I could hear the fire truck sirens in the distance slowly getting louder and I wished that they’d hurry up.  I was helping to balance the incoherent old man next to his car in the middle of the road and was he…? Yes, he was beginning to take off his pants.  This was beginning to get awkward and the confused motorists behind us were taking longer and longer to drive by no matter how furiously I tried to wave them past.

I was on my way to a friend’s house last night on my motorcycle when I encountered the man.  His car was shut off and stopped in the middle of the street about 100 feet short of the intersection.  He was slowly opening his door and sort of leaning on it.  He didn’t look well.

I rode around him and turned the corner.

I began to think of all the times people will walk past someone in distress, and decided I didn’t want to be one of them.

I turned around, parked the bike, took off my helmet and gloves, and approached the car (which hadn’t moved an inch in the minute it took me to do all this).

“Excuse me sir, are you alright?”

I got some incoherent grumbling and an uncoordinated attempt to look in my general direction.  He looked either drunk or in dire need of medical attention.  I couldn’t smell booze.

Having watched more than my share of medical dramas on TV I knew the questions to ask someone when they seem out of it…

“Can you tell me your name?”

No reply.  The man sort of swayed a bit and seemed to be having trouble sitting upright.  He was clumsily pawing at the ignition which had no keys in it.

I figured that maybe he was drunk and didn’t want to give me his name so I proceeded…

“Do you know what day it is?”

He mumbled something incoherent, it didn’t match the correct answer, “Wednesday”.  Or even the more clever answer “Today”.

“Do you need some help?”

This was the first time he said anything I could understand.  He quietly mumbled a request for me to leave him alone.

Throughout all this I did not smell any booze.  Still I figured he was either extremely drunk or having some sort of medical crisis.  I decided to call 911.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t turned off the Bluetooth on my GPS receiver so when I dialed and held the phone up to my head, I couldn’t hear anything.  I hung up.  I realized I had just pranked 911.

I turned off the GPS on my bike so my phone would work.  My phone rang.  It was the 911 operator, she sounded annoyed.  After getting transferred to another operator I was told to stay with the man and that a fire truck was on the way.  The man, as far as I could tell, was not on fire.  Somewhere, I imagined, a group of paramedics were marching into a burning building to noisily die.

Okay, keep the old man occupied…

I looked him over.  He was wearing dirty clothes and his hands had, what looked like, engine grease on them.  There were tools and miscellaneous handyman supplies in the back.

“Are you a contractor?”

Mumble, sway.

I looked at the sky.  “Nice night isn’t it?  It’s like fifty degrees and it hasn’t rained in days.”

I felt like I was talking to a toaster.

“My wife is sad,” he told me.

“What’s wrong with your wife?” I asked.

More mumbling and uncoordinated swaying.

The man started to try to get out of the car.  I really didn’t feel like having to hold him up or prevent him from getting run over.  I put a hand on his shoulder and told him help was on the way.

He reached out and handed me his keys.

Eventually, despite my ever increasing discouragement, he got to his feet.  He looked like he was about to fall over.  I used one of my hands to help balance him as he leaned against the car.

I could see him fumbling with his belt.

Shit!

I could hear the sirens.

Good!

He managed to get his belt half undone.

Shit!

The sirens were getting closer.

Good!

His belt was undone and he had begun to pull his pants down.

Shit!

The fire truck arrived.

Good!

Three firemen got out and asked me if I was the “good Samaritan”. For some reason, being called a good Samaritan made me want to deck him.  I guess it’s because I fancy myself as a royal selfish asshole.

“Here’s his car keys,” I said as I handed them to one of the fire fighters.

“Is he drunk?”

“I don’t think so.  I didn’t smell any booze, and in his current state I can’t imagine how he could have driven his car at all.”

I got the fuck out of Dodge.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that, if the guy were drunk, he would probably not think too highly of me.  So, in my mind, I remain a royal asshole.