The road was empty, the kind of empty that feels almost forgiving—no traffic, no witnesses, just long stretches of asphalt glowing under tired streetlights. That’s why he thought he was fine. That’s why he didn’t worry when his tires drifted a little too close to the line, then a little past it. A harmless swerve, he told himself. Nothing to see here.
The flashing lights in his rearview mirror told a different story.
The officer approached calmly, the way they always do, but the smell hit him before a word was spoken. Alcohol—sharp, unmistakable. “Step out of the vehicle, sir,” the officer said evenly.
The man complied, or tried to. His foot caught the curb. His body tilted. He laughed it off, throwing up his hands as if balance were optional. “I’m totally fine,” he insisted. “Just had a couple.”
The officer didn’t argue. He didn’t lecture. He simply nodded and began the tests.
“Walk in a straight line.”
The man focused hard, jaw clenched, arms out like a tightrope walker. Three steps in, he wobbled. Five steps in, he nearly toppled over. He stopped, frowned at the pavement, and shook his head. “This road’s crooked,” he declared, as if he’d cracked the case.
The officer sighed softly and moved on.
“Stand on one foot.”
The man lifted his foot, immediately began to sway, then dropped it with a huff. “I can’t do this barefoot,” he complained. “My balance depends on my shoes.”
Still no reaction. Still patience.
Finally, the officer looked at him and said, “Alright. Last test. Pass this one, and I’ll let you go.”
That got his attention.
The man straightened up, smoothed his shirt, and adopted an expression of sudden seriousness. This—this—was his moment. “Deal,” he said confidently.
“Use the words green, pink, and yellow in one sentence.”
Simple. Easy. Child’s play.
The man froze.
He stared at the night like it had just betrayed him. He squinted, scratched his head, muttered under his breath. Seconds passed. Then more. You could almost hear the gears grinding as he worked himself into a triumphant grin.
Finally, he looked up, proud as if he’d just delivered a masterpiece.
“The phone went green green, I pink it up, and the light turned yellow!”
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then the officer reached for his handcuffs.
The man had thought he could outsmart the moment. That one clever line could erase the smell on his breath, the stumble in his step, the danger he posed to every unseen driver who might have shared that road. He thought the test was a joke.
But it wasn’t.
It was a final chance—a simple sentence meant to reveal clarity, not comedy. And in that quiet click of metal closing around his wrists, the line between humor and hazard became unmistakably clear.
The road stayed empty.
The night stayed silent.
And the joke ended exactly where it should have—before something far worse could begin.
