Brian was tired, not drunk. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they just smell his breath? Couldn’t they just listen to his speech to tell it wasn’t a drinking problem, but that it was an overworked almost to death problem?
Brian put his hand on his head, then patted his stomach. He’d seen sobriety tests before, mostly on TV. Usually they were as simple as walking a straight line or standing on one leg or saying the alphabet backwards, but this was ridiculous he thought as he held his hands out in front of him and turned them palms up.
One police officer was watching him intently while making notes on a clipboard. The officer who’d taken his license was sitting inside the car, probably checking his record, but Brian wasn’t worried about that because there was nothing there, two speeding tickets in ten years, no accidents, nothing else.
A car from the other direction honked as its headlights lit up the interior of the police car. Brian wasn’t sure, but it looked like the officer there was aiming a digital camera at him.
“Okay, okay,” the officer with the clipboard was saying, “Very good. That’s the Macarena now how about the Tuscaloosa.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That one usually gets some pretty funny stuff from the drunks.”
“ So, you know I’m not drunk. Then, please let me go home. I’m really, really tired.”
“Yeah, sure, sure. I’ll see it when I believe it.”
“C’mon officer, please.”
“Just one more. How ‘bout the Hully Gully.”