by Richard Cox
Wait. Didn’t I pass this convenience store already? I couldn’t have. I’m driving straight south. The street numbers have gradually been increasing, right? There goes 47th Street, now 48th, now 51st. Right?
I swear I already passed that store. That I already went through this light at 51st Street. It should have taken only seven or eight minutes to reach the freeway. Certainly more time than that has passed. The clock in my car reads 3:14, but that doesn’t help because I don’t remember what time Sherri dropped me off. The song on the radio is “Bizarre Love Triangle,” by New Order, an extended remix, and it seems like it has been going on forever.
I have no idea how long I’ve been on this road.
More minutes go by, five or ten or twenty, more traffic lights, until finally I reach the freeway intersection. I drive underneath the overpass, then turn left onto the ramp.
To my great surprise, the cop does not follow me. He keeps driving straight, into darkness south of the freeway. Disappears.
I accelerate up the ramp and merge onto the main road, which is divided into four lanes in each direction. There are no cars on the road besides mine. And though I should be finally relieved now that the cop is gone, that I should be home in less than ten minutes, I’m not.
Something is still wrong. Drastically wrong.
There are no cars on the road. Anywhere. I know it’s late, but this is a major interstate. The road is never this deserted. A cold, overwhelming dread settles into me. I’ve never been more certain that I am going to die.
Suddenly it’s daytime, and ahead, a highway interchange looms. A big green sign tells me I can continue on the 5 to Stockton and Sacramento, or I can take 580 toward Tracy and San Francisco, and…
What?
Sacramento? San Francisco?
It’s not daytime. It’s 3:30 in the morning.
I’m not in California. I’ve never been to California.
But I remember it anyway, remember growing up in Berkeley and attending school there, and the car behind me, that brown sedan? I’ve seen it before, too.
I have no choice. I have to outrun them. I push the car faster. 70. 80. 90. There are no cars on the road, and there are plenty of lanes. 95…98…100. I’m driving 100 miles per hour in the middle of the city. I look in the rearview mirror and now the brown sedan has disappeared. On the radio is Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian.”
I push the car still faster. 110, 112, 115. At this speed the highway rises and falls much more quickly than normal. I cross an overpass every thirty seconds instead of every sixty. And, oh shit, here comes my own exit already, I don’t want to miss it because then I’ll have to drive another mile to turn around, so I hit the brakes and veer sharply into the exit lane, and I feel like I’ve done this before, too. I almost drive onto the shoulder and adjacent hillside but correct just in time. But there is no hillside! It’s not even a straight ramp, it’s a cloverleaf, and the turn is sharp, I’m never going to make it, and oh fuck there goes the road, here comes the grass, I’ve got my foot jammed against the brake as hard as I can but the car isn’t slowing down at all if anything it’s still accelerating and the car starts to veer to the right and it slides slides slides slides slides…
TWENTY-SEVEN
…and finally stops.
The engine is still running. The instrument panel is colorful and sparkly. “Sister Christian” is still on the radio. Apparently Night Ranger is not the least bit concerned about what just happened, because their voices soar like nothing is wrong. They seem to think I’m still motoring.
Luckily for me the area beyond the cloverleaf is a big, empty field, because otherwise I would probably have been killed. As it happens I seem to be fine. In fact my car doesn’t appear to be damaged, either, but how am I going to get back up to the road? And what about the brown sedan? Did they see me go off the road or have I lost them?
I’m sitting in a low spot, the land rising in all directions around me. The freeway is on my left, nearly parallel to the direction my car is facing, and the cloverleaf is behind me. Directly in front of me is a gradual rise leading to who knows where, which I suppose is my best option because the slope is fairly gentle. There’s no way in hell I’m going to make it up the steep incline to the cloverleaf.
So far I don’t see the sedan anywhere, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t up there watching me.
I put my hand on the gearshift, intending to put the car back in gear, but then I realize I never took it out of gear in the first place. I’ve been sitting here in Drive the whole time. When I push the gas pedal, nothing happens. The tires don’t even spin.
The effort required to step out of the car seems enormous. I’m inclined to turn off the ignition and take a nap. But obviously I can’t sit out here all night. If a cop sees me, I’ll be screwed. So finally I do open the door and…well, as soon as I step out of the car I realize why it won’t go anywhere. I’ve sunk to my ankle in mud. The tires are halfway submerged in mud, as if the frame of my car is floating on it.
This is bad. Really bad.
I pull my foot free of the mud and fall back into the seat. This is probably a good time to look for my phone again, because if I don’t have it, I’m in trouble.
But I can’t effectively look under the seat while I’m sitting in it, because the eight-way adjustable motor thing is down there. In the past, whenever I’ve dropped something under the seat, I’ve been forced to get out of the car, kneel on the ground, and reach from the floorboard in the back seat. I always find a few French fries and a couple of quarters when I do that, which is usually sort of funny, but today if I kneel on the ground I’ll be covered in mud.
