The Poking Device

Over the last 10 years I’ve traveled to stadiums near and far. If the gatekeepers at these stadiums were graded on how well they’ve checked my purse for contraband (booze, signs, umbrellas, air horns) I would give them a collective F+.  Generally I open my purse and they glance inside.  That's the entire purse checking process.

So on that fateful day in Lincoln - October 16, 2010 – I didn’t feel the need to think too far ahead about my plan to get booze into the stadium.

As Kacie, Debra and I meandered through the streets of Lincoln, we did have the foresight to hit up a liquor store. The general result of the pre-game liquor store is to acquire ‘boot-sized’ or ‘flask sized’ bottles of booze that can be carefully tucked into a game day boot and walked right into the stadium.

Lincoln, apparently anticipating our arrival, was not accommodating to my boots. The smallest bottle of acceptable liquor was roughly the size of a square shaped travel mug with a four inch neck. Ever the alcohol-optimist, I bought it.

This began an immediate string of bickering between me and Kacie. Kacie told me I couldn’t get it in. I became defiant and insisted I could. At different points we mocked one another to Debra, who caught in the middle, agreed that it was pretty big but that I am pretty clever.

Weaving through the day, I ended up buying a t-shirt, and, being the extremely clever girl that I am, wrapped the inappropriately sized Parrot Bay inside it and anchored it at the bottom of my purse. When it was time to examine my purse, I would hold it in the air from the bottom and open it up, therefore exposing a weightless purse with a t-shirt at the bottom.

As the day got longer and I grew less sober, I kind of forgot my brilliant game plan. When we rolled up to the ticket line, I plopped my purse down on the table and opened it up. At the sound of the sickening thud, I looked up and met my gatekeeper dead in the eye. Then I saw it. The big poking device.

Uh oh.

I’d only heard of the big poking device. I’d never actually seen one being used at a college football game. Now here I was, with a purse full of booze, looking straight at one as it started to poke at my purse. My hands got a little clammy.

“What was that?” he asked me, prodding the metal stick of no fun around in my classic black Coach bag.

“Oh, my purse is just really heavy” I replied, completely drunkenly nonchalant. I got this, I thought.

Poke…poke…thunk. “What’s in the t-shirt?”

Sweat… sweat….sweat. “Oh, that’s just a t-shirt I bought.”  Yes, Beth, good.  Go with a nonsensical answer not particularly pertaining to the actual question, but kind of along the same lines.

As this is happening, Debra and Kacie are already inside. Debra asked Kacie “What do we do?” To which she replied “we give her five minutes. She’s got her ticket and her phone.” Sisterly love was not at Memorial Stadium at that moment. Of course based on past experience (BIG XII Championship, 2001) this should not have surprised me. Regardless, I’m sure Kacie and Debra had the utmost faith that my booze and I would be getting into the stadium that day.

Thunk…thunk…poke. “What’s in the t-shirt.”

Panic…panic…panic . “Okay, it’s booze. Can I just go in? Please” I figured lying at this point would not help, since we both knew that we both knew what I had in that purse, so I went for pleading in my best Texas drawl.

“Sorry ma’am, I can’t let you in here with that. You can go over there and drink it, then come back in. Or you can throw it away and come back in.” Both of these options were enunciated by him pointing with his giant poking device to a) a clump of people downing booze and b) a large trashcan full of discarded booze.

Pleading look.

Shaking head.

“Okay, fine”

I huffed over to the clump of people downing booze. “Hey Huskers! Cover me!” True to the kind and welcoming nature of the Nebraska fans, they did just that. As I squatted down and tried to maneuver my jeans over my knee, they made a tight circle around me. I don’t know how, but I got the bottle into my boot. It was precarious and obvious, but it was no longer in my purse. Thanks to the Care Bear’s circle of concealment, I once again had hope.

I popped back in line, limping carefully as to not disturb my boozeboot situation.

When I got the gatekeeper I put my purse down with a much less resounding thump. T-shirt over my shoulder, I looked up and found myself staring directly into the eyes of the gatekeeper with the poking device who had just sent me away.

Unsteady smile…sweat…Unsteady smile… "No more booze!”  Good Beth, good.  Just be all causal-like.  YOU GOT THIS!

Poke…amused half-smile….head shake…poke. “Enjoy the game, ma’am.”

A little too politely and way too crazy-eyed, I thanked him and limped on into the stadium, where Kacie and Debra were waiting for me.

In true little sister fashion, the first thing I could blurt out was “told you I could get it inside!” Classy, Beth. Classy. Of course, the gloating was short lived as I realized I had about 12 steps or 45 seconds before that Parrot Bay popped right out of my boot and on the concrete tunnel.

After managing to free the booze and find our seats, I further annoyed Kacie by screaming non-stop at every soda vendor that walked by. “SODA GUY” I would scream, arms flailing. “SODA GUY.” Kacie was about at the end of her rope.

Thank you, Soda Guy!

Still, as much as we may annoy each other, Kacie and I are instinctually protective of one another. When I finally snagged a SODA GUY and bought half his stock, the man behind me said in a slightly mocking tone “what, you got some hooch for that?” Kacie whipped around and looked him in the eye. “Yes,” she said calmly, not missing a beat. “Oh, cool.” The Husker replied.

Rolling her eyes, she accepted her spiked sprite and the past was forgotten.

But I learned a valuable lesson that day. Bring pre-planted, boot-sized booze only...because if I’m going to football stadium jail, Kacie and Debra will not come get me until after the game.