VI.
At the police station, a matronly female officer handed me a thin blanket, then insisted I enter a holding cell. It was freezing in that room so I asked for another. Another blanket that is, not room, although another room (my own, with a real bed and warm comforter) I would have much preferred. The officer said I was only allowed one blanket. I pulled the cushion off from one of the beds and put it over me to help fight off the cold. She said I wasn’t allowed to take cushions off other beds. I crawled under my own cushion, and was still cold under that and the thin blanket.
Shivering from nerves and an air conditioner on overdrive inside county lockup, wishing for heat even knowing it was my uncontrollable desire for jumping into frying pans that had brought me here in the first place, I thought how just that morning, I had gone for a usual weekday run, unaware how drastically my life would change within hours. Ironically, during the run, my iPod’s random shuffle function chose to play “Some Like it Hot” by Power Station:
Some like it hot and some sweat when the heat is on
Some feel the heat and decide that they can’t go on
Some like it hot, but you can’t tell how hot ’til you try
Some like it hot, so let’s turn up the heat ’til we fry
I am certainly the type that likes it hot. I crave adventure and excitement. But with my habit of constantly pushing harder against boundaries, putting my hand deeper into the flame, a different accident could have wound up a fiery crash: I, the cause of burned and broken bodies littering the highway.
VII.
From: Allie
To: Justin
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Subject: Constructing a Narrative
Dear Justin,
As requested, here is an account of the day in question.
On 23 April 20—, I awoke to my usual 5:15 a.m. weekday alarm, quickly threw on sweats and shoes, then jogged along North Street. I live near the corners of North and Elm streets; from here I ran until I reached Zenith Road, then back home again.
First thing upon walking in the door, I swallowed down with a glass of water my daily dose of Benicar HCT 20-12.5 mg., which I take to control hypertension. For breakfast, I had a cup of coffee (black, no sweetener), an apple and an orange. You must be thinking, “What, an apple and an orange?! That girl’s gonna get big as a house!” But my stomach was actually empty that day; for dinner the night before I ate a Weight Watchers frozen meal (to clarify: it wasn’t frozen when I ate it; it had just been heating in the microwave for 3 1/2 minutes, as the instructions suggest to heat the food for 3 1/2 – 4 minutes, depending upon the microwave’s strength, and my microwave – if you’ll allow me this bit of bragging – is quite brawny) and, as I said, I had just run before breakfast, which of course burned more calories.
Actually, my breakfast ended up in minus calories, if anything, as the run, combined with the caffeine in the coffee and the roughage in the apple, made for a nice big doo-doo immediately before I took my morning shower. This incident occurred on or about 7:30 a.m. Yes, I really did just write that, as you said that I should tell you everything. The point is, besides a bit of acid and few drops of Vitamin C left over from that orange, my stomach was empty.
I showered then dressed. On or about 8:30 a.m. I packed my books up and headed to Northwest University; it was a Tuesday and I teach Introduction to College English Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9 until 10:15 a.m. After class, I went to my scheduled office hour, which is every Tuesday from 10:30 to 11:30 a.m.
I can’t tell you why I made the choices from there that I did. Perhaps it is genetic – both of my parents are alcoholic (well, my mom is dead) and I’m known to go on a bender every now and again. Perhaps it was the depressing conversation about the state of the world I had with a couple of teaching associates I share an office with. Perhaps it was that that night I was scheduled to attend Dr. Welby’s linguistics class; both linguistics (because its so tedious) and Dr. Welby (because I heard he fails 30% of his students and he doesn’t seem to like me much) scare the crap out of me. Not literally, of course. Refer to Paragraph 4 for details on crap.
Whatever the reason, I decided rather than go home for the few hours until Dr. Welby’s class started at 4:00 p.m. I would find something to drink. I drove to LiquorLand, 19524 Main St. in Indianapolis and wandered the store from aisle to aisle mulling over what to buy. I finally settled on my favorite tequila, Patron. I thought, I’ll just take a little liquid courage then study in the library until Welby’s class. And the word “class” sounds like the word “glass” reminding me I didn’t have one. So I selected a large shot glass, as of course, sitting in one’s car at noon drinking out of a proper container clearly makes one look like much less of a boozer than if guzzling straight from a bottle of hard liquor.
I drove back to campus and parked in a faculty lot. I took 3-4 shots in rapid succession, hid the leftover Patron in a bag, and exited the car. I walked toward the library, seriously intent on studying. By the time I was halfway to my destination, I realized I was starving and had this vicious craving for Rubin’s fish tacos, so I turned back to my car and began driving to the Rubin’s 19500 Washington Avenue, also in Indianapolis.
Of course, there was alcohol in my system and I was acting like a naughty Allie by driving anyway. But in my defense, it was also raining quite heavily. Not driving faster than, say, thirty miles an hour, upon reaching the intersection of Main Street and Washington Avenue, I tapped into the bumper of an SUV, who must have been tailgating pretty heavily the Matrix in front of him, as the driver of the SUV ran into the Matrix. (One police officer told my husband it really wasn’t a bad accident; they’d seen worse when people were sober but talking on their cell phones, or putting on lipstick, or changing radio stations, or whatever dozens other distracting things people do in their cars.) What followed was a long period in which I waited, waited, waited in my car, as two policemen asked me lots of questions I hardly remember, and tons of looky-loos pushed in from the background; those annoying folks I certainly do remember.
An officer asked me to get out of my car and take a field sobriety test. But I was wearing high heels and it was raining, which would hinder an accurate reading of my state of inebriation. The stand-on-one-foot-and-put-your-finger-on-your-nose idea was eschewed in favor of bringing me right to Indianapolis Hospital Medical Center, 18300 Lark Lane, for a blood test.
