I was bartending at the piano bar and excited about the next day. After more than a year of having a blow box in my car it was scheduled to be taken out. Obviously, I’m not proud of my DUI and would rather not talk about it, but I was glad the long ordeal with the internal breathalyzer in my car would be over.
However, I had no idea that by the next morning that events that night would nearly derail everything.
***
It was a slow evening at the piano bar, most likely Wednesday or Thursday. In fact, it was about two hours until closing time and only the manager Julie, my co-worker Beckie, and myself were there. We wanted to close early but the owners told us to keep regular hours. That’s a struggle for independent restaurants, they have less money to stay open late every day, but if you don’t stay open late consistently patrons become unsure about your hours.
However, given the staff were close-knit and loved each other, we didn’t mind sitting around talking until closing time. I can’t remember much of the conversation but Beckie had brought in a historical fiction novel, based on World War I. Being an military history expert she hit me with nonstop questions, and since I liked the sound of my own voice I responded with enthusiasm.
Sometimes I wondered if I should’ve been a history teacher, particularly at the university level. It would’ve been fun to teach niche topics like military history or counterinsurgency, but often professors get stuck with things they don’t like… like boring Canadian history for example. Then there would be the entitled students, helicopter parents, the corrosive influence of the culture wars, and worst of all administration duties. No, I didn’t have the patience, demeanour, and frankly professionalism to be a professor. That and back then I hadn’t quit drinking and the world didn’t need another drunk university teacher who liked younger women.
At some point a friend of Beckie’s came in and she would be our last customer for the evening. Her name was Kelsey.
***
I greeted Kelsey the same way I do with every woman: With a soft handshake, relaxed eye contact, and a mild smile. My initial impression of her was lukewarm. She was decent looking, kind, and soft spoken. She was also blond, blue eyed, and 6 feet 6 inches tall, making her a 1980s Optimus Prime action figure taller than me. I’m 99% sure she was of Swedish descent and perhaps that explains her modest, easygoing personality. That gave her bonus points as too many girls in the bar industry, especially the hot ones (who know they’re hot) lack humility and introspection.
She sat at the bar next to Beckie, who had just ended her shift. They both ordered beer and they would keep drinking until we closed. I don’t recall much of the conversation 8 years later as it was usually the two of them reminiscing and most of the time I was closing the bar. But I remember Kelsey was friendly enough with me to suggest potential interest and Beckie had my back with compliments. She told Kelsey I was intelligent, educated, and easygoing. I remember overhearing this and telling them both that only two out three of those were true and they laughed (I was being serious).
Either way, I started talking to Kelsey more and she seemed authentic, well travelled, and actually had hobbies. But she was also three years older than me and I’ll be honest I tend to like younger women. Or more accurately… they tend to like me for some reason. Maybe it’s because women in their 30s generally don’t want to settle down with a bartender, or I could seem immature for my age (as I joked around alot and didn’t always take life so seriously).
So it tended to be girls in their 20s who were into me more but before you think I sought them out, they usually came to me. After all Kailey was 10 years younger, my fiancé is 8 years younger, and most girls I’ve been with have been at least 5 years younger. Poor me right?
Anyway, by the time I closed down the bar Beckie and Kelsey had drank at least 4 beers each. This would be enough to overwhelm the average woman, but for a 6 foot 6 inch woman Kelsey was more than okay. Before we left the piano bar I had a staff beer at sat with her. By then I was interested enough to take make a move on her but I proceeded with caution, wondering if the group would move on to another location for more drinks.
Beckie and Julie likely sensed my intentions are suggested we went to my favourite pub downtown. Kelsey agreed so we piled into mine and Julie’ cars, as we had only one drink each so we could drive there.
***
Our time at the pub remains blurry for me. Besides the heavy drinking that night I was too busy thinking about how to make a move on Kelsey. I do remember Julie giving the bartender shit for his terrible service. He turned around, then looked down to see a short, read headed rooster woman chew him out. The bartender basically ignored her, went back to the bartop, and waited for her to return to our table. We all had a good laugh, as Julie never hesitated to speak her mind or call people out.
