Field Sobriety

From what I know of the facts and figures: I can’t officially recommend drinking and driving as pathway to success in life.  In fact, the statistics seem rather grim.

That having been said, a few of my wilder friends claim to do their best dirt-road driving somewhat "under the influence" and, to hear some of my elder male family members tell it: drinking and driving around was just “what you did” as a teenager on a rural Georgia Friday night. Back then it apparently wasn't “as illegal" or, at least that's what I've been told. 

Perhaps that activity’s popularity is what ultimately led to some of the stiffer driving laws we enjoy today. I can’t disagree with the rationale, but suppose it’s roughly 1969 and you’re young, dumb, rural and in possession of a big block Chevy encased in 6,000 lbs of American steel and Dupont racing stripes: a case of PBR and a trip around the County might be just the activity for you.  Again, I’m not advocating we relive the golden years of your youth: I’m just pointing out – it could have happened.

At roughly this time in history my Uncle was pulled over by the local Sheriff well after midnight when the car he was riding in was seen to have been traveling “somewhat erratically” through an intersection. My Uncle was in the backseat; his buddy was driving and his other buddy (“Daryl”) was riding shotgun.

The Sheriff (who knew my family) leaned in the passenger-side window, exchanged the usual pleasantries, asked after my Grandfather and the health of the family, then abruptly said, “you boy’s been drinking?”

"No. Nossir. Not a bit sir." They responded, angelically.

“That right, son?” Said the round-shouldered, slightly paunchy sheriff through his handlebar moustache, singling out Daryl who, from experience, he knew to be the weaker vessel of the trio and who also, by now, had a thick dew of perspiration adorning his whispy, trembling moustache. 

“I bet you been drinking, ain'tcha boy? I know you're not the kind of man who'd lie to the law.”

“Yessir. Err. That is - nossir we ain’t. I mean we ain't the type to lie.” wafted back to him on the Pabst-scented breeze.

"What about the drinking part. That bit seems more relevant to this here discussion, don't you reckon?" he replied.

"Oh nossir. Nossir ain't no drinking going on here. My Daddy'd kill me."

“That so?" mused the Sherrif, inclining his head in Daryl's direction and leaning further into the black interior of the 1968 GTO (yellow). Well if you boys ain’t been drinking then, son, I’m going to need you to blow right here into my ear.” He said, placing his left ear in easy striking distance of the horrified teenager.

Daryl, stunned at the turn of events, sweating feverishly and doubtless having urinated a tiny bit, furrowed his brow, leaned in to the lawman’s shoulder, and, gently as a lover, pursed his lips and sent the faintest breeze wafting into the peacekeeper's hairy ear-hole.

All hell broke loose.

"SON, WAS THAT YOU BLOWING IN MY EAR??" The Sherriff screamed, standing bolt-upright and slamming his fist down on the roof of the car. 

"NO MAN IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD BLOW IN THE SHERIFF'S EAR LIKE YOU JUST DONE. BOY I AM A HAPPILY MARRIED MAN. I OUGHT TO LOCK YOU UP AND THROW AWAY THE KEY FOR THAT. YOU BOYS MUST BE DRUNK. BLOWING IN MY EAR LIKE WE ON A DATE? YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND SON. YOU ARE ALL UNDER ARREST!"

It was the most brilliant field sobriety test ever administered and the best part is – it didn’t happen to me.