I began drinking and driving regularly after moving from New York to DC when I was twenty-seven. When you live in New York, you never drive, so going out and drinking is never a problem because there’s always a cab or a subway or a bus or your own two feet to get you home. Anyone leaving New York for another American city has to find a way of adjusting to that new city’s driving culture, taking your car with you virtually everywhere you go. I adjusted poorly.
One night in my new hometown, I was out with a friend, with no way home except for my car. I figured that one beer wouldn’t impair me all THAT much, so I had a beer and drove home and everything was hunky-dory. So the next time I went out, I figured that perhaps TWO beers would be just fine. After all, one was no problem. Why not one more? In no time, I was merrily drinking and driving every weekend. I stopped counting drinks. I became convinced that I was good to drive no matter how much I drank. I drank and drove with my wife in the car. A handful of times, I had a couple of drinks and drove with my kids in the car, which was irresponsible but softened my temper when they were kicking my seat. At any kid function like a birthday party or a playdate where booze was served, I drank. Adults need alcohol in that situation. You stop hovering over your kid and have an easier time talking to other parents. Oh, you’re building a new basement? FASCINATING. Do you have any more of this Cabernet? It’s awesome. GLUG GLUG GLUG.
The longer you go drinking and driving without getting caught, the more you become convinced that you’ll NEVER be caught. Getting caught becomes the domain of other, less professional drunk drivers: teenagers getting loaded on peach schnapps, hobos, athletes who drive too fast, etc. Not you. You wildly underestimate how much the alcohol impairs your abilities behind the wheel. I’m okay to drive. I said that a lot, as if my own bullshit assessment mattered.
In the back of my head, I knew it was wrong. There were nights when I would wake up at 3:00 A.M. to go piss and to down a glass of water and two Advil to prevent a hangover the next morning. And while standing in my bathroom, with nothing but the moonlight illuminating my bloated body, I would think to myself, Why did I drink and drive like that? What am I, stupid? In that moment, I would feel a tremendous surge of dark guilt and shame, a sense that I had endangered the welfare of my wife and children for no good reason. It was that sickening feeling you get when you know you’ve done the indefensible.
Then the morning would come and I would forget all about it. Despite the occasional self-induced guilt trip, I came to enjoy drinking and driving. Sometimes I would go out and look forward to the drive home more than the actual time spent at the bar. I loved the feeling of the car zooming along when I was buzzed. Sometimes I would blast the music and take curves at a decent speed, pretending I was driving an Alfa Romeo with a cadre of Russian spies hot on my ass.
One spring day, I met some friends after work at a bar to watch basketball and I drank five or six beers. Then I drove home on the Beltway—one of the worst roads in America—and got stuck in traffic. But I couldn’t have cared less about sitting there in that jam. I reveled in being the only person stuck on the road that had no problem with it. I rolled down the window, took in some fresh exhaust, and sang along to the radio without a care in the world. I was having a blast, alone, drunk in my car.
? ? ?
The second I knew I was gonna be arrested, I accepted it. There was no frantic search for a penny to suck on or some wild deliberation in my own mind about taking a Breathalyzer. I sat there calmly and waited for my fate to be sealed. Officer Burgess had me step out of the car, walk the line, say the alphabet backward, run an obstacle course, do burpees, and all that other fun stuff. Cops don’t do this to figure out if you’re drunk. They know that the second you roll your window down. I think they do this just for fun, and I can’t blame them. It really builds up the anticipation for administering the Breathalyzer and putting on the cuffs.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered.
“Okay.”
“Now touch your nose.”
I felt my finger touch the point of my nose and I had to suppress my glee. Maybe I was getting away with it.
“Okay, Mr. Magary, I’m gonna have you take a Breathalyzer test.”
Shit.
He led me over to the Breathalyzer and had me blow. Seconds later, he took my hands behind my back and I felt the cuffs go on. They were cool to the touch.
“I’m going to book you for DUI, Mr. Magary.”
“What did the Breathalyzer say?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.”
“Really?” It seemed like such a tease.
“Sorry.”