I don’t know if you can plead your own cause for sainthood, but I’ve decided that God intends for me to one day be known as St. Dan, Protector of Drunks. For whoever ends up defending my cause, your challenge will be locating reliable witnesses, since nobody’s ever around when you help a drunk—including the drunk. He’s just a floppy humanoid meat puppet with a singing voice; my job is only to get him somewhere he can safely transform back into an actual human being. There’s no tax write-off for this kind of charity, so I’d better get something on record now, before my cause is officially opened up.
One case occurred on a balmy Friday night not long ago, involving a pedestrian who was three sheets to the wind and speaking in tongues when I drove past him. He was just stumbling along a downtown sidewalk, using “parking meters for walking sticks,” to borrow from a Tom Waits song. Whisky vapors wafted around his head.
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