Booze, The Police And Me
Seven Civic-minded Volunteers Get Free Drinks; Victoria Officers Get Training In Sobriety Testing
This story's about a dancing and bubbly blonde, a quiet but friendly veterinarian, a stiff and guarded deliveryman who came alive while playing cards - and a lively TV crew who had police officers in stitches.
The main ingredient in this story, though, is alcohol, and the narrator's viewpoint from this point on will frequently be distorted by it.
On a night just a couple of weeks ago, seven people drank alcohol that was served to them by police officers. But why? We'll get to that later.
DRINK ORDERSWhen the cops ask us what we want to drink, a veterinarian jokes, "Cheap bourbon's good for me. I couldn't afford much as a kid."
Hard liquor is served, and a cop says, "Y'all start drinking."
I'm drinking expensive vodka, and my stomach - and arms and legs and back - immediately warm as I swallow it.
Chatter grows loud. Thirty minutes later, the second drink arrives. The veterinarian has long finished his first drink, and he complains that his could be stronger.
After a few minutes, a man leaves to smoke. He's bald-headed and seems rigid, but he's becoming friendlier.
A man at the end of the table jokes that he's been in training for this for weeks.
A woman adds, "Oh, yeah. I've been in a triathlon."
The 20-minute CutoffThey stop serving us alcohol for 20 minutes, after having given us two large drinks.
During the lull times, the group's energy dies a bit and people complain about not having more drinks.
Two men are escorted outside to smoke, and another is escorted into a bathroom. "Wow, this IS a controlled experiment," one jokes.
Two from the news crew try to crack the password on a police computer - and whisper funny examples of what that password might be.
In just minutes, we'll blow into our first Breathalyzer of the night.
A younger man tells me, "I was invited to do this tonight, to see at what point I'd be legally drunk. Can I beat the test? Ha! Well, I've beaten them before!"
Another says, "Well, I just felt like I was doing my civic duty."
Those at the table laugh. Everyone's face is red, and they're suddenly familiar somehow. Like we've shared drinks some other time.
"I better warn my wife," a man says, noticing that I've just typed his crass comment.
Then, everyone quiets. A police officer approaches the table to test our blood alcohol content. Everyone passes. Nobody is legally drunk. I register a .053.
happy hourThey serve us a third round of drinks, and everyone is having so much fun. I'm getting less excited about writing.
"I'm drinking alcohol that's not mine, playing poker with money that's not mine, and wearing an orange vest. It just doesn't get any better than this," a man says.
Another adds, "We need a radio, radio. Can we have some music?"
It's 7:08 p.m.
"Isn't it weird that you feel fine, but you could be illegal?" a woman asks me, after I've had three drinks. After a fourth drink, I still feel fine, but my blood alcohol is .083 - over the legal limit.
The blond woman's face is reddening, and her eyes - I think they're blue - stand out against her flushed cheeks, and for a second, she sits back in her chair, looks around, smiles, then rushes forward and shares a loud epiphany.
"Hey, guys! Think about it. Have you ever thought about what these cops have to put up with?"
The cops make us wait 20 minutes again before giving us another Breathalyzer, and I try to type, "We all want more drinks" but it comes out "we all want money drinks."
I'm starting to feel drunk, and that's not good. I'll be taking a field sobriety test soon.
The officer's concernAfter a smoke break, the alcohol and tobacco in my body smack me in the face, and I feel it in my cheeks and eyes.
A cop asks me, "Are you OK?"
Why, should I not be OK? Can he tell I'm feeling drunk? What's with this guy, anyway?
I clear my throat, act professional and put my hands on the laptop's keyboard, and then look to him and ask a question for this story - as if he's part of my experiment, and not the other way around.
I type all the thoughts I can get down before taking the sobriety tests.
A woman says, "I have to go to the bathroom, and I'm going with my drink."
Wow. She's totally taking this training to the next level.
walking the lineWe dread setting our drinks aside to be escorted into a nearby classroom. The room's filled with more than 20 cops. We each go through six stations and have the same sobriety tests repeatedly performed.
Walk the line. Hold your leg 6 inches off the ground and count. Look at this pen without moving your head.
"If you start feeling queasy, let me know," an officer says.
I'm drunk, and doing my best impression of a sober person. A half-hour ago, the others said I was composed. Then, in a running joke we'd used on different people throughout the night, they said they were going to vote me off the island because of my composure.
I pass all the tests, except the Breathalyzer and the one that hurt - the eye test. We were forced to follow a pen with our gaze as the pen was moved far off in one direction, then slowly in the other. My eyeballs "jumped" they say, a sure sign I'd been drinking.
I'd have been arrested had I been driving. I'm a 6-foot-2-inch, 188-pound guy and I'd had four drinks - albeit tall, stiff drinks filled with vodka.
A woman is asked to "put your hands down by your side, and take nine steps. On the ninth step, pivot and return nine steps back to the starting position."
The woman starts dancing when she's asked to walk the line. She stops at the end of that line, then stumbles, asks which way to pivot and again loses her balance. She lifts one leg 6 inches off the ground and counts to 26 - one thousand one, one thousand two - until she's told to stop.
The cops in the testing room had been taught for two days the ins and outs of giving sobriety tests, but we are their first real-life subjects.
The hope is that this will help officers know when to pluck those who drink and drive from off our streets.
My wife drives me home, and listens to my rants and hiccups until we enter our driveway. She hears this story, and then smiles. And tells me to shut up.
I'd been drinking for five hours with all the others, and for this to be "8 Hours," I had three still to go. I almost remember them.
Hiccup ... zzzzzz.
Gabe Semenza is a reporter for the Advocate. Contact him at 361-580-6519 or gsemenza@vicad.com, or comment on this story at www.VictoriaAdvocate.com.
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