“My friend’s getting divorced, and he’s really drunk,” says the bartender as she leans through the passenger window. “Please don’t take advantage of him.” I glance over at the stumbling drunk being helped out the door. “I promise he won’t vomit.” Well, at least she can read my mind.
“Can he talk?”
The guy laughs and burbles out something that ends in “talk.” I look back to the bartender, and she smiles, and she’s cute, and I shrug and ask the guy where he’s headed. A muffled “53rd and Powell” comes back, and that’s enough to take the trip.
When we get to 52nd and Powell I ask him for further directions and receive no response. I look back, and am unsurprised to see his eyes rolled back into his head. I pull into the nearby Plaid Pantry and rouse him with a gentle shake.
“So, where we going?”
“53rd and Powell,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, we’re there. Now what?”
“Take me to 53rd and Powell.” The conversation continues on in this vein for a few minutes before I give up and call the bartender. She doesn’t know the address. His driver’s license is from another state.
“Just let me out here,” he keeps saying, and I really don’t want to until I notice a large blossom of dampness spreading across the crotch of his jeans. That’s 50 bucks and a hell of a clean-up, so I finally take his credit card and leave him to his fate. He refuses to take a receipt.