I can’t remember being this tired in my entire life. It feels so good to close my eyes. Almost immediately I dream about Sherri and David and the man in the bathroom. I’ve never heard of Philip K. Dick, and yet somehow his work is my life. My life is his work. I am Thomas, named for his doppelganger in ancient Rome, and—
Something is behind me. My eyes flutter open and I see something glowing and blue in the rearview mirror. I turn and look out the back window and realize I’m seeing the blue and red flasher mounted on top of a police car.
They’ve found me this fast? How on earth?
Now someone is yelling, calling to me.
“Hello!” the voice shouts. “Hello, are you okay? Hello?”
I should have turned off my headlights. What the hell was I thinking?
“Hello!” the voice shouts again. “Hello, are you okay?”
“I’m okay!” I yell back. “I’m fine! I was just about to drive back up to the road.”
An orb of white light plays across my dash, dancing. A flashlight.
“Not in this car you’re not. I don’t even know how we’ll get someone to tow you. It’s a swamp down here.”
I still can’t see the owner of the voice, but the flashlight is becoming more focused and bright.
Should I get out of the car? Try to act normal? Run?
Who the hell am I kidding? I’m drunk. Hammered. My head is still a cloud of mushrooms. I know this because the white light and the blue light and the red light, they all seem spiritual to me somehow, dancing around me, like ghosts, like long, lost friends and family who have come to visit me in a hospital room. A room where I lie like an invalid, trapped inside a lifeless body, able to see and think and feel but completely unable to move. These colored lights are the reflections of their souls, and they are dancing in time with the satellite radio music, as if the interior of my car is a sort of mystical dance club.
Now playing on the radio: Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal.”
The sound of squishy footsteps jerks me back to reality. I abruptly decide to get out of the car and meet my fate like a man. I shut off the engine and start to open the door.
“Sir!” the voice shouts. “Remain in your vehicle.”
But no, I really should confront this situation on my own terms, on my feet, even if it means standing in the mud.
“Sir!” he yells. “I am not going to tell you again: Remain. In. Your. Vehicle.”
I take my hands off the door. Movement flickers outside my window, and then a blinding light flashes in my eyes.
“Hey!” I cry.
“Please roll down the window, sir.”
The voice appears to belong to a regular police officer, dressed in a dark blue uniform, pinned with a badge.
I press a button to lower the window, but instead one of the back windows opens. I try another one, but that’s the passenger side window. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s like someone is fucking with me on purpose now. What the hell—?
“Keep trying,” the officer says helpfully.
Finally, I find the correct button, lower the window, and smile.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “All these buttons, you know.”
“Could I see your license and proof of insurance, please?”
I nod and turn my attention to the glove box, where my hand rummages through old CDs and dry-cleaning coupons and something that might be…maybe…yes! My insurance card! I combine it with my driver’s license and triumphantly hand over both of them.
“Sir,” the officer says, “are you aware your insurance is expired?”
“Is it? Oh, shit. You’re right. I got that new one in the mail a week or two ago and forgot to put it in the car.”
“This has been expired for almost a month.”
“Maybe it was a few weeks ago. But I do have insurance.”
“State law requires you to carry proof of insurance in your vehicle at all times. I can write you a ticket for violating the law, Mr. Phillips.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have insurance.”
“Mr. Phillips?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
And here is the doomsday scenario. Should I lie? Admit to drinking but downplay the number? Tell him I’ve had a liter of alcohol today, plus I snorted two lines of coke and ate a magic mushroom?
“I had a few drinks earlier.”
The officer doesn’t say anything else right away, and in the interval of silence I imagine how absurd this situation must seem from his perspective, as he stands ankle deep in mud, talking to some drunk bastard who drove his car off a cloverleaf highway interchange. It’s easy to understand why cops can sometimes be a little edgy—they’ve seen everything and they have learned to expect the worst.
In fact, I’m so impressed with my ability to identify with this officer’s plight, with the difficulty of his job in general, I’m convinced he’ll recognize this and let me off with a warning. So at first I don’t believe it when he says:
“Mr. Phillips, could you please step out of the car?”
Clearly he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t realize I’m one of the good guys. I guess I’ll have to demonstrate it to him.
I push open the door, expecting to stand up and face him with authority, but my left foot sinks immediately into the mud. Undeterred, I swing my right foot around, like I have thousands of times before, only this time my mind isn’t sure what to do with the shaky footing. Something weird happens, I’m not sure what, but the world spins, my knee bends a weird way, and my head slams against the open car door. The pain is instant and overwhelming. I sail toward the ground.
“Sir!” the officer says. “Sir, are you okay?”
A firmament of stars floats above me, interrupted by the upside-down face of the officer, who from this vantage point looks very young. Years younger than me.
“Sir?”
“I’m all right. I just slipped.”
He helps me to my feet. My knees are so wobbly I can hardly stand. I touch my forehead gingerly, and find a knot growing right in the center of it. Mud is glued to me everywhere.
“How many drinks have you had tonight, sir?”
