A Good Samaritan pulls up to a car

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Some years ago, my wife and I hosted a twenty-fifth anniversary party for the Captain of our fire station and his wife. It was held at our home on a Saturday afternoon, in Burlingame, located on a quiet and lovely street.

For an anniversary celebration, it was a pretty darn good party. Twenty-something firemen and their wives were sucking down Les’ booze on a warm summer day. We used to have a saying about those kinds of events, “The booze was flowin' and the girls were glowin'.” It was a great time.

A little later in the day, one of the couples had now crossed the compatibility line and stepped outside to continue with their connubial discourse. I could hear the verbal battle from my kitchen while amongst the festival continuum. I thought that this deserves some investigation so I went to my front lawn to witness the verbal fisticuffs going on.

There they were, a formerly, happily married couple; now having a loud verbal, spirit generated drawdown on my front lawn, on a Saturday afternoon, in front of my neighbors. Good golly, what was I to do? I responded to the front lawn and asked if they could try not to outshout one another, after all, I lived there and invited them in to celebrate with fresh coffee and anniversary cake. “Nay, nay,” responded the husband, “I’m taking her home.” “God bless you,” I whispered to myself as they drove down the street; still wondering how the husband was going to safely negotiate his drive across the bay without further verbal fisticuffs or a police detainer. Once the couple left, the party ambled on to a reasonable conclusion, everyone smiling, and no one arguing.

The next day I was in the firehouse working with the husband who was his jolly self, thanking me for the party invitation, the good time and apologizing for the ruckus conducted on my front lawn. “No problem,” I responded, I’m just happy that you made it home. You did go straight home didn’t you?” He responded, “I did make it home ok, but there was a slight interruption. My wife never wants to relinquish the right of having the last thing to say; so she says, as we're driving on Highway 101 near the Candlestick Causeway,’ I think that I should drive, you are too drunk to drive, everybody knows that.” He responded, ‘I may be drunk, but I am the only one with a driver’s license,’ thinking that now I have the last word. I was wrong. She replied, “I may not have a driver’s license, but I know that we have had a flat tire for about a mile.” “Drat,” I think, she is right about the tire and she got the last word in again.”

He continues on, “I pulled over to the highway shoulder which at the Causeway is tilted towards the Bay at quite an angle. It’s my right rear tire so at least I’m not in danger of being struck by a car but I am in danger of rolling into the bay. I bent over to check the tire and my liquid balance shifted to where I make a face plant onto the dirtiest place on earth. I recover and try again only to find myself falling and making headway toward the Bay chill. I was stopped by a rock.  On my third attempt, I was careful to use a hand to steady myself and was inspecting the tire damage when I heard a car pull up behind me. "Uh, oh", I thought, "it’s the wino wranglers, booze patrol (also known as the CHP); but it wasn’t. It was a citizen, who, when he got out of his car, mentioned that it looked like I was having a little trouble. “It looks like you were a tumbler or a wrestler at one time, judging by the act that I have been witnessing while driving up the highway; but now that I’m up close and personal, I can sense that is not the case,” as he turned aside from the distilled exhalation coming out of me. “How about if I give you a hand partner?” he announced. 

My first response was no I’m fine as I offered him the wrong hand to shake with; not realizing the depths of my non-sobriety. He asked me to pop the trunk and before I could get my hands off it, he had removed the hub cap and was removing the lug nuts. In no time he had the car jacked up, bad tire off, the good tire on, lug nuts on, hub cap on and the car lowered back to the terrafirma that had formerly been my landing area. He even put the tools and tire in the trunk for me. I couldn’t thank him enough. I reached in my pocket for some money to offer him when he asked me what I was doing. “Well,” I began, in my whiskey toned breath, “I have to do something for you for all the help that you’ve given me; I have to do something for you.” He replied, “Do you want to do something for me, friend; something that will make me feel more at ease?

How about giving me a ten minute head start down the highway?”

 **the above story happened in the 80s, the poster and recapper does not condone drunk driving**

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