TAXI!

As most of working hours are after the sun's gone done, it stands to reason that I encounter a fair amount of drunken shenanigans. The two most common symptoms of other people drinking too much are: pizzas that get ordered and forgotten about by the time they arrive twenty minutes later; and people trying to buy my pizzas off me as I walk them to or from my car.

Yeah, as I walk them to my car. People try to buy pizzas off me in the high street, sometimes more or less directly outside the store itself. Suggest they go in the store itself and order their own pizza, and you will be scoffed at. Drunks are apparently quite willing to offer over the going rate to procure a pizza intended for someone else, but will they pay a more sensible price for a pizza of their own?

Your bet your fucking ass they won't. Because, I guess, nonconformity, or something.

That was a bit of a sidetrack, actually, because today's post is about a less common - but still far from unique - result of the overconsumption of alcohol. This is the apparent belief that every moving vehicle in the vicinity is a prospective taxi, just waiting to ferry you and your equally inebriated friends to wherever you need to go. And pizza guys; well that goes without saying, right? I mean, they're driving around anyway! Of course they won't mind giving you a lift!

Now, most of the time I refuse any and all requests. On occasion this has resulted in some pretty hairy scenarios, but by and large I've gotta say the drunks round here aren't particularly concerned with getting violent. Turn down their request for a lift and they usually respond by mumbling something inaudible and walking away in a random direction, as is their way.

On very rare nights, however, my undeniably angelic nature gets the better of me and I consent to ferry a pisshead or two in the general direction they wanted to go. The key word here is general: they go where I go, and they get out at the end of the journey; pretty straightforward, right? I mean, whatever they think, I'm not a fucking taxi, so they're effectively hitching, so...

Most people (I say "most", it's not like I've actually agreed to give someone a lift more than, oh, three or four times) are cool with that. One guy was not, although to be fair to him I don't think genuine belligerence was at play so much as a frankly disturbing quantity of whiskey.

So, I've just done a drop over on the other side of the river and I'm sitting in my car for a moment, sorting my shit out and generally taking a (very) short break before I head back to the store. For no immediately apparent reason, the passenger door opens; I smell the reason before I see him. He stinks, like a brewery that has a sideline in bottling piss, but he's grinning, which means he's probably not going to kill me.

So far, so good.

"alright boss" he says, and promptly falls forward onto the passenger seat. He catches himself by throwing his arms out in front of me, but the look on his face isn't good. I know that look. I've seen that look on my friends' faces, and my own face, on far too many occasions.

He's going to fucking vomit in my fucking car.

"Please don't vomit in my fucking car," I plead with him, not sure if he's advanced beyond the point of being able to reason or not.

Happily, he has, and he manages to kind of push himself out of my car onto the road before he voids the contents of his stomach onto the tarmac. I would like to stress that this is in the middle of the road. Right then, though, I'm not thinking about that, I'm just celebrating the unsullied status of my passenger seat.

A few moments later the drunk's head pops up over the edge of the passenger seat, and he smiles at me. He looks, all things considered, in remarkably good shape. I give him a thumbs up, and lean over to shut the door in his face. Hey, I'm at work. I've got shit to do. Don't judge me, man.

"any chance of a lift" he queries, one eyebrow rising a little up his head to accentuate the significance of the request. My mouth opens instantly, already beginning to form the default answer (no), but then it closes again. He really is quite an amiable fellow for a drunk, and he didn't puke in my car after I asked (begged) him not to...

Fuck it. Let's do this thing!

The drunk climbs awkwardly into my car (it's a Corsa, one of the older ones - space is on the short side for a guy of my height, and this twat was a good couple inches taller than me) and settles down with a noise that sounds to be half sigh, half groan. I debate instructing him to put his seatbelt on. I mean, I know I really should - apparently it's "the law" - but any such request is likely to be more trouble than it's worth when dealing with someone as monumentally fucked as Mr Whiskey in the passenger is.

Fuck it. He'll be fine.