The four of us were there for at least 90 minutes to two hours and the drinks kept coming. I could tell things were going well for me as Kelsey got closer to me, let me put my hand on her leg, and Beckie and Julie kept smiling at us. Both of them also kept finding excuses to leave the table to give us alone time. They were both social butterflies, unlike me, and found enough guys and tables to converse with.
I’m unsure what Kelsey and I talked about but I know it wasn’t awkward or forced. I think we were actually pretty honest with each other: About life, dating experiences, hopes and disappointments, etc. Maybe it was because we were both in our mid-30s, had seen enough of life, and tired of all the games men and women inflict upon each other, that we just meshed well.
We also weren’t shy about our attraction, with her complimenting my looks and being comfortable enough to let me rub her back and neck softly. By then Julie and Becky told us they were leaving and Kelsey said her place was nearby. We stayed a few more minutes, paid our bills, and planned to leave.
But before we left the bartender wanted to buy us a shot, I can’t remember why. I was tempted but had drank enough and remembered I was getting my blow box taken off my car the next day. So just before I took the shot I said “no thank you” and we left.
On the way out the staff and regulars were all smirks as I walked out with a girl notably taller than myself. However, it wasn’t so much that Kelsey was so tall as I was walking out with a girl versus the many disastrous dates I had at the pub. Word to the wise, it’s better to meet women at coffee shops, university, or even church (or so I’ve heard).
***
We got to Kelsey’s and while she had suggested we go there she was initially shy. So I got close to her slowly, touched her cautiously, and we made out gently. Until I lightly pushed her against the door and we got a bit more aggressive. But I quickly ran out of energy and realized I was too… inebriated to perform. Kelsey didn’t encourage me to escalate further either so we agreed to end the evening.
I wished her well, left, and walked home within 20 minutes. When I got there I looked at the clock… I think it was 1230 to 1 a.m. My appointed to remove the blow box was in 9 hours and I did the mental math to see if I’d be able to pass the breathalyzer by then. My experience said yes, but I drank alot of water and ate enough carbs so I’d at least not be hungover the next day. I crashed soon after… hoping to get enough sleep for the ordeal next day.
***
Around 10 a.m. I woke up, feeling well rested and had no hungover. “Ha,” I thought, “I had beaten Mr. Booze again.” All I had to do was get dressed, drive to the workshop, and get the infernal blow box removed. I gargled water to make sure any remaining traces of alcohol wouldn’t be in my mouth and went to the garage.
After entering my car I blew into the breathalyzer confidently. Big mistake! After a brief hesitation it rang out with the warning of death. My blood turned cold. “Oh fuck,” I thought. There was more booze left in my system than I realized. I only had one more chance to pass the test before it shut down for 24 hours, and then the blow box would legally have to remain in my car for another three months. The timer said I had 5 minutes until the next test.
I ran into the house, found an open bag of stale chips, and downed a quarter of the bag. That took at least two minutes. Then I gargled 3 cups of mouth wash and chewed 6 pieces of gum. That took another two minutes. Finally, I downed two and half pints of water… bringing the last glass along as I ran back to the car. The blow box beeped… telling me it was time for the last and only test I had left.
This time I blew into the breathalyzer with less assurance. I felt like the Australian officer at the end of the Gallipoli, who shakes just before blowing the whistle that sent hundreds of men over the trenches to their certain deaths. The box registered my breath, and made the terrifying noises that signalled there was uncertainty I’d pass the test. After a tense 6 seconds I hear a “ding” and felt instant relief. It was green and I was free to drive.
However, there are often additional tests when you drive, at random intervals, so I jumped into the car and drove like hell to the workshop. I was lucky as I got to the parking lot in time and found a spot before another test came. I’ve never felt so glad to turn off my car. I had won… despite how much I had drank the other night, I’d beaten the system.
As I passed my keys to the attendant who would take off the blow box I allowed myself a brief smile. I remembered about the shot the bartender had offered before I left the bar. While I would have generally accepted it, I had rightly refused this time.
Because had I not my alcohol level would’ve been over the limit, I would’ve failed the second test, and I’d be stuck with the box for another three months. Sometimes you just get lucky.