The officers handcuffed me and put me in the back of the police car. One cop told me he left the handcuffs loose, so I wouldn’t hurt. I thanked him kindly and told him other than that I had to pee a gallon, I was quite comfortable.
At the hospital, Officer Richards handcuffed me to a bed. I needed to pee but the nurse was a mean old biddy and wouldn’t let me dilute my blood’s alcohol content. But then she just left me on the bed and was gone for a long time and I really needed to pee, so I asked again, real nice-like. Officer Velasquez let me pee. By the time I was done and handcuffed back to the bed, Nurse Biddy was back. She gave Velasquez a dirty look that said, “didn’t I ask you not to do that?” then took my blood.
By then my husband was there, talking quietly with the cops for some time. Eventually I had to pee again, and everyone was ignoring me, so I joked loudly that Paris Hilton was in custody for less time than this. I think this made the officers mad because then they took me to the station. (Grant later said just before my crass outburst, he was convinced the officers were about to release me into his custody right there at the hospital. Me and my big mouth!)
There was a phone in the holding cell. I called my husband and begged him to get me the hell out of there. He said he was in conversation with a bondsman and would be down for me ASAP. I assumed I’d stay the night in there, unable to sleep. But shortly after phoning, Grant arrived, filled out some paperwork, and they let me go! Not before fingerprinting me, of course. I picked up my belongings—jewelry, a hair clip, etc.
Driving home, Grant said the bail bondsman called some lady he knows at that police station and he (Grant) wasn’t made to pay any money for my release.
We got home shortly before midnight. I was surprised it was so early (I was certain it was 4 or 5 a.m.), as the day felt longer than Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
Respectfully submitted,
Allie McAvoy
VIII.
From: Allie
To: Justin
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Subject: re: Constructing a Narrative
Hi Justin,
Between you and me:
I honestly don’t recall not slowing down at the intersection, or the reason why the officers let me sit in my car was because I was so very unsteady on my feet.
I believe the eye-witness’s account that I didn’t slow down; I just remember looking up to see I was barreling down on a yellow SUV. But our conversation in your office did jog the memory of the cops deciding it was redundant to ask me to stand on one foot when I was wobbling on two.
I don’t want you to think a conscious lie was behind my narrative not providing the fullest and most accurate account of the DUI day. Please know that I have been, to the best extent of my flawed and flaky memory, honest with you.
I’m nervous about court. This whole situation sucks.
IX.
From: Justin
To: Allie
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Subject: re: Constructing a Narrative
Allie,
I know, 100%, that you have been honest with me. I noticed the differences between your narrative and the police report, but I also know that this happened a while ago. Also, when you’re dealing with a traumatic situation, things happen VERY quickly and it’s impossible to remember everything. Finally, the police often twist things to make it seem like the subject of the report is more culpable.
Please don’t be nervous about anything. All we’ve had is good news so far with this case (with one exception: the 0.24 blood result).
X.
XI.
Our marriage anniversary was less than a week after my arrest. A cruel coincidence. Per tradition, we made reservations for Giovanni’s in downtown.
I still wasn’t eating well, hadn’t been since the accident and arrest. But after six days, and considering that Giovanni’s makes among the best martinis in Indianapolis, I found, if not my appetite for food, but my drinking snout again. I ate two bites of salad and drank four vodka martinis, neat.
After dinner, Grant wanted to look around inside the bookstore next door. I walked with him halfway there and then said I wanted to go back to Giovanni’s to pee: the ladies’ room there was so much nicer than the bookstore’s.
I ran straight to the bar and quickly downed a few Manhattans (I tipped the bartender well, which I suppose is why she kept coming back so quickly and readily) before Grant, having noticed I hadn’t reached the books, came looking for me.
Finding me pissed and alone at the bar, he hissed into my ear that we were leaving right away. I downed the last third of my drink in a large swallow, then tried to crawl off the barstool. I fell straight to the floor, my skirt spread about me, immodestly exposing my underpants. I tried standing, but couldn’t. I tried grabbing the closest thing, the barstool, for support, but that toppled over and crashed to the floor. A customer rushed over to help. Together, he and Grant lifted me, carried me back to the car.
At home, all I could do was lie in bed and cry to be hugged and understood. Grant would hear none of it. He said he wanted me to move to my mom’s. I screamed “It’s fucking true, then! You don’t give the slightest shit about me, else you wouldn’t want that for me!”
I confess that I had been wanting to take a break, maybe even try to get sober. But I couldn’t afford a place on my own. Grant told me he’s tired of being made responsible and had he even the slightest glimpse into this future, he would have stayed in England and never, ever came to meet me in the first place.
I called my older sister and begged her to let me move in with her. She said if I helped with the bills, I could stay there during the week, but would have to go elsewhere on weekends when her son was home from Pendleton, because he would need his room. I had neither the money nor the willingness to spend my weekends playing homeless. I called my younger sister and asked if I could have her spare bedroom, cooking and cleaning and helping out with the kids to earn my keep. She said just two weeks earlier she’d found a renter, but I was welcome to come and sleep on her couch when things got especially bad.
I told Grant he couldn’t just leave me to the streets. He said if I was ever caught driving drunk again, he’d divorce me, and I believe him.
***
For all installments of “Self-Destruction,” click here.
Previous installments:
Ikhnaton Skypeople writes experimental work that is too gritty to publish under her own name. She has a conservative job and her public profile is watched closely. She would be much more successful, financially and socially, if she would instead write the boring peer-reviewed publications expected of a fledgling academic like herself. However, she decided she’d rather write what she wants, rather than what they want her to. So she chooses obscurity, to write under an assumed name, to hide her true identity. Her work has also been published in Red Fez.
