(This is inspired by the Wednesday Writing Prompt, started by Elizabeth at Princess Nebraska; this week’s prompt is from Jenny of She Likes Purple: ” ’start any story with I wouldn’t say it was my best idea,’ and go from there.”)
I wouldn’t say it was my best idea, but when I saw his red pickup truck parked on the curb outside my parents house, I walked barefooted down the drive way to him. The night was cold, as Alabama winter nights can be. Or, rather, early mornings. It had to be close to 2AM.
I’d been out at the local pub with some fellow counselors that night, getting what little adult company and adult beverages we could before the next shift began, mere hours from now. He and I had already broken up; I’d heard that he was dating his wife again…the wife he had told me, just months before, that he had divorced.
And yet. And yet I still went to him. I wasn’t entirely sober yet, but part of that could have been just from being so close to him. He had some pull over me. Some charm. No matter how horrid he had been in the past, I always held some hope that it would be different, this time. Some hope that he look into my eyes and realize that we were supposed to be together. What can I say, I was young, and going through a delayed teenage rebellion in my early 20’s.
As I neared the truck, I saw that his almost seven foot tall frame was dozing against the window, his breathing deep and regular. I tapped on the glass, and his blue eyes opened, taking a moment to remember himself and his surroundings. He opened the door.
“Hey,” he said. “Where were you?” His tone implied that he had every right to ask, to know.
“Out.” Was all I offered him.
He scooted over to the passenger side. “Get in. It’s cold.”
I hesitated for a few seconds. “I won’t hurt you,” he sounded upset that I’d even consider such a thing.
It was somewhat cold, and my feet were freezing on the pavement. I got in, resisting the urge to sit close to him.
“What’re you doing here?” I tried to sound angry, but I’m sure I failed miserably.
“Waiting for you. I wanted to talk to you. You looked nice tonight, at the bar.” I had worn a jean skirt and new blouse, hoping to run into him. He knew I had dressed for him, but I was too idiotically infatuated to be ashamed.
He was starting to wake up a little more, now. “Your tits look nice in that shirt.”
And the moment was gone, just like that. “If you came here for a good night quickie before going home, you’re out of luck, T.”
“I was just stating a fact.”
I reached for the door handle, but he grabbed my arm. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Can’t we even be friends?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to be your friend.” But I let go of the handle anyway.
Naturally, this is the moment a police cruiser decided to turn its lights on behind us. We both sat up straight. T looked over at be, scared of what I might say to the officer. “Do me a favor,” he whispered, “and reach up and grab that beer bottle.” I looked up, and sure enough, there was an empty BudLight bottle on the dashboard.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” I hissed, but I did it, my heart pounding in my ears.
The officer took a few moments to approach us. I rolled down the window.
“Is this your house?” He asked.
“My parents,” I answered.
“This your car?”
“No sir. It’s his.”
“Ma’am, please get out of the car.”
I followed him to the back of the truck, stubbing my toe on the way.
“Do you have any documented medical condition that would impair your balance?”
Other than my inabililty to cope with stress? “No, sir.”
He asked me to hold my arms out and balance on one foot. I failed.
“Please turn around, ma’am, and place your hands behind your back.”
It took me a moment to realize what was going on, and then I felt the cold metal of the handcuffs on my wrists. Good god, they were tight.
“I’m placing you under arrest for driving under the influence of alcohol. You have the right to remain silent…”
I couldn’t believe this. My married ex-boyfriend shows up drunk at my parents house to harass me, and I get arrested for sitting in the car. Of course I do. Of fucking COURSE I do.
The cop puts me in the backseat of his cruiser, and goes and talks to the man I used to adore. I have no idea what they say, but it takes a while. The cop comes back and says, “He wants to use your cell phone, is that OK?” I nod, and the cop reaches into my purse for it.
After a short call, the cop returns and puts the phone back without another word. We drive away, with T sitting on the curb outside my parent’s custom built home.
After a few hours in the drunk tank, with some woman who had caused a drunk accident and didn’t know where her kid was, I was called out. My friend KT was waiting for me. I was shocked. I had been trying to call T, to see if he was going to get me out, or tell my parents, or what, but he hadn’t answered all night. KT said he had asked her to come get me.
As she drove me back home, I tried to think of what to tell my parents. I didn’t know what was next. I hadn’t been driving, but could I prove it? Did I need a lawyer? Was I going to go to real jail?
I walked into the house, and my mother regarded me warily. I’d never stayed out all night for no reason. She handed me a cup of coffee and we sat down.
“I have to tell you something, and you’re going to be furious,” I said, my hands shaking so much I thought I’d drop the mug.
I told her, incoherently, I’m sure, but she got the gist. When I finished, and finally looked up, she actually laughed.
“Oh my gosh,” she said. “I thought you were in real trouble. I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant.” She’d never liked T, said he was entirely too charming.
I did get a lawyer. 2, actually. My first one died unexpectedly just before my first court date. All charges were dropped. I was somewhat hoping for a trial, so that T would be called to the stand - my second lawyer had some fun tricks up his sleeve for him if it came to that.
A few months later, I moved away from Alabama, never to return for more than a few days at a time. I wrote T’s wife a letter of apology. I never got close to being in a “sitting under the influence” situation again. And I never got another hopeless teenage crush on someone who didn’t live inside my TV.
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