Buy the Lord a round.

Let's say that you drove truck for 40 to 50 years. Now let's say that you are a man who has out lived your wife. Let us also assume that you live in the same town you grew up in and have never really traveled that far out of the region. (Except for when you were driving your truck, but that doesn't count. Not really.)

If all these examples pointed to you than you might be a passenger I had today. Drunk W.

Drunk W. (Drunk-dub for short) is a regular, and after only working for a week and a half we are already on a first name basis. He's a really nice old man if you can get by the fact that he looks like he has been living in an ashtray for 25 years. Drunk-dub frequents one of the many local bars...and I mean frequently. He usually goes home, cocked off his rocker, at about four in the afternoon, so that he wont miss his programs.

Oh by the way, drunk-dub smells bad. Really freakin bad. (Worse than Drunk K. from a couple blogs ago.)

After the first time I drove Drunk-dub home, he kind of stayed in my thoughts for the rest of the night. I kept noticing that my thoughts would stray to him and how sorry I felt for his situation.

As it turns out, I could have spent my time better feeling sorry for myself, or Kevin Federline, or the Republican Congress or ANYBODY ELSE, cause Drunk-dub is in no need of sympathy.

I picked him up at four from his bar today, but just before he sauntered out to the cab, the dispatcher came over the radio requesting that I double up him and another fare coming from Pizza Hut. For those of you who are used to city cabs, you have to remember that this company is run and paid for by the town, and is considered a 'shared-ride taxi.'

Dunk-dub is in his usual 'spirits' and is talking my ear off even before he gets his bad leg in the car and has no problem sharing his ride with whoever we have to pick up at Pizza Hut.

Unfortunately the two fifteen year old girls who came out of the hut expecting a nice clean-smelling, unemotional, quiet ride home didn't feel the same way.

Public Transportation. The Great Leveler.

I would have felt sorry for them had they not acted like, you know, fifteen year old midwestern girls, but as soon as they entered the car I could feel the tarnished sense of entitlement and the disdain.

Drunk-dub could too.

To his credit, he ignored them completely and focused his attention to me, (Thank GOD!!!) and started in on the portion of his life story where he had left off on our last ride together.

It's only a three to five minute ride to his house, but somehow he managed to mention his former career, his deceased wife, his estranged son, how his town is going to hell, how the world is going to hell, and why his place is so hard to find in that time. All in grand drunken rambling.

The best part, though, was when he defended his lifestyle.

"Look! I'm sixty five years old, retired, a widower, and bored. I drink. A lot. You know, it's safe to say that I'm trying to drink myself to death."

"But why not? I've had a great life. I loved my job. I loved my wife. ...and now that they're both gone...there doesn't seem to be much more of interest for me. So I said forget that whole "going out gracefully" thing. (I'm serious, he did the whole fingers-in-the-air-quotation-thing.) I'm going out doing what I want to do, I'm taking the cab, not hurting anyone, not living offa anyone. I'm going to die like I want to cause there ain't no one left to please except me and the Lord and when I get up to heaven I'm going to buy the Lord a round for being so good to me."

He thought it was was pretty funny when I said that it might get expensive seeing as Jesus and his disciple might be there as well.

At that moment (like he was timing it for effect) we arrived at his place. He paid me, got out, looked at the two young girls and said, very gentlemanly, "ladies." then looked at me and closed the door, but as the door closed I could here what sounded like a cross between a drunken cackle and a boyish giggle.

I drove the girls home.

"Oh my GAWD! Did you smell that?"

"I know...GROSS!!!"

All I could say to them was that once you got past the smell, he is a pretty sweet guy, and I have to admit, given the situation, I can't think of a better way to go out.

Sweetly drunk, not hurting anyone, creeping the hell out of the local youth.

God, I hope my future wife outlives me.