I was 10 minutes away from my mom's house when I saw the flashing blues behind me. I knew I had to be both subtle and quick, but this isn't easy when repositioning a 24 ounce can of Miller beer in an open-top Jeep Wrangler that isn't. Deep breaths, I thought. Control your heartbeat and you'll be okay.

The can of beer shouldn't have been in the car with me. I told myself to throw it out when I passed a waste basket. It was warm and flat and I wasn't drinking it, therefore, it shouldn't be there. Oh, and also because it's illegal.

Sadly, I'm no stranger to drinking and driving. In all senses, I'm a terrible culprit. I both get drunk and drive, and drink liquor as I'm driving. To my credit, I usually don't drink liquor behind the wheel if I'm already drunk. Buzzed, maybe; drunk, no. I should also say that I'm not proud of any of this. Thinking about it makes me cringe because I can hear my mother's voice: "Please promise me, whatever you do, NO drinking and driving."

Earlier that evening, I had two cocktails before heading to improv class and poured myself one for the road (see above). It was during class when I bought the fated can of Miller Genuine Draft and after when I loaded it and myself into the Jeep. I had to run an errand to my mom's house. Beer seemed like something I should want to have, even though it wasn't. I figured I'd keep it anyway in case I changed my mind.

Here's what I think I know about DUI offences in Illinois:
- Open intoxicant in the car is an automatic DUI
- Insurance costs rise astronomically
- Driving license is suspended for at least six months
- Violators are arrested and put in the pokey until they post bail
- The cost of court, legal and criminal fees on top of mandatory counseling and driving classes are enough to put me deep in the red

"Do you know why we stopped you tonight?" The officer was a white-bread dude not much older than me. He had fish lips. Turns out I blew through a flashing red light. I could've sworn it was yellow. That's what I get for driving color blind and near sighted.

He took my documentation and returned to his prowler. While he was there, I figured I'd try to get the beer into better position. In the process, I knocked it over. Roughly ten ounces of flat, warm Miller Genuine Draft settled into the already putrid floor mat.

"Been drinking tonight?" White-bread asked when he returned. "I had a beer at Improv class." I eked. A new voice sounded to the right. It was White-bread's partner, a black dude grinning ear to ear. He, like me, finds people with something to hide amusing. I must've looked a laugh riot. "You sure you only had one?" His grin somehow got wider; I suspected hooks and fishing line were somehow involved. "You don't have any beer in the car, right?"

They ran plates and numbers and even though all of them came back dirty (Thanks, Chicago Auto Imports: You make buying a used car FUN!), they were satisfied the car belonged to me when I produced a hand-written receipt (?). "You sure you haven't had more than one beer," White-bread asked. "Well, yeah." "You got the PBA?" I assumed this meant personal breathalyzer something. Officer Grins said he didn't. "Well, I'm gonna let you off tonight. I should ask you to step out of the vehicle, but your eyes look okay. Call your dealer and get your registration straightened out and watch that light." "And lay off the beer," Grins added.

I tried to run off as much as the adrenaline as I could before I got home. I woke up Collins and told her everything, but it didn't make me feel any better. She didn't hate me for having beer in the car -- she didn't even mention that she thought I was an idiot for it, though she's too smart not to reach that conclusion. She listened well and gave me a relieved hug and sent me to the showers.

I rolled into bed. She put her hand on my back. "Your skin is nice and cool," she said. And her hand felt so soft and warm there where it was. She had honey hands, and I liked them. And I thought, "If I had been arrested, I'd never have this. So what the fuck am I doing?" I knew exactly what I was doing: The eight-step conga glide, with my eyes closed, head thrown back and hands placed firmly on the slender hips of lady luck. I look ridiculous but I feel so good.

Here's what I know about being lucky:
- Never feel bad about it
- Never feel too good about it
- If you got it, keep it

It's that last part that's messing me up. The only way to know that you have luck is to give her a little push. An obvious shove is, of course, out of the question. The firm push (aka drinking and driving) is getting to be hard on the old nerves. But easing my touch, even a little, seems like a foul, disrespectful thing to do. People put faith in all sorts of things. My old girl has come through for me my whole life. I fear that she'll sense even the most gentle reluctance and her momentum will carry her away from me. I'll stumble forward doing the same stupid steps, but alone and into a deep, unforgiving darkness.

Somebody flip the record. I didn't put these shoes on for nothing.