Jill Lipton

Word Count 1754

Lauren and I were in Boone, North Carolina on a girl’s weekend. Or a woman’s, or maybe people’s weekend, the complexity of this escape’s definition being, I suppose, part of the problem. All we knew is that we’d both wanted a break from Florida, a place each of us had moved to from Manhattan—she ten years earlier to help out family, me four years ago as part of my husband’s retirement. While we lived on opposite sunshine state coasts, we seemed equally out of water, she in a 55+ Boynton Beach community, me in a Naples gated golf community, two city pals with liberal values challenged, cultural and curiosity yearnings unmet, missing diversity and freedom.

For years we’d reenergized by alternating cross-state visits to each other, but decided it was time to switch it up with a short trip. We chose North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, Asheville, the gateway to art and bluegrass, hiking and BBQ, and a quick, cheap flight for us both.

I couldn’t wait to shake off Florida. There, away from “the man,” or at least my now-retired golfing man, and an abundance of mahjong-playing, lunching ladies, I could regain perspective, get balance, and reconnect with free-to-be-you-and-me Jill.

Not that my man understood why I needed to get away from “paradise,” as the other wives (yes, I live on Noah’s Ark) seemed very content in our bubble.

When we picked up our rental car, the sassy agent eyed us and said, “You girls are going to have a gooood time in this ride.” The key to her only available vehicle, a bright orange box of a KIA Soul, hung from one of her long, purple, jewel-encrusted nails. With Florida license plates, it felt like a misshapen version of our state fruit. This was a minor concern relative to liberation, as was being called “girls,” especially given her conspiratorial context.

We hit the road, music blasting, Lauren at the wheel, me navigating, for our joyous three-hour trip deep into the mountains, passing charming towns like Flat Creek, Blowing Rock, Banner Elk, even a pitstop at the Penland art colony—arbitrary-seeming rules, men in pastels and conservatism temporarily in our rear-view mirror. Baby, we were born to run. Or to be wild. Or to take it easy. It was all good.

We arrived at our hipster motel in the college town of Boone about 6pm and got ready to hit the tiny city’s downtown for dinner. Given our long day, we switched rental car roles–I drove, Lauren navigated. I ignored her instruction to make a left turn, which I knew was the wrong way out of the motel parking lot, but despite my instincts followed her next instruction, which sent us in the opposite direction of our destination. One U-turn and a few detours later, we arrived at the restaurant, our two-mile trip transformed into a five-mile journey. And that was in daylight. One thing I hadn’t left behind: a bad navigator.

Over the course of a two-hour meal of sushi, each of us sipping a Manhattan in honor of our hometown, we planned our next two days.

When we got back to our car, now fondly nicknamed Big Orange, I asked, “You good with directing us back?”

“Yes, got it this time!” she held up her phone.

After a few blocks, though, she said, “Do you know if we’re going north?”

“No, but do we need to be going north?”

“I don’t know, but it seems like that would be good to know.”

She made my husband look like a homing pigeon.

“Should I pull over to help figure out the directions?” I asked.

Twirling her phone, not realizing the map twirled, too, she replied, “No, I’ve got it.” Then, like a constantly rerouting Siri, she said, “Make a left. No, right. No, wait, it is a left.”

With her every direction, I dutifully put on my blinker, checked the mirrors, and changed lanes. Finally, I decided to pull over.

I saw the bright spinning siren lights following us off the road before I heard them, and once parked, watched an officer get out of the police car now parked behind us.

Optimist I am, my first thought was, great, he can help us with directions.

Pessimist I should have been, he instead held a flashlight to my face, as I struggled to disengage the child protection lock on Big Orange’s window.

“Do you know your headlights aren’t on?” he asked.

I had not. I’d assumed the lights were automatic, and downtown Boone was so well lit, even now this wasn’t even apparent.

“No. I’m sorry, it’s a rental and it’s so bright out here,” I replied.

“Yes, but did you know you were changing lanes a lot?”

"It was my fault,” Lauren held up her phone, showing the spinning map, unfortunately giggling a little. I sighed. I loved her but she wasn’t helping the situation.

“I’m not talking to you,” he directed towards her—and “Did you have a drink tonight?” to me.

“Yes, one but…”

“License and registration.”

“He can’t be serious,” Lauren whispered as I pulled out my license and she got the rental car registration.

“And, get out of the car,” he continued.

He was very serious.

