I’m only pushing 90 or so as I blow through a rack of abeyant speed cameras. Earlier I had imbibed significant quantities – and varieties – of booze but now felt my buzz had mostly worn off. Certainly felt comfortable enough to drive this fast in my hot-shit sports car. I referred to it as “The Blue Menace” due to the way I drive it where I want at the speeds I want, governed only by the laws of physics, not traffic. Apparently, not getting caught by the cameras was just a matter of daring and gumption. Then again, maybe they’re mired in bureaucratic capture and were never actually turned on. Regardless, in six months of blazing around as a rolling hazard, I’ve gotten nothing. No photos. No tickets. No restraint.
I’m coming back from yet another night of “just one more’s” and “sure why nots” in the northern suburbs, the result of running into an old college fling on a different night of carousing a couple weeks back. She was leaving with a group of coworkers wrapping up a happy hour. These are the office gals who like to get crazy by having a second – or even third – margarita with the overindulgent, to-die-for queso while complaining about management’s attentiveness and their husbands’ lazy underwear.
I had recognized her amber blonde hair under the dim lighting of the host stand as her group walked out. Also helped that she looked like a railroad spike next to her sandbag coworkers, tall and lean, towering over their squat little office bods. Nice to see she’d kept it together, despite the drab office fashion, with square shoulders, slender but rounded hips, and no belly to speak of; an aesthetic to remind a man of her college days. We chatted for a bit and agreed to meet later.
###
‘Later’ ended up resurrecting an old tradition – getting smashed the night before Thanksgiving. After exchanging texts, we agreed to convene at a shopping mall bar in her local faux downtown with a couple impotent cross streets roosted by sporty “brought to you by”-brand stores and surrounded by a desert of parking asphalt. Perpetual office space for rent on the second and third stories, alongside cheap fast-fashion luxury apartments for just over market rate. Marble countertops upon which the rooftop pool can leak.
I parked somewhere in the outer rim near an exit and hiked my way in. Some of these places have shuttles that circulate this far out (next stop: Urban Irony); some of us prefer tasting the smog on a walk. I arrived at the slick, over-adorned bar-restaurant, replete with its mirror-and-mood-lighting excess, to find she’s saved a seat for me. This time it did take a second glance to recognize her – this isn’t the after-work queso look. She had gone home and dolled up like a glossy magazine cover. Her blue undershade on the eye, paired with the perfect subtle pink lip stick, hair up with a few strands dangling down, and understated tight-jeans outfit all coyly whispered, “I’m here for the fun”, like a book between the sheets.
We caroused over a couple many fancy cocktails and a charcuterie board. Got a little toasty while chatting about all the adult things. Public schools suck and are failing her kid. Her ex-husband just bought – and crashed – the mid-life crisis sports car (his was Italian; mine is German). And the HOA fined her for trash cans when she was all of five minutes late. I might have said a word or two as well.
Closed the tab at this first spot with lemon drop shots – for the nostalgia – then sauntered out for a walk to cool off. Stopped into a whiskey store to ask if they had anything “to help our baby sleep.” Ran out giggling. Went into a toy store and inquired about sex toys, this time “for our toddler”. Ran out with exuberant giggling. Tripped and slipped and stumbled, across the sidewalk, into the planter, into the tree, into a car and its traffic, and laughed about it all in front of everybody.
Tried to walk past a wine bar but did not make it. Ended up emptying another several glasses while digging deeper into the meaning of life. She drank red, I drank white. We found no meaning in that.
Submerged somewhere in the fourth or fifth glass, she made the offer. “Hey A.W., it’s been so much fun hanging out. It’s good to see you again like this. I have some good beer at home, and the kid’s at her dad’s. Want to go back to my place? I’ll drive so you can leave your car.”
Yes.
“Let’s do it.”
