12 beers, a car and crappy directions...

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The unmistakable stench of vomit and beer filled the air. I glanced over and saw him sprawled on the park bench. He looked positively messed. The twelve beers hadn't treated him so well.

I shook my head and glanced at my watch. Time to go. I was chosen to drive him back home because I was the only person headed that way. As I picked up my keys and wallet, he started vomiting again. I looked skyward and sighed.

It was clear that he wasn't going to make the trip back home. Well, at least not without a few more power vomiting sessions. I debated whether I should wait another hour for his vomiting to subside or if we should just leave. I had awoken early in the morning so I could already feel that I was getting tired. I didn't think I could stay around for another hour and still make the drive back home. I decided to leave now. My brain made the appropriate preparations for the trip back home.

Airlines. Barf bags. Plastic bag. Carry the four. Barfing in plastic bag equals no vomit on floor of my car.

Hmm. That's good work brain. I glanced around for a spare plastic bag. I reached for a nearby crumpled Safeway grocery bag. As I picked it up, my brain flashed warnings.

Summer of 1994. Carrying groceries to car. Milk and eggs. Safeway bag. Cheap thin plastic. Heavy. Rip. Big mess. Vomit. Heavy. Rip. Big mess.

I looked around for a more sturdy bag. I grinned as I picked out the perfect bag for the job. It was a heavy duty plastic bag, like the ones they give out at the airline duty-free stores. This wasn't going to rip. Even better, if he passed out, I could use the sturdy handles as ear loops to hang the bag off his ears.

I took an extra bag, just in case.

I asked him if he was good to go. He nodded meekly. That was a good enough answer for me. I led him to my car and opened the passenger side door for him. He oozed into the seat. I handed him the bag and looked him the eye. "If you gotta go, go in the bag," I said. I decided to trust him that he wouldn't miss the bag.

He pulled the shoulder belt over, but was too drunk to clip it in. He kept hitting the seatbelt release button with the clip. Amused and yet frustrated by his antics, I just grabbed the clip from his hands and latched it in. I started the car and eased it forward. Right on cue, he started vomiting into the bag. Something told me this was going to be a long night.

I only had a rough idea where his house was. He had told me it was somewhere near the Edmond Street Skytrain Station. Since I don't ride the Skytrain, I wasn't sure where Edmond Street Station was. Once we got closer to his neighbourhood I just hoped he would recognize his street. The smell of beer vomit started to float towards my nostrils. I opened the windows and my nose hairs gladly sniffed the crisp and fresh outdoor air.

I noticed hard acceleration seemed to induce more vomiting so I tried to drive smoothly. My mind calculated a compromise between driving fast (and getting to his house faster so he could vomit there) and smooth driving (getting to his house slower albeit minimizing the vomiting in my car). I looked over. He was hunched over with his head between his knees. Then he started to sing a song. I couldn't make out the words. Suddenly, he started to dry heave. On the one hand, I took pity, but on the other hand, it was his own fault for drinking so much. Better in his throat than on the floor, I decided.

As we got closer to his neighbourhood, I asked him where I needed to go. He weakly looked up and told me to keep going. Edmond Street Station. Five minutes later, I passed a street sign. The first few letters were obscured by the stop light so I could only see ---MOND STREET. I asked him if that was Edmond Street. "Keep going," he croaked. My brain cranked away...

Mond Street. It's possible it's just Mond Street. How many other streets names could have the letters M-O-N-D in them? Hmm. Let's see. Addmond. Altamond. EDMOND. Redmond. Zedmond...

"Are you sure?" I asked. He nodded meekly. Against better judgement, I decided to folllow his directions and kept going. A few minutes later, the street eventually ended and I could only turn left or right. "Left or right?" I queried.

"Left."

I took that as a good sign. At least he hadn't told me to go straight. I turned. For a guy who had drunk twelve beers in a few short hours, he seemed in pretty good shape. He didn't seem to have missed the vomit bag as of yet. Perhaps he really did know where he was going after all. I was quite impressed. Maybe he wasn't as messed as I had thought he was.

Edmond Street Station. Keep going. He must know where we're going.

Then he pointed at a bridge onramp out the window and said, "Look! Niagara Falls!"

Ahhhh crap!

I let out a loud curse, slammed on the brakes and turned the car around.

Posted by Dave at May 04, 2002 12:10 PM