“Just a couple.”
“What is a couple? Two? Three? Ten?”
“Maybe three.”
“Three, huh?”
“I’m pretty sure it was three.”
“Sir, due to the unusual conditions I’m unable to perform a field sobriety test. Because I have reason to believe your blood alcohol level is over the legal limit permitted to operate a motor vehicle in this state, you’ll need to come to my squad car, where I will perform a breathalyzer test. If you are over the legal limit I will be forced to arrest you for driving under the influence.”
In a way I’m fairly sure this isn’t happening at all. My feet are almost completely below the surface of the mud. I’m woozy and dizzy and I wouldn’t even be on my feet if I weren’t holding onto the car door. There is no way this is a real situation. I’m a regular guy with a regular life. Right now I should be at home, getting ready for bed, and the worst thing on my mind should be tomorrow morning’s commute. A guy like me doesn’t get arrested for driving drunk. I don’t even get pulled over. Ever.
“Do you think you can make it up that slope?” he asks, gesturing toward his car on the cloverleaf, right about where I went off the road.
I’ve lost my job. I’ve lost my wife. I’m about to find out what the inside of a jail cell is like. A real jail cell, not a cubicle. What the hell have I done?
If you think all this has sobered me up, you’re wrong. My head is swimming. My heart thuds in my chest like a subwoofer.
“Yes, sir,” I finally answer. “I can make it.”
“Then let’s go.”
My feet seem to weigh fifty pounds apiece, covered in mud as they are, and I lose my balance after only a few steps. My hands plunge forward, into the mud. They sink so deep that I can’t figure out how to stand up again. I’ve got no leverage, nothing solid to push against. I feel like an ant who walked into a honey spill and can’t get back out again.
“Would you like some help, sir?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Sir—”
Eventually, I’m not sure how, I manage to pull myself up…and then fall down again three steps later. We haven’t begun to ascend the steep part of the hill yet.
“You only had three drinks, sir?” the officer asks.
“It’s this mud. It’s not easy to walk in.”
“You’re right. It isn’t easy. But you’ve fallen twice and I haven’t lost my balance.”
By now the officer has dropped any pretense of being professional, or even funny. Now he just sounds pissed off.
The ground dries out and hardens as we move away from the low spot and ascend the hill. But my feet are still heavy and slippery from the mud, and I fall again as the incline increases.
“You going to make it?”
“Of course I am. I’m not drunk. It’s the mud.”
“Right,” he says. “The mud.”
I wonder if I’ll be put in a cell by myself? Probably not. I’m sure there’s a place where all the drunk losers are kept for the night. Most of them will have been to jail before. I’ll probably end up in a fistfight.
All I can hope for is the cop to have mercy on me, or that my blood alcohol has dropped a little since I left Sherri’s house.
After a few more steps I fall down again.
Halfway to the top I am forced to get down on all fours and crawl like a baby.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A few minutes later I find myself inside a police car for the first time in my life. The officer joins me in the front seat, and between us sits a row of radios that looks like it belongs in the space shuttle. He retrieves a small clipboard from somewhere out of sight and spends a few moments writing what I assume is the citation. Then he reaches across the seat, into the glove box, and pulls out a device that looks like an MP3 player with a stubby tube sticking out of it.
“This will test your blood alcohol concentration,” the officer says, and pushes a button to activate the device. He places a protective guard over the tube and hands the thing to me. “Put your mouth here and blow a full breath into it.”
Being a social drinker, I
’ve imagined this moment on many occasions in the past—driving home after happy hour, after too many beers watching football with my buddies, after parties with Gloria buzzing in the seat next to me. Like I told you before, I’ve never considered myself a drunk driver, not like the scumbags who run over children in the middle of the afternoon. I’ve never come close to having an accident.
But nothing I ever imagined could have prepared me for this level of humiliation. Being asked to blow into a tube while the officer watches feels like something a father would force his five-year-old son to do. As if I am so immature I need another adult to decide if I am making the correct life choices. I am overcome with self-loathing as the officer watches me breathe into the device. The readout is a red LED display, and I wait for a beep, some signal that my breath has been analyzed, assuming the output will be an astronomical number, two or three times over the legal limit.
Instead, nothing happens, except I run out of breath. I take my mouth off the tube and inhale a lungful of fresh air.
The officer isn’t pleased.
“It didn’t register,” he says, and presses a button on the breathalyzer while it’s still in my hand. “Try it again.”
So it’s the same humiliation all over again, another deep breath pushed into the little tube, until my lungs are empty, and still not a peep from the device.
“Here,” the officer says. “Let me see that thing.”
He presses buttons until the device beeps and the display changes. For good measure he goes through the button-pushing sequence again, with the same result. Then he hands the device back to me.
I blow into it again with the same result: nothing.
“What on earth?” he says, and grabs the breathalyzer from my hands. He finds another protective guard, puts it on, and to my surprise blows into it himself. This time it beeps cheerfully and produces a number of the LED display: 0.0.