The designated survivor
I have fond memories of St. Patrick’s Day, mostly, because I am usually the designated driver. My friends don’t really remember St. Patrick’s Day because I would shuttle the drunken bums around all night. My friend Robb, who drinks a cocktail or three every night, calls St. Paddy’s Day and New Year’s Eve “Amateur Night.” He stays at home on March 17, like a witch who despises Halloween because it’s gotten too commercial.
Ironically, I was raised in a beer store, and I don’t drink it. Back in the day, my grandparents ran A & B Beer Distribution on Arlington Avenue. As a child, I spent many afternoons watching people buy beer and pop (soda for you non-Pittsburghers). My brothers and I would test our strength, trying to lift the cases of beer, working our way up to lifting a keg. We would cheer if we moved the silver drum of beer an inch or two.
Decades later, I rarely drink. Occasionally, someone will thrust a Michelob or a Budweiser into my hands and say, “Drink this.” I’ve given in to beer pressure.
As the teetotaler in my friend group, I always had the car keys.
When my niece turned 21, I made a deal with her. I promised her that on St. Patrick’s Day, I would drive her and her friends to the South Side, where they could stumble down the street, from Jack’s to Archie’s, and enjoy themselves. When she was done, all she had to do was text me, and I would pick her up, no matter what time of night.
At 2 in the morning, I got the text. That night, Carson Street was a parking lot. I inched toward her location, picked her and her friends up, swung around, to bring them home.
On the rebound, I stopped at a red light. There was a young man on the corner, holding on to a lamppost like an old-timey hobo, swaying back and forth.
Side note: Because my grandparents were beer sellers, they had a few alcohol-related tchotchkes in their home – one of them was a desk lamp with a ceramic red-cheeked, red-nosed, drunk in a rumpled top hat, clutching a lamppost.
The young college kid, bedecked in a green Pitt sweater, started making gurgling noises. I could hear the bile rising up from his stomach. I knew he was about to blow (chunks, that is). I panicked, and drove right through the red light, where he proceeded to vomit on the car that took my place.
I did not get pulled over, even though the police were swarming the streets that night. Had anyone tried to pull me over, I had what I thought was the perfect excuse. I would have told the policeman, “I’m sorry, officer, but this is a new car, and vomit can ruin a paint job.” I’m convinced that the police officer would have nodded and let me go.
Have a safe and happy St. Patrick’s Day!