Driving While Under The Influence Of Ice Cream

Welcome to day 2 of 30 Days of Writing, a creative writing challenge I thought up during an unmedicated moment. Today’s prompt is “Roadblock“. Enjoy, and don’t forget to link up at the end of this post if you’ve participated in today’s challenge!

Driving While Under The Influence Of Ice Cream

When I was 18 years old, something wonderful happened. Ben & Jerry’s ice cream came to Montreal.

ice cream cone, sundae, chocolate, chocolate ice cream, waffle cone, whipped cream

After cheese, ice cream is my favourite food.

I was in college at the time, with a full course load and extra hours of fieldwork, plus I had an extremely active social life (read: I spent a lot of time in bars getting drunk), but the lure of an employee discount was too strong.

I applied and got the job. The store is located in the heart of downtown Monteal, right on the corner of De Maisonneuve Boulevard and Crescent Street. Crescent Street is renowned for it’s bar scene. Besides all the ice cream I could eat, I was ecstatic at the idea that I’d be in the middle of all the action, and able to bar hop after work.

But nothing is ever perfect the way we imagine it to be, is it?

Don’t get me wrong, the ice cream was awesome; chocolate raspberry, Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia… hmmm. Heaven! But because of my college schedule, I never got any of the afternoon/evening shifts and always ended up starting later in the evening and working until one in the morning.

Which still would have left me plenty of time to visit a couple of the bars right around the corner from me, right? Except.

By the time I left work, I was covered in ice cream. Trust me, that’s not as hot and sexy as it sounds. I’m talking hours-old, dried up, smelly, crusty ice cream all over my clothes and halfway up my arms. I was in no state to go bar-hopping.

So I would go home, instead. And without fail, there was always a police roadblock set up to spot check for drunk drivers. goats crossing the road, goats, mountain goats, mountains, nanny goatsAfter a couple of weeks of the same cop pulling me over and asking me the same questions (where are you coming from, where are you going, have you been drinking…), I started getting a little annoyed.

One evening, tired and filthier than usual, I was stopped again at the roadblock by the same damn cop. He even gave the nod. You know, the nod you give to acknowledge that you recognize someone but don’t necessarily know them. And when he came up to my car, he used the more familiar “Ça va?”  (the English equivalent would be “Yo, s’up?”) instead of the “Comment allez-vous mademoiselle?” that one would expect.

It annoyed me.

So when he asked me where I was coming from, I told him I was coming from the strip club. He was nodding his head absently, not really paying attention and not realizing what I’d said. Then he asked me if I’d had any alcohol. I said yes. That did get his attention.

I told him that I’d had a bowl of Tennessee Mud ice cream, made with real Jack Daniels. A big bowl. Two scoops. He looked at me for a moment, smiled wryly and waved me off.

That was the last time I was stopped at the roadblock.

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