He helped me into the front seat of his car. I wondered why I didn’t get the backseat treatment. What if I try to bite his penis off while he’s driving me to the station? There’s nothing stopping me, except for common sense and basic human decency. I made small talk with the officer, as if we were on a business trip together. “Busy night?” I asked. What a fucking stupid question.
I stared out the window and thought about the impending fallout of my arrest. My wife would be angry, to be certain. I might go to jail. I was gonna have to cough up a lot of money that I would rather not cough up. I dreaded the idea of not being able to drink for a while. I remember feeling like the party was over, that life was going to stop being fun now. Somehow I had become so fucked in the head that driving a car after a few beers was now an important facet of my existence, something I didn’t want to end. I was a suburban dad with two kids. Lemme have my one last piece of rebellion. Pathetic, meaningless rebellion.
Once Officer Burgess took me into the station, he cuffed me to a table that had a special steel bar running underneath that served as a prisoner hitching post. Then he had me fill out reams of paperwork and snapped a Polaroid of me.
“Is that my mug shot?” I asked. I kinda wanted one. You know, for posterity.
“No,” he said. “I just take this so I can remember your face when I see you in court.”
He morphed into my DUI field guide, telling me everything that was going to happen to me and explaining that I needed a ride home since my license was now temporarily suspended. He also recommended a handful of state-approved alcohol education classes, which you must take prior to showing up in court.
“You think I’ll be able to manage this without a lawyer?” I asked. I already knew the answer.
He shook his head with genuine regret. “It’s unlikely, Mr. Magary. You can try, but I wouldn’t advise it. I’m sorry.” I visualized pretty whirlwinds of cash streaming out of my shorts pocket.
After hours of being processed, Officer Burgess handed me my paperwork, which included my official BAC of .10, and I was formally released. My friend picked me up at the station and drove me to my house. Just as we were turning the corner onto my street, my phone rang and I saw the word “HOME” flashing on the screen. And now the shame and regret and sadness arrived in a rising tide. Why? Why, why, why? I took my wife’s call and told her as fast as I could, like ripping off a Band-Aid to get the pain over with.
I walked through the door and she greeted me at the top of the stairs, exhausted. It was now 3:00 A.M.
“I thought you might be dead,” she said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“We can talk about it later. I just want sleep.”
The next day, she barely spoke to me. I wasn’t her husband that day. I was just this thing that she had to deal with. For a single twenty-four-hour stretch, I felt convinced that my wife didn’t love me anymore. Whatever life force is created when two people love each other had vaporized, and I could feel it. You could have strapped me to a table and sawed through my bones and it wouldn’t have been as painful. Being unloved is like being homeless. Destitute.
My daughter was playing outside on the swing when my wife finally pulled me aside to unload. She didn’t raise her voice.
“I’m hurt, and I’m angry.”
I broke down in front of her. “Please forgive me. Please. It’ll never happen again. Please believe me.” I kept saying that line over and over again. Please believe me. I thought if I said it enough, maybe it would stick. It began to grate on her.
“Stop saying that. I’m not gonna believe you right now. You have to actually not do it again.”
Wives aren’t dumb. They aren’t just going to absolve you on the spot. You’d never learn your lesson that way. If forgiveness were that swift, it wouldn’t be worth anything. That’s the hardest part of being married—when you’ve fucked up and want desperately to mend everything quickly, only your partner won’t give you the satisfaction.
The drunk driving wasn’t even the worst part of it. As a result of my arrest, I had my license suspended, making her the sole family driver for two months. She was far more pissed about that than the actual drunken driving, and I couldn’t blame her. In a family of four or more, it’s crucial to have at least two functioning drivers. A parent that can’t drive isn’t a parent at all. It’s an old dog that should be dragged out and shot.
My daughter continued playing as I cried to my wife for absolution. Later on, I told the girl that I was going to have to go to class for a few nights.
“What kind of class?” she asked.
“Uh . . . a learning class,” I said. “Here, have a pretzel.”
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