People Survive When Clearer Heads Prevail

A few years ago my husband spent a summer working in Europe. With little else to do, I spent that summer living at work.

My firm, a small research company in New York, planned to host a large reception congratulating itself for the completion of a successful project. I was recruited as party organizer, probably for no other reason than that I was in my office so much, although my employer explained it differently. She found the fact that I performed in a play once rather Bohemian. If I was Bohemian, she reasoned unreasonably, I must know wine.

This event required good wine. I tried to tell my boss that I only enjoy red wine when it’s been dumped into a large glass of Seven-Up, but she did not hear it. I found a good liquor store, got a recommendation for red and white, and ordered the required number of cases of each.

“No!” said my boss. Too bourgeois. I hadn’t spent enough money. I exchanged what I ordered, spending twice as much.

“No!” Not enough variety. I tried again with two types of white and two types of red.

“No! These are academics,” she explained. “They want to savor an assortment of fine wines.”

I went back to the liquor store and selected about 100 different bottles of wine. The party began.

My co-worker, Tony, acted as wine steward. Twenty minutes into the evening he signaled me.

“The academics,” he said, “want something ‘a little sweeter.”’

One last time to the liquor store to replace everything with whatever dessert wine was in stock. The academics drank happily.

Tony filled a glass and handed it to me. Nice guy that he was, he kept it full for the rest of the evening. At the end of the party another co-worker, Carlos, whom I often drove home, came into my office seeking his usual ride.

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Carlos looked at me and hesitated. Tony took the keys from my desk and said he would drive everyone home.

“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he laughed. We left with Tony at the wheel. He deposited me in my apartment, and promised to help me get my car in the morning.

It was no big deal. At least it did not seem like one to me. It never occurred to me that being on the other side of an empty bottle might be difficult. Until a short while ago.

I recently attended a birthday celebration for a friend. Alongside the cake, slices of pizza, and tortilla chips, were tubs filled with lots and lots of beer.

One partygoer, Sam, decided the atmosphere was right to hoist more than a few. Over the course of the evening he went from joking and jovial to stumbling and slurring. When I decided it was time to leave, I discovered that most revelers were already out the door. The only people left were me, Sam and Sam’s friend, Karen.

Unfortunately, Karen did not know how to drive Sam’s manual transmission, so when Sam stood, tripped, and said, “Time to go,” Karen suggested a cab instead.

“For what?” Sam fumbled along the wall looking for the front door.

“You can’t drive home,” she told him.

“I drive home almost daily,” Sam said, sarcastically.

“How about an espresso first?” Karen offered.

“Geez. You’re like somebody’s mother,” Sam slurred.

“Yes I am.”

I fiddled with my coat, trying to think of a way to get past Sam and Karen and out the door, as though I could not see what was happening.

Maybe Sam was OK, I thought. Maybe he did this all the time. There wasn’t much traffic this time of night.

I looked at Karen who looked back at me, helpless. She did not want to get in the car with Sam.

Suppose I took Sam’s keys? He and I did not know each other well. Would his opinion of me be lower? Would he forever think of me as being pushy?

“I’ll drive you home,” I said to Sam.

“Great idea!” said Karen.

Not to Sam, it wasn’t. “I’m not drunk - I’m fine.” He was out on the street now.

I tried to be casual with Sam in the same way Tony had been with me, but he held his keys away. “You’re being stupid!”

I took a deep breath. The three of us stood too long on the sidewalk saying nothing. I decided not to argue.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m being stupid. But I’m going to spend all night worrying whether you got home safely, so why not humor me?”

After another uncomfortable bout of silence he relinquished his keys. I drove Sam in his stick shift, and Karen followed in my automatic.

Sam spent the first half of the ride yelling at me, and the second half not speaking. Although during our confrontation I wished for nothing so much as a jar of antacid, I was able to sleep well that night.

xxxx

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Mary Douthitt Contributing writer