No one should tolerate drunks behind the wheel, and no one is more adamant about the subject than Big Pye, Puddin’s cousin up in Rