War Story

June 10, 2010 · 0 comments

I’m a fucken MACHINE, dear reader.  Working my ass off like it’s going out of style.  Today was 12 hours and I felt like I was leaving early.  Part of me wants to take a minute and count the number of hours I’ve been at work this week – just for shits & giggles – and part of me doesn’t want to know.

The same part of me that doesn’t want to know is the smart one, I think.  Deja vu:

Back about five years ago I was living in SE DC – Anacostia, to be specific – and working in PG County MD.  I went out to visit my friends in Annapolis – we played golf in the summer heat and I forgot to eat.  But I didn’t forget to drink.  I think I was probably legally drunk by the time I got into the car to drive out to Annapolis in the morning.  Anyway, after not eating and only drinking all day long, I left around 10 or 11PM to make the drunk drive back to DC – one which I’d done many times before.

But getting out of Annapolis at night (ok, to be honest, during the day too) was impossible for me.  I always got lost.  I’d wander around until I finally bumped into 50 West.  Once I was on that road, my body could take me home while my brain worked to keep me from falling asleep.

That night, I didn’t make it out of Annapolis.  I got pulled over at midnight by the cops and was arrested for drunk driving.  It was bad.  Lots of lights and people yelling and there was NO way I was ever going to pass the field sobriety test.

Anyway, they towed my car and gave me a ride to the police station in the front seat of a cruiser with my hands cuffed behind my back.  That’s not particularly comfortable, but they didn’t care.  (Nor should they have.)  When we got to the station, I was chained to the wall while the officer wrote up his report.

At 6AM he asked me if I wanted to take a breathalyzer.  Part of me wanted to do so because I was curious to see how far past the legal limit I STILL was.  I had a pretty high tolerance in those days – my blood was (no joke) thick with Jim Beam on a regular basis.

Thankfully, the part of me that does not now want to know how many hours I’ve worked in the past five days (I started Sunday night) did not then think it was a very smart idea to take the breathalyzer, so I refused.  They let me out an hour or two later.

This puts me in mind of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story The Imp of the Perverse.  I read it when I was very young and it made quite an impression upon me.  Or rather, my level of identification with the story was what made the impression on me.

The next post (which is, technically, the previous post) is scraped from the above link.  You’re welcome to read it here or there, if you have the time to do so.

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