Xperience Fiction – Sobriety Checkpoint

Xperience Fiction – Sobriety Checkpoint – by Liam Sweeny.

A lot of people are up in arms over sobriety checkpoints. Some of them are busybodies who can’t afford to be kept in a line of cars for that extra ten minutes. Others declare it a boot stomp on their constitutional right to drive. Still others are just drunks. But they set these checkpoints up. For the drivers who do a three-point to go back, they got a cruiser to chase them too.

So it’s nine-thirty at night and I’m stuck in one. But I have a secret weapon, ready to spring on the officer who comes up to the window. Yes I do, it’s called ‘cop camouflage’. Wanna’ know what it is? Actually it’s not a thing, as much as one highly specialized skill set, honed after ten years of intensive training.

Sobriety. Not a drop, ten years. I have advanced training in not getting high, or driving while tired. I have a black-belt in not texting when I drive. I once spent three weeks driving cross-country without Bluetooth. No calls, no calls at all. But not just that. Certificate in defensive driving too.

The line is moving. I can see the officers about five cars ahead. Time to make preparations. My wallet is out, and I fish for my license, registration and proof of insurance. I place them on the dash, sure to catch in the officer’s flashlight. They never know if, reaching your back pocket for your papers, you’re really reaching for a gun. So now I don’t have to reach anywhere they can’t see. Anything to set them at ease.

Line moves up, four cars now. So in my head I practice what I’m gonna’ say. Officers are trained to observe people closely, but they’re not trained to keep themselves cool in eighty-five degree, sticky as pancake-syrup nights like tonight wearing Kevlar. So maybe they’ll be off their game a bit. I don’t want any misunderstandings, heavens no.

They’re going to get their share of assholes, impatient people suddenly caring about their tax dollars and the occasional drunk claiming eight beers shy of their evening soak. I’m going to get up there and be the Friendly Neighbor, maybe the Responsible Citizen. I’ll make sure to ask them how they’re doing. After all, they’re the ones that have to stand around in this weather.

Three cars ahead now. I say fuck all of the people who are against this. If there was one of these on Route 11 three years ago, tonight, in fact, I wouldn’t have had to bury Annette. I saw pictures of her car torn in two by a trucker riding with Jack Daniels. I know this because the bottle flew out his window, landed in the grass without breaking. Maybe if that bottle had broken into pieces, Annette wouldn’t have, is that a bizarre thought? I’ve thought it before, but I tell myself it’s my brain trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. I started having that thought after the sentencing. Ten-to-fifteen. He got out on parole a few weeks ago.

I guess he paid his debt to society and all, but I wanted to talk to him face-to-face. I needed some closure. Needed to put it to rest. So I drove out to California, where we lived before Gloria left me for her grief counselor. What a gig that is, I tell you. Anyway, I moved to New York, bought some land upstate and built a cabin. Not pre-fab, either; I actually built the damn thing, chainsaw to finishing nail. It isn’t Bob Villa, but it kept me sober, focused. I’ve been on the road for four days, through the desert, through Texas and all the southern states, took 95 in Florida and flew up the coast. Can’t wait to get to the peace and quiet of the camp. Plus, there’s some work needs doing. There always is.

I’m next up. Lost my train of thought, sorry. They got one officer at the window, the other one walking around the car, shining his flashlight, probably looking for busted tail-lights. I’m good there too, replace them every three months, just in case. Even the little bulbs under my license plate. I roll down the window to get ready, and the balmy weather is exactly that, a balm, coating my forearm as I hang it out the window. I know I’ll soon have to bring my arm back in to have my hands ten and two on the steering wheel, but really it’ll be nine and three, to show my comfort level.

I pull up. The officers bounces a beam of light in the car and it catches my documentation. Good, good. No passengers, nothing in the back seat.

“Good evening, officer,” I say, “How are you tonight?”

The officer dips down, shines the light in my eyes. I squint just a tad, but when I relax, he can see my corneas are angel white. I stopped at motels three times on the way home to get my solid eights.

“Good evening, sir,” he says, “Have you been drinking tonight?”

“Not a drop in ten years.” I say.

“Recovering?”

“Lost my daughter to a DWI,” I say. “Couldn’t stand the stuff after that.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, “Can I just see your license and registration? I’ll get you on your way. Where you headed to?”

“My cabin, out by Hedley,” I say.

“Nice spot. I fish with my kid out there on the Werneskill.”

“Yeah, been there. Good pike fishin’.”

The officer runs my license through a little scanner he’s got on his uniform. Sweet gizmo.

“Well, you’re all-” He stops. His nose is twitching as he leans down to hand me my stuff back.

“Sir, did you hit something?”

“Not that I know of,” I say, and I know I didn’t, but my gut knows why he asked.

“You don’t smell that?” The officer keeps his head at the window, moving his nose around.

“Officer, I know I didn’t hit anything-”

“Green,” That’s the other officer. He’s behind the car now. “Tell this guy to pull over.”

The officer, Green, tells me to pull over at the side of the road. Now I’m inconvenienced. Now my constitutional right to drive has been infringed. More than that, I’m fucked. I ease off the brake, and just take off.

There are red and blues behind me, giving chase. Of course there’d be. I’m flying, but the roads are curvy. I don’t want to hit anyone, kill someone else’s little girl. I don’t want to do ten years, and I certainly don’t want to wind up decomposing in a pissed-off father’s trunk.

More from Liam Sweeny…