The Onion started on the major college campus in the town where I grew up. A high-school classmate went down to campus several times a week to take a college-level math class and he would bring back a stack of the latest edition. Back then the space-filling features (think: horoscopes) were a bit more...home-grown. A great laugh was always the Drunk Of The Week. Trolling State Street (the college bar strip) around last call, the reporter would find the drunkest person, stand them up against a wall, and take a picture. The prize was a free cab ride home, and the pictures were far better than Nick Nolte's mug shot.
I offer my own submission for Drunk(s) Of The Week because by the end, they were still drunk and I felt drunk. But no one was dead!
As I was driving home from pub trivia, I passed a person working on their bike on a dark sidewalk one block off the Interstate. I continued on for about a block until I acknowledged that karma comes back around and U-turned to check out if they needed help. It was a girl about my age and one crank-arm on her fixed gear bike was hanging at an unnatural angle. Still inside my vehicle, I asked if I could help or maybe give her a ride. She wanted to go either home or to the pedicab garage. "Ok, where's home?" She named a place at least 10 miles away. How you even get here from there on a fixed gear is beyond me. Pedicab garage it is!
We loaded her bike and her. Only then do I realize - smell! - that she is drunk. Her hands are covered in grease and her knees and elbows are covered in big scabs - which are now cracked and oozing! - indicative of skin scrapping on pavement. I found out she delivers sandwiches downtown on the now-inoperable bike, so I guess that makes sense?
Her friend then called and once I took over speaking into the phone using sentences that made sense, I discovered her friend was in a car nearby, coming to help. The friend arrived in a 2-seater with another person shotgun and two bikes on a 2-bike trunk rack. I decided not ask how my passenger and her bike were intended to fit.
A Chinese fire drill ensued, and somehow I ended up with a different passenger and a different bike in the back. She smelled less drunk and was not bleeding or greasy. I took her the less than 10 miles to her house.
As I drove home the only thing I could do was shake my head - to try and clear it! The whole thing seemed so surreal, like a bachlorette party bar crawl led by the drunk maid of honor.
The next morning I found a set of keys in my car.
I took them to the apartment where I had dropped my second passenger because that was my only point of contact. I found out they belonged to my first passenger, who somehow got home only to realize she couldn't get inside.
That is just one part of a night of which I wish I had pictures.