Follow my Finger with your Eyes, Hester

This Labor Day weekend included a trip to the wineries. We went to one of the more popular ones, with a big patio, live music, etc. It was crowded, but with a little ingenuity we were able to find a table and extra chairs to join the throng while having our own private feast.

Of course the dance floor provided the most excellent people watching. Talk about sea of humanity. Wine, it's not just for the discriminating palate anymore. There were the requisite Paris HIlton-esques crowd mixed in with the hillbilly couple (he with suspenders, she with long gray hair in a braid) and those folks you'd expect in a dive bar, drinking beer on tap and holding belching contests. Of course, this is Missouri. And there are those wine cooler-esque concoctions that taste more like a sugary Kool-Aid than a Shiraz.

Equally intriguing was the wedding reception going on the north side of the seating area. Not sure I'd want the Bayou band and VP Fair crowd elbowing up against my wedding party ... but, hey, it was cheap entertainment, I suppose! The bride's gown included a band of red at the top and bottom, about an inch or two thick. Someone said this was the latest trend - a white gown with a splash of color. Traditionalist that I am, I was reminded of Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter rather than a fashionista.

But back to my group. EG, the DD, got a nauseating migraine. I think the mix of cigar smoke blowing in her face combined with a few other factors jump-started it. She wasn't feeling all that great so I drove her car back to STL. She has a manual, and since stick shifts are a dying breed, there weren't many in the carload that were experienced and/or not totally tipsy.

Winding back to the highway, we came upon a sobriety checkpoint.

I've never had experience with a checkpoint really. Except a year ago after having been at a 50th Anniversary party in which no liquor was served. The cop simply asked where I'd been; I pointed about a block backwards and said "that Southern Baptist church. I had lemonade." Why I felt the need to call out - twice in one sentence - my absolute lack of liquor - is my self-inflicted guilt syndrome. For some reason I immediately feel guilty at the sight of a cop.

So this time, having not anticipated being the driver, and coming upon a ten cop-car checkpoint, I felt instantly guilty. How many drinks had I had? I didn't really know. More than the migrained car owner but less than the other two passengers.

I felt my face flush - which happens when I drink alcohol, or am overheated, or embarrassed, or all of the above ... while waiting for my turn, I started chewing gum, but trying not to smack it like a "mad cow" as I tend to do in stressful situations.

I rolled up to the first of the line of cops and stopped. I pushed the button to roll down the window. Oops, that's the rear window. Play it cool and push the button for your window, dumbass. He asked where I had been, what time I had got there, how many drinks I'd had. Oh, and license and registration. I answered these questions. And then wondered what was next?

I saw my life flash before my eyes. By some fluke my ankle would give out while walking a straight line, I’d fall and he’d issue a DUI. Talk about Scarlet Letter. . . I’ve always prided myself on not driving drunk, suddenly to be caught unawares and be the next schlub with a drunk driving violation.

Luckily, I didn’t have to move. My clumsiness would certainly have betrayed me, sober or not. Instead he raised his index finger and told me to follow it with my eyes only and not move my head. He moved his finger from a center point to the far right, center to the far left, center to the far right, etc. etc. I’d say at least 8 times. It felt like an eternity.

Sometimes he’d stop midway, other times he went slowly and nearly exceeded my peripheral vision. A few time I expected my contact lens might pop out from staring out of the corner of my eyes. Course I wasn’t going to mouth off to the cop about this – unless it really happened. And it didn’t. I did move my head once though, and he called me on it. Sorry, said a small voice inside me as my jaws clamped tighter.

I was free to go after the 'follow the finger' exercise, but had an awful adrenaline rush. Poor EG, still recuping from her migraine, had to deal with all of our animated talking the rest of the drive home.

And of course, in my usual clumsy way, right before handing over her keys and going to my own car, I drove over a curb. Just one back tire as I took a turn onto a one-way street. Yup. Classic.

I’m sure they were all thinking “Yup, she’s drunk. We dodged a bullet back in Augusta.”

To which, I said, out loud, “I have a problem with curbs.”

Because I do.