Maybe I'm just callous, but the way I figure it, if you're drunk enough to pass out in the busy parking lot of the bar you got plastered in, you deserve the Darwin Award conferred by the tires rolling over your head.
My friend Rachel and her room/suitemates disagreed. They wanted to pick this guy up and take him home out of harm's way.
"Leave him be," I said. "Just drag him out the road maybe." After all, we'd only just gotten to the bar. Now the girls wanted to detour back to deliver charity to a victim of his own stupidity?
I was overruled, but I understood their position. It was the position of having been in that position before and being glad someone was in the position to help them. They wanted to pay the favor forward, even if the recipient would never be able to slur a "thank you."
The car was crowded on our way there, but even more so now with an additional occupant. Why some of us didn't just wait at the bar for the others to get back from taking Drunk Guy home is a mystery. Instead our charge occupied the passenger seat while I sat across the laps of the three girls in the back. We didn't even know how far we'd be traveling.
"Hey, buddy," Rachel said. She was driving. "Where do you live?"
The guy mumbled something. He was barely conscious to begin with, and the effort of trying to speak was all it took to put him under. They couldn't get him to repeat whatever it was he said. All anyone could decipher was "Oak." Guess what every apartment complex around the edge of campus was named? Oak-something. There was Oakmont, Oakhurst, Oak Lane, and so on. I have no idea how they arrived at a decision, but we headed to one of those possible destinations.
We had barely gotten on the road at this point when Drunk Guy reaches for the handle and gets the door to fly open. Granted, we're only doing about 15 MPH here since we're cutting through campus, but we're going around a turn at the time. His body is lurching forward and out the open door toward the pavement rushing past us below. From my lap-top vantage of being both elevated and pushed almost between the front seats, I reach over and grab the guy's collar to keep him from scraping his head across the curb.
"No, let him go," Rachel says. "He's gonna spew!"
Sure enough, that's why he was going for the handle. He somehow had the presence of mind to reach for it.
When he appeared to be finished, we reeled him back in and started again on our way. While I thought the door incident was a gold medal feat in the Drunk Olympics, what happened next was even more so.
See, I can't figure out most folks' car radio without giving it a quick look over, but as soon as Drunk Guy was back inside the car (after having been in it only a total of maybe three minutes at this point, most of which he was unconscious for), he reaches over, turns up the radio, then promptly passes out. Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles was on. We all looked at one another like, "Did he just do that?" Where Mr. Near-Death found this amazing reservoir of dexterity we'll never know. We couldn't interview him on this side of the finish line, so we just drove on.
We headed over to one of those Oaksomething apartment complexes and, seeing that none of his keys worked in the lock of the door he seemed to indicate belonged to him, we left his drunk, passed-out ass on the curb. Yep, you read that irony right: We left him in essentially the same fix as he started out in, his fate merely delayed until a little after 2am when the drunks came home from the bars and ran over him in their parking lot the same as they would have a couple hours earlier at the bar's parking lot.
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