One of my early acts of rebellion was to buy my own car.
Until then, my father, a master mechanic and practical protective parent had chosen every vehicle I drove. His selections were dependable, sensible, and completely ‘unflirtatiousable’. Functional? Absolutely. Fun? Not a chance.
George changed that.
We were dating when he helped me buy my first my-choice car. George was a mechanic too, but young…and my long-term safety barely factored into his thinking when he spotted the car I had already fallen in love with, at a small-town auction.
There it was.
A black Trans Am.
Slick. Confident. Shimmering under fluorescent warehouse lights.
I could see my future immediately… cruising the highway (never to be late for work again), creeping dramatically slow across the gravel parking lot at the baseball diamonds for practice, or casually driving past an ex-boyfriend’s house…the one who had dumped me.
It had a T-roof.
One winter Friday night, shortly thereafter, George, his sister Jenna, and I packed the Trans Am for a party. I had a newly acquired treasure that I carefully tucked among the beer and wine, wrapped, padded, and placed like a sommelier smuggling fine art.
It was a bottle was Crème de Cassis.
My first taste of this liqueur had been a year earlier, in a French cocktail called a Kir Royal….an après-ski refreshment while skiing in the Swiss-French Alps. We were warming up in a chalet on the slopes of Mont Blanc when my deeply tanned French ski instructor clinked my glass and said,
“À votre santé, Miss Canada.”
My new title probably came from my accent, not the all-pink, puffy marshmallow snowsuit I wore to survive my inevitable wipeouts.
Crème de Cassis was the heart of the Kir Royal, and soon the drink became essential. Before skiing. After skiing. Each sip improved my confidence, my speed, my style. Before long, the excessive pink padding felt unnecessary. Constricting.
When I had returned to Canada, I searched everywhere for Crème de Cassis…in my town, neighbouring towns, the city. No one had heard of it. It seemed it did not exist on this side of the Atlantic. Then Jenna, fresh home from Paris surprised me with a bottle of this luxurious, blackcurrant liqueur. My bottled memory of Europe.
It was this bottle that I ever so carefully packed it into the trunk. Despite the trunk load of alcohol, Jenna, with an indecisive palate, insisted on a stop at the small-town liquor store.
George and Jenna loaded their purchases, saving one drink for the road…illegal then and now. And of course, a slick black Trans Am in the 1980s came equipped with invisible police magnets.
Two blocks later, flashing lights filled my rear-view mirror.
The officer approached the car. George and Jenna tried to subtlety hide their drinks but failed miserably when we were asked to step out of the car. The open bottles were spotted, followed by the universal sigh of disappointment by the officers. I was placed in the cruiser for my first and only breathalyzer. I passed of course. I was the designated driver.
That didn’t stop the police from confiscating everything.
Everything.
Including my Crème de Cassis.
Jenna, newly graduated from law school and brimming with righteous fury, began scribbling badge numbers. Back in the car, I sulked, quietly respectful of authority, devastated and mourning the loss my French liqueur.
Yes, we’d broken the law. I could accept the ticket. But taking that bottle? Where was the justice?
At twenty-three, a small loss such as this can feel catastrophic. My berry jackpot in a glass bottle was gone.
I pulled away from the curb, heading back to the liquor store. We decided to start over.
“Stop,” George demanded. “Let me out.”
My anxiety spiked. What was he doing? He got out of the car and strode back to the cruiser, bent to the window, and started talking.
And talking.
And talking.
We waited. My heart pounded. Was this date going to end up behind bars? At long last I saw the cruiser door open.
The giant officer stepped out, he went to the trunk and retrieved…
My bottle!!
He approached my window, leaned in, and said, “That’s the biggest sob story I’ve ever heard. Maybe instead of reporting us, you can send us a Christmas card.”
He handed me back my Crème de Cassis.
I thanked him…genuinely stunned.
What I didn’t know at the time, George was showing signs of a gifted contrarian and would later prove to be a master. Debating with George was like untangling Christmas lights in the dark. Eventually, you give up…not because you’re wrong, but for self-preservation. He was a bulldog with a bone, armed with relentless persistence and an impressive ability to exhaust people with… je ne sais quoi.
Anyone who has ever tried to argue with George knows the futility. These officers hadn’t known that.
Looking back, I don’t know what George said. I suspect the officers simply realized the fastest path back to their life of policing involved surrendering the bottle.
Or maybe they wanted to help a young man do something nice for his girlfriend.
Ironically, the Crème de Cassis sat unopened in my cabinet for years, a trophy preserving snowy European memories, police goodwill, and the sweetness of persistence.
And that Christmas, two officers received a most grateful and festive Christmas card.