Barbarella Sweeps the Beats with the Highway Patrol
pg.8

Smoking Gave
Him Away

Back on the road, John tried once again to explain what he loved about his work. He was in the middle of a story as we were getting off the Adams Avenue exit on the 805 when we noticed the orange cherry of a cigarette creating a sparkly little fuss as it landed on the road in front of us. "That's a $271 fine, you know." Gesturing at the red truck in front of us, he added, "I could pull him over, but there are two people in that car. I couldn't write one a ticket if there's a possibility that the other one threw the cigarette. But I could give him a scolding."

We flashed our lights and the truck pulled over. It was almost 9:00, and I was fading. While John was talking to the driver, I debated whether to ask him to drop me at home a few blocks away or take me back to my car at the station. It soon became clear, though, that we weren't going anywhere anytime soon. I watched as John led the driver out of his truck and over to the curb. I cracked the window and heard John explaining the tests he was about to give the man. Well, well, I thought. Caught driving drunk by your own cigarette-flipping hand.

I could hear him answering John's questions -- the number of drinks he said he'd imbibed changed each time he was asked. I looked on surreptitiously, not wanting to embarrass the poor guy -- he had enough to worry about. He aced many of the dexterity tests, but balance was a problem. John explained to the man that he was going to take him down to the jail and asked if he was willing to take a Breathalyzer test.

I'm not sure about the rules when it comes to what is required when facing that honest little machine, but the guy agreed to take it. His blood alcohol level was .17. He then requested a blood test "because it takes longer." Another officer had arrived and was going to park the truck on the street -- the second man in the truck had also been drinking and would be walking home. John put his hand over the driver's head and eased him into the patrol car. Once our guest was seated, the car filled with a pungent stench -- a noxious mix of beer breath and stale, ashy cigarettes.

The man complained that the cuffs were uncomfortable, to which John buoyantly replied, "Then we'll hurry up and get down there!" He was fairly coherent and seriously bummed out. We had been alone for a brief moment after John shut the back door and walked around to the driver's side. I had turned to look through the holes of the cage. "Hey," I'd said. The man giggled and said hello. Then he tried to talk me into convincing John to let him go. I said, "Sorry, man. Your situation sucks right now, but it ain't my gig."

Time to Crash

John took me back to the station. I got out of the car and said good luck to the drunk in the back, who was on his way to detox and booking. John got out as well, and I gave him a hug. I had come to care for him and his safety in the few hours we'd spent together, as I had come to care for Jenny that morning.

The tickets, the accidents, the stories...my head was swimming with it all as I drove home, mindful of my speed. I was ready to crash (meaning my head on a pillow, not my car on the road). The sky was as dark as it had been when I'd started out that day, but the ride was much different. Close to my exit, some asshole cut me off and I instinctively reached for the buttons that would flip on the colorful lights and siren. To my bafflement, the only high-pitched sound I heard was the caterwaul of that tacky tramp Britney. No lights on my hood, no siren attached, no authority to do anything but flip on my brights and scowl at the receding brake lights before me. Which is exactly what I did.

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