drove for about 3 or 4 blocks before we switched places. She couldn't drive stick, nor did she understand how I was downshifting to stop the car so the brakes wouldn't make that noise.

We finally made it home and the mix of adrenaline mixed with the cockiness of my escape from the clutches of the law led to some of the best sex of my entire life. THAT WAS A GOOD NIGHT!!! I guess I'm just a lucky dude.

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