I tentatively got out, weapons and uniforms outside my comfort zone, as the officer asked me to perform three sobriety tests, which I’ve since discovered are: 1. The Horizontal Gaze Nystagmus, where I needed to smoothly follow his finger; 2. The Walk and Turn Test, requiring heel-to-toe steps while counting, a graceful turn, then return; and 3. The One Leg Stand, choice of foot.

Unfortunately, I had problems with each one. Without my glasses (which he insisted I remove despite my argument that I was very nearsighted), I couldn’t follow his blurry finger. Without my arms for stability, forbidden on tests 2 and 3, I listed due to my inner ear issues and osteopenia, the adorable-sounding but balance-challenging gateway condition to osteoporosis.

I stood waiting for his verdict, now delayed by the arrival of a second car. Really, back-up? As a petite, pretty female officer got out, I noted the original two officers puff up, making me feel like this was part police action, part date.

Seeming more focused on her than me, the officer said, “I’m not convinced you’re unimpaired. Will you submit to a portable breath test?”

I paused. While I was confident I’d pass, by now I was worried about the integrity of their testing, and whether the test would land on my permanent record. I also concluded that I’d lose respect for the female officer if she dated him.

“I’d like to talk to my friend and call my husband. He’s a lawyer and I want to understand my options,” I replied.

“Neither is allowed,” he returned, “but I can tell you your options: you don’t have to take the test.”

He paused, then added with clear delight, “But, if you don’t, I’ll have to take you in.”

Not looking to pull a My Cousin Vinny and spend a night in jail, I blew, passing well below the threshold, proving I was nearly cold sober and clearly cold uncoordinated.

“So, we can go?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “you still feel impaired to me and my judgment is the final word.” I was experiencing a depressing version of “something in the way you move,” and a man deeming himself law and order.

“Your friend can drive if she passes.”

“Will my asthma impact the test?” Lauren asked, always liking a prop, now showing her inhaler.

“No,” he replied. She too passed, and we were released with a warning, for what we weren’t sure.

As we got in the car, Lauren, perhaps thinking of NYC’s police motto: Professionalism, Courtesy and Respect, asked if we could get an escort to the motel to avoid getting lost again.

“Either you’re capable or impaired. I’d suggest you move before I change my mind,” he replied.

I navigated as she drove back.

The rest of our trip was a muted version of our original plan. We still hiked, checked out galleries, ate BBQ, even listened to bluegrass under a full blue moon, but the joy in our journey was tempered by sadness, amped up by rage and, for me, included a little shame on the side, which I was trying to understand.

First, we questioned the process, considering whether you should be required to do something you couldn’t do on an average day—and if the officer should have known the difference between two lost people in an idiosyncratic rental car vs. drunk drivers. We were sure we’d experienced abuse of power, ageism, sexism, and “harassment-lite,” if there’s such a thing.

We then questioned our responses. Should I have declined the test? Should she have filmed the scene? What would’ve happened if I said, “I’ll tell you what’s impaired: the system.”

Lauren was able to move on relatively quickly, ready to plan our next adventure by the end of this trip. But she was primarily a bystander.

I’d wanted to escape my current world and limitations, but maybe it was like they say, wherever you go, there you are.

Back home, unable to shake my new soundtrack, “I fought the law, and the law won,” I needed to process what happened, and decide what was next.

I started with the facts–it turned out you could drive our KIA Soul through the procedural holes in the officer’s actions. Glasses don’t need to be removed when you have bat-like blindness. I could have consulted Lauren or my husband, Charles. And Lauren’s asthma could have meant a false positive. Then there was the impossible-to-ignore bonus fact: how lucky we were that the worst of it was humiliation.

When I shared my experience with Charles, his kindly-intended suggestions were to take Pilates and stay home, both of which unfortunately felt like my life in Florida: a bit self-serving and too small. Yet, ironically, he was also partly correct.

There were core issues that I needed to address—though just not only in a gym. I’ve since drafted a letter to the Boone Chief of Police. While I’m not sure I’ll get satisfaction from an organization whose website grandiosely asserts, “We strive to hire the best people we can find from the human race,” it’s a start.

And when it comes to escaping a small world, maybe North Carolina was simply too Florida-adjacent. If I really wanted to reconnect to my bold, I needed to go big or stay home.

After a long corporate marketing career, Jill is now happily instead using her words as a writer. Her work has been published in the New York Times “Tiny Love Stories” (newspaper and book), the Boston Globe Magazine, Multiplicity Magazine and elsewhere. While she identifies as a New Yorker, since 2020 she’s been living in the state of Florida and sometimes denial. It can happen when you love a golfer.