Everyone in the car was drunk. Everyone except me. For a change I was not drinking and was designated driver, a very stoned designated driver trying to manage my rowdy, boisterous friends as we cruised down the highway. My passenger repeatedly cranked the volume knob clockwise as he shuffled through his music trying to please the backseat choir.
The situation sounds familiar, I’m sure. How many times have you played one of these roles, whether driver or passenger, annoying drunk or mellow stoner?
We we’re cruising, en route to our friends house to start the Thursday night off right, hopefully with a long night of adventures ahead. Just a few more miles on the highway, with a few lefts and rights and the car would be parked for the night, safely. So close.
Even with the music was turned up, even with everyone yelling and singing, even with all of us tiptoeing the line of inebriation, we all heard the resounding siren simultaneously, turning in unison to the see the all too familiar red and blues flashing.
Thoughts racing, strategizing, thinking, trying to clear the smoke from my thoughts while everybody attempted to quickly drain their alcohol flooded minds.
But that’s not how it works.
“You do know you were driving 50 in a 65, right?” Well that makes sense…
“License and registration…” and all that comes along with it, trying to keep the drunks in the back quiet, the breath mints, the eye drops.
“Have you been drinking?” I hadn’t. Not even a little. I decided that he didn’t need to know about the multiple bong hits.
“Sure, I’ll take a sobriety test…”
Walking the line, following the finger, trying to not over think the situation, stoned stoned stoned and trying not to give myself away.
The story might have ended more tragically, with another visit to the “Lost Penis Colinas”, our nickname for the Los Colinas Women’s Detention Center. It might have ended with my car getting impounded. It might have ended with back up police.
But then something magical happened, almost ushered in by the divine party gods.
One of the cops, a model for the overweight, clumsy Donut cop from the movies, was walking back from squad car, along the outermost side of the shoulder, along the gravel.
I had just gracefully completed the “walk and turn” sobriety test (in my heels, of course) and as I turned, my eyes, red and glazed, immediately connected with the helpless and embarrassed eyes of the Hollywood cop.
Still stoned, struggling to stay in the moment and not float away, I saw the cop stutter step as his balance evaporated, replaced with a concession to gravity. One hand holding my driver’s license and registration and flashlight in the other, his hands were filled. The only thing to break the fall was his rounded stomach and the immediate shriek of laughter escaping my cottonmouth lips.
I don’t know if I actually felt his collapse, since that’s physically impossible, but my memory wants to splice in a quick tremor that shook the cement under my feet. My mind also wants to add in a slight bounce off his robust midsection.
That would have been funny enough, but what caused the situation to go from bad to worse for the police, but from funny to all out hilarity for me, was the ditch lining the road side.
Not only did the police stumble and fall but he actually rolled down the slight embankment into the ditch.
I might not have laughed, I might not have fallen to the ground and rolled around, I might not have erupted into all out hysteria, had I not been stoned. But I was very much stoned. Rolling on the round laughing uncontrollably I couldn’t quite figure out if this was reality or a product of a sativa filled imagination.
The cop overseeing my eloquent walk-the-line-and-spin had no idea what happened, his back facing his partner. He turned in time to piece together the event as his partner furiously scrambled up the embankment.
The officer stood quickly, covered in dust and grass, pointed one very aggressive finger at me and said, “Get the hell out of here…And speed up!”
“… And that’s why I don’t smoke weed anymore.”