About five minutes later and I'm just heading into the city centre proper. Mr Whiskey hasn't made a sound the whole time; not a goddamn squeak. Which is why it takes me by surprise when he lurches forwards with a strangled cry and grabs hold of my arm.

"What the fuck?" I ask, the very epitome of calm.

He looks at me. His eyes are pools of booze-soaked despair.

"this is the wrong way" he intones solemnly, then sits back and closes his eyes.

"this is the wrong way" he repeeats, for good measure.

I consider debating the point with him. When I agreed to give him a lift I told him where I was going, and made quite clear that that was indeed where I was going. The high street. No detours. No exceptions. Pretty simple; and his response at the time had been "yeah thats cool thats where i need to be", which I'd mistakenly taken to mean that he was okay with my proposed arrangements.

Apparently not. Because this is the wrong way.

For the next couple of minutes, though, there's nothing more from Mr Whiskey. Wrong way or not, he doesn't seem concerned enough to try and alter his situation. He is apparently happy just going with the flow. Perhaps we can all learn a lesson from him: be happy with what you've got, and where you are. If life gives you lemons, slice them and add to gin and tonic.

When he next speaks - and we're pretty closer to the high street by this point - it's with a question I've heard before, and not one that (in my opinion) deserves an answer.

"can i steer"

Um, well, let me think about.

"No."

"come on man can i steer"

Oh, okay, that's a pretty persuasive argument.

"No."

"man let me steer"

"Dude. I'll stop the car and you can get out."

"what"

"I'll stop the car. And you can get out."

"oh okay man cool thanks"

Somewhere along the route our conversation took it seems Mr Whiskey got a bit lost. In the space of about twenty seconds he went from urgently wanting (nay, needing) to steer my car to completely forgetting about that desire. The best bit, for me, was how my threat to throw him out of the car was interpreted as an offer to stop for him. As if the corner of this particular roundabout was where he'd wanted to be taken. As if this wasn't the wrong way after all.

As he steps out he turns back to look at me. I smile, and give a little wave. I'm still actually parked on the corner of the roundabout, so, you know, I could do without staying there all night. The chance of getting rammed in the ass by a bus is pretty damn high, and for that reason I'm hoping Mr Whiskey gets bored of looking at me real soon.

Not that I could blame him if he didn't. Right, ladies?

Right?

There's a few more seconds of awkward pause, and then it's as if a light has dawned behind Mr Whiskey's glazed eyes. He thrusts one hand deep into a jeans pocket and produces, after a moment of frantic rustling, a small collection of coins, which he proceeds to thrust at me.

"thats all iv got is that enough"

He thinks I'm actually a taxi. This isn't the usual case of alcohol increasing confidence to the point where it seems a viable proposition to try and blag lifts off strangers in the middle of the night; this is the less common, but still far from rare, case of getting so damn shitfaced you actually think that little blue Corsa is a fucking taxi.

Now I'm really fucking glad I didn't let him steer.

I refuse to take the money, although it takes far longer than I'd have liked to explain why I don't want it. The most obvious explanation - that I am not, in fact, a taxi driver, and my car is not, in fact, a taxi - falls on uncomprehending ears. In fact, I end up spouting almost as much stupid shit as Mr Whiskey himself. I think I resort to telling him "I don't need your money because I'm rich, I've got enough money, thanks though!"

I wonder why I didn't just take his money. I mean, I'd gone out my way for him, and at the time he was really quite annoying; you'd think I deserved a little recompense for my troubles. But something about taking money off a guy too drunk to realise he's giving it to you seemed wrong to me, somehow. On the other occasions I've been in a good enough mood to give some random asshole a lift I've accepted payments in both cash and alcohol form (note: I did not drink the alcohol while driving my car, because that is not only against "the law" but really fucking dumb), but not from Mr Whiskey.

I think the ultimate reason I declined his payment was that I had a feeling he'd need the money soon. Perhaps to get a real taxi. To take him to where he'd wanted to go. In other words, to take him in the exact fucking opposite direction to where I'd driven.

God speed, Mr Whiskey.

God speed.