The man with the long, white beard careens out of the dive bar

The man with the long, white beard careens out of the dive bar on Southeast Foster Road and into a parked car, his limbs jerking spasmodically.

I help him peel himself off of the beat-up Taurus’ hood and navigate his way into the backseat of my beat-up Crown Victoria, hoping for a short trip.

Which, thankfully, I get. Homeboy doesn’t live more than two miles away, but he wants me to stop at the 7-Eleven on 92nd Avenue, run in, and get him a 22 of Mickey’s.

As I pull out of the store’s parking lot, after having given him his beer, change, and receipt, he mutters that “this is a horrible idea.” I tell him that maybe it is, but he can just put the beer in the fridge and save it for tomorrow if that’s the case.

I pull into the driveway. He throws a wadded ball of bills at me from the backseat and growls that I should keep the change. Before I know it, he’s opened the door, taken a couple of lunging steps, and done a face-plant into his lawn.

I rush to get out of the car and sprint over to him.

“Leave me alone!” he screams. “This is what I do to myself!”

“Come on, man, we’re almost there,” I say. As I reach down to grab him, a fist flies up at me, barely missing my nose.

“Leave me alone!” he yells again.

As usual, I do the wrong thing. I do what I’m told.