“Point zero two three,” the officer said.
I knew I wasn’t that drunk. It was second semester of my freshman year at Montana State University, Bozeman, and the campus party scene had started to bore me. Not that I didn’t want to get drunk and high at least every weekend, but I wanted to get out of town. I’d already loaded my camping gear in a friend’s Subaru, but then we got invited on this burn cruise, and he couldn’t refuse. Out of the seven people going, I seemed the least drunk, so I drove. “Ah, the Montana designated driver,” as the campus substance abuse counselor put it to me later.
We’d already smoked a bowl when a campus police cruiser pulled into the parking lot. At the truck owner’s urging, I drove us out the other side of the parking lot like it was no big deal. The cop followed, flashed lights, my friends in the truck swore and scrambled for cigarettes to cover the weed smoke.
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