The Bottle and the Damage Done

Late yesterday afternoon, Erin was at the house and loading up the baby into the car to head home. Annette was helping. I came walking outside and down the driveway and noticed a guy walking his bike along the opposite side of the street. He was walking swiftly, furtively, but his gait was unsteady and downright wobbly at times. He looked like he was on a mission but it was almost like the bike was holding him up. I pointed him out to Annette and Erin and they looked up and watched with me as he continued along. As he got to a driveway off to our right, he did a big wobble, tripped and went face down into the asphalt. And stayed. His legs were tangled in the bike and he struggling to free himself, but he was failing.

Meanwhile I was hustling over there to help the guy. To be honest, he had looked a bit like your basic drunk person but in a way he also appeared like he might just somebody with a disability - maybe some kind of palsy. So I didn't know what I was going to find when I got to him. I arrived on the scene and pulled the bike off of him. He then rolled over and sat up slowly. I said, "Are you alright, man??" He looked up at me with horrendously bloodshot eyes, and said, almost cheerfully, "Yeah, I'm just drunk, that's all."

Well, OK, now I knew what I was dealing with. He had grass and gravel ground into his knees, like this wasn't the first face-plant he'd done on his little sojourn. So I asked him where he was going. He said home. Where is that, I said. Oh...State Road....or Jackson Road. OK, so, near State and Jackson, I ask? Yeah....near 250, he says. He's given me three road names in the course of about 20 seconds, and I figure he really doesn't know where he's going.

I said, well, if you think you can direct me, I can drive you home. He seemed to like that idea. I told him I'd go get my car, if he promised to just sit right here in the driveway (he hadn't stood up yet). Can you stay put? He looked up at me again and said very obediently, yeah, I can do that.

I walked back to my driveway, and offloaded a bike from my trunk that I had just picked up at the bike shop, all the while keeping an eye over my shoulder on my new charge. He seemed content to just sit. I think he was literally blind drunk and couldn't really see all the way to where I was, so he was just trusting me to come back. Which I did.

I stopped the car right alongside of him, got out and stood him up. He wobbled some more but gathered himself. As I loaded the bike in he started thanking me and telling me what a good guy I was. I was mostly hoping this was not going to become a wild goose chase trying to find his home. Then he started to cry. This made him more unsteady so I told him to just get into the car and sit, which he did, slowly.

I finished with the bike and hopped in. As I turned the car around he started to name off the neighbor's names, correctly, so I realized he must actually have lived nearby. He said he'd been in Webster 35 years and that he was 44 years old. He talked about going to the middle school as we drove by it, and graduating in 1983. The more he talked, the more lucid he sounded. He had no motor skills at that point whatsoever, but his speech and thought processes were surprisingly clear.

I asked him where he'd been today and he said "The Coach", the sports bar in the Village. They apparently don't believe in limiting their customers' intake. If he'd have gotten into a car and drove when he left there, someone would likely have died.

He seemed to be a fairly kind soul, continuing to thank me and call me a good guy. And lament that he he can't function very well when he drinks. He directed me to his place, which was indeed on Jackson Road and I have been driving by it forever. It has a nice red barn that I've always envied, with huge piles of firewood, presumably for sale. I pulled in and we got out. More wobbly thank yous. As I leaned his bike up against a woodpile, I was going to ask him why he was riding his bike to a bar, then it dawned on me that he probably lost his license so I swallowed that question, not wanting to upset him again. But, too late, he started crying again anyway. So I told him to go in and get some food and some sleep, which he promised he would do.

I left him in his driveway, a broken-looking, sad-sack of a guy who seemed to have a good heart but a bad addiction.