So there I was with my husband (Mitch), walking through Leaside, wait, "Davisville Village" (since it was "the wrong side of Bayview") at 11:30pm. Our bellies were full of gelato, and we were freezing our asses off.
This is a neighbourhood that completely empties by 10pm. No people, no cars, hell, even the raccoons are in bed and dreaming about mortgages and SUVs.
So, as we walk back to where our car is parked, it was odd to see a man in his 60s sitting on a lawn with a bicycle leaning next to him. As we pass he begins babbling at us...and the reek of booze is noticeable from about 5 feet away.
At first, I'm thinking he's going to ask for money (hey, I live downtown, cut me some slack), but suddenly he burst out crying. Over the next few minutes he manages to tell us he fell off his bike and hit his head on the ground, and he needed help getting back to his buddy's place.
Obviously, we help him.
I try to keep him from falling over, and my Mitch begins wheeling the bike. Then this guy stops and puts his hands in his mouth, mumbling about how he knocked out all his teeth.
Ok... You need to understand that I have one and only one phobia... Losing teeth.
THIS TERRIFIES ME. I have stress dreams about my teeth crumbling into powder, crunching into my food as I chew, and getting spat out as I speak. I wake up in a cold sweat and feel sick to my stomach. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. I have even said, with complete honesty, that I would rather be dead than have dentures.
Ok, snap back to reality, Rabbit:
Picture this: I am frozen in horror, the drunk guy is spitting on the sidewalk, trying to pull out his teeth, and mumbling about how he spat out about 20 teeth on the sidewalk... and Mitch is obliviously wheeling the bike ahead.
"But he is trying to pull out his TEETH!!!" I whisper back to my brain.
"Yes. As I said, this guy is pretty fucked up. This is pretty much a perfect demonstration of my theory..."
"But...his teeth..." I whine.
"Jesus, you really are a broken record...Now grow a set and figure out how to get this guy where he is going...idiot."
I resist the urge to vomit all over myself, and ask him where he is going. But, of course, he is too drunk to know where his buddy's place is. I ask him if he remembers what the house looked like...what street it was on...what his buddy's number is... This triggers something through the haze, of what I imagine is a veritable truckload of Labatt 50.
He has a cell phone... I thank all the gods I don't believe in.
He has his friend's number programmed. In thanks I offer all my possessions to all the gods I don't believe in.
...His friend doesn't answer.
I rescind all my thanks and gifts to all those non-existent gods.
He leaves a message accusing his friend as being "as useful as a screen door on a submarine"...but I think his cutting wit will be diminished by the drunken slurring.
We offer to call him an ambulance several times, but he insists if we walk him to Mt. Pleasant (the major road) he will get a cab. We assist. He waves goodbye, he cracks a few jokes. He seems to be over the initial shock he was in when we found him.
We drive away and I feel pretty good about myself. I have built up some serious good karma.
Then my muffler falls off 2 blocks from home. Karma? Pffftt.