I Was Livid.
The music was still at full volume inside The Decade, but watching my boyfriend being dragged away by the police had been sobering – metaphorically speaking. Although I normally closed down any bar I visited, I decided to just go home.
I started walking to my car, pondering my options. Should I try to find Gregg? He’d humiliated me and then left me, thoroughly ruining my night. I assumed I could figure out how to post bail and then Gregg could come back. But I didn’t want Gregg back.
Instead I stomped my way back to the car, more alone and angrier than I’d been a long time. That mother fucker, I mumbled, seething under my breath, storming past groups of college kids. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna pay his fucking bail. He should be paying me!
I nearly ripped off the door of my little VW Beetle, opening it as I did with such great vigor. There wasn’t a single cell in my body that wasn’t fuming with rage. I threw myself into the driver’s seat and roughly shifted gears, taking out my anger on my beloved car.
A stick shift requires a little more patience than an automatic car, and my fuse was already blown. I didn’t have the patience for shifting, or for waiting for drunk college students to cross the street in front of me, or for sitting at the stoplights on my way home. It was late and I was livid.
Drunk driving – well, driving in general – became easier for me if I pretended it wasn’t real. I drove like I was in a video game. This method had helped me before: stay between the white lines, take the turns sharp and smooth, floor it on the straightaways. As long as I thought I was in a video game, I could concentrate and get myself home without crashing.
I got out of the city, into the suburbs, and almost home. The whole time, I was fuming. I muttered, screamed and spat: mother-fucker-stupid-shit-asshole-fucking-liar until my voice was hoarse and my throat was raw.
When I reached the last red light before my house, I was in no better of a mood than I had been when I’d left The Decade. There were no cars anywhere but the stoplight changed to red as I approached, in spite of the post-midnight traffic lull.
Fuck this fucking light, I thought. I am so fucking sick of fucking red lights! I purposefully hit the gas and pounded right through the intersection, still in fifth gear and less than a mile from home.
The flashing lights appeared behind me in mere seconds.
I froze, my foot still on the gas. I stared into my rearview mirror like a deer in headlights. What am I supposed to do? My stomach lurched. I was so drunk, I couldn’t think. What AM I supposed to do!
I’d just watched Gregg taken away in handcuffs. And now I’d run a red light, drunk.
Pull over, a voice of reason said, as though it were reading me an instruction manual. You’re supposed to pull over.
In the darkness I pulled over, put the car in neutral, and waited.