Perfectly happy to let her do the drunk driving on this one. It’s only a mile or so down the road but she did bounce the tires off a couple curbs, run a red, and turn onto her street from the middle lane of the main road at speed. I was thoroughly impressed. All for nought though, as we made it safely back to her condo without internment.
###
After we spend some real quality time together, dancing and vibing and whatnot (clothing optional), I had this uneasy feeling maybe my Blue Menace was going to get towed. I thought I might have glanced a sign that “Overnight Vehicles Will Be Towed” and maybe leaving it wasn’t the best plan. Good news that the oasis was only a mile or so down the road, and there are even kept-sidewalks the whole way. Put on my walking shoes and made the drunken stumble-trek back in no time at all.
Walk the last few yards attempting to comprehend a police car silently parked in the lot, not in a space and no siren blinking, but merely guarding the tow truck driver, who has apparently already started. My Blue Menace is downright petite next to monochrome SUVs and oversize therapy trucks, and there’s a brief moment of panic when I can’t pick it out. Walking a bit further reveals it to be behind one of those SUVs that comes with its own garage.
I hopped in and drove out, deliberate & lethargic, like a sports car commercial. Unsuspicious.
Freeway is maybe half a mile up the road, and the cop’s buddies are surely out on patrol – he probably let them know I’m coming – so I do a controlled cruise in the right lane to prevent arousing any suspicion. It works too well when I arrive at the freeway on-ramp without having encountered another car, and I catch a case of impatience. Caution gets kicked out of the car like a hooker with herpes, and I’m onto the ramp to accelerate hard in a lively and vivacious manner.
Already pushing 80 by the time I can see the rest of the freeway. I dial back to merge and coast along for a minute to get situational awareness. A few receding headlights in the rear-view suggest sparse traffic. In the left door mirror I do see a couple headlights approach. A winged Honda flies past, with a black BMW giving chase. Confirms we’re all free to drive as we see fit now. I ramp it up as I blow past the rack of speed cameras. They’ll never catch me.
Make it home without incident and sleep it off. That morning it’s Thanksgiving so I’m off to somewhere else for the rest of the day, driving and drinking and flouting once more.
###
Around noon on Friday, there’s a knock on my door. It’s the local police. Last time they knocked, it was because a kid had vandalized my car. I don’t have that car anymore.
I open the door, “Sir, are you A.W. Stahl?”
“Yeah?”
“We have a warrant for your arrest for driving under the influence.”
“You do? How?”, I can hear the grumble of a low-rev torque engine, “What’s going on here?”
“You’ll find out. Come with us please,” as if declining coffee before the check.
As it was now immobilized on a flatbed, my hot shit sports car was now in hot shit.
###
In court, I did in fact find out. First, they presented the itemized receipt from the bar-restaurant. That had eight drinks on it. The wine bar receipt had ten. The video from the whiskey store was portrayed as an example of our inebriation, as was the sidewalk shuffle. Pics or it didn’t happen, right?
My college friend did testify that we had split all of those receipt drinks and that she had kept up, drink for drink, just like the college days, but ultimately her testimony just confirmed how damn much I’d consumed before my little freeway time trial. I was proud she’d tried to stand up for me, but even if only half the alcohol were mine, it was still more than enough.
And beyond the receipts and video from the turncoat merchants, they had still-frame footage from various private security cameras as I had walked into the lot to retrieve my car. Enhanced close-up pictures as I was getting into the driver’s seat. Plate reader pictures with timestamps as I approached the freeway. Video of my one-man on-ramp drag race, replete with facial exuberance. And the freeway cameras were in fact active – a recent change I found out – and came with facial recognition. Their delay was by design to intentionally lull drivers like me.
They had tracked my car, and its speed, and my face as I’m driving, for the entire journey. It took a day’s worth of AI processing to put it all together – Thanksgiving Day – and at the end, a warrant was spit out by a machine. The AI had also inferred my BAC as well over the limit and that was good enough for the judge; the computer never lies. I spent my weekend and then some in jail.
Now there’s no more blue left. Just menace.
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