This post is inspired by, and thus dedicated to, my good friend Destinee. Her post from earlier today prompted me to make such a long comment that I decided to halt my hijack of her blog and make an entry of my own.
When I was seventeen, the summer before my senior year, I drove a bunch of friends up to The Nearest City of Any Size for The Ubiquitous Street Festival. I remember I wore this awesome handpainted wraparound skirt that I got at some boho shop in my music camp college town, and I really thought I looked the part of the cool artsy girl. (I'm still trying to nail that look!)
My best friend A. had on espadrilles (sandals with straw bottoms) and in the dark, I'll admit it was hard to tell if the puddles we walked through were composed of mostly water or mostly beer. I suspect probably mostly beer, because after driving the 40 minutes back to my friend's house, my little car smelled like Anheuser-Busch had set up shop in the back seat.
A.'s house was in a little part of town up on the mountain that has it's own police force of 3. I'm not exaggerating. They were -- still are -- notorious for issuing citations for the most minor of offenses, and for having a lot of time on their hands to just sit around and wait for somebody to screw up. Enter me.
I left A.'s house in the dark, and got a little lost on all those windy mountain roads. It was a bit disorienting -- so much so that I failed to come to a complete stop at one intersection. I had barely pulled out onto the cross street when I saw blue lights in my rear view mirror. This was not my first ticket, so I was familiar with the drill. I got out my license and put on my prettiest smile and waited for him to come to my window.
Which he did. Maybe I should have wound it down before he came to the window. Then, maybe, he wouldn't have been assaulted with the unmistakable stench of alcohol when I opened it. Maybe, he wouldn't have been so suspicious of the little brown bag of trash sitting neatly between the front seats.
And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have found it necessary to give me a breathalyzer test right out there in front of God and everyone driving past to see. Oh, yes. Alcohol has never passed my lips, but I have had to blow into the liquor stick. With cars driving by. Carrying people I knew. Oh, the horror. At least he didn't make me walk the line.
Just wait. It gets worse.
So a few days before this little ill-fated excursion, I cut my hair. Drastically. Try from mid-back all the way up to boy-short in one fell swoop. And who thinks to get a new drivers license whenever they change hairstyles? Not this chica.
Small Town Cop looked at that license, then looked at me, then looked at the license, then looked at me again. I swear, he was going to take me on down to the station and book me for identity theft until I finally saw the name on his badge.
Turns out, his brother lives two doors down from my parents and when I finally came up with enough details about his nephew, he decided I might be telling the truth. And when he was finally convinced I wasn't a drunk driver out for a joyride, he let me go home with a warning. Where I arrived 35 minutes late. And, thankfully, where I found two parents who totally believed my outlandish story.
And that's why I never go to The Ubiquitous Street Festival in The Nearest City of Any Size anymore!
I was going to post about my subsequent legal troubles, but I'll save those for another post, and just call this one part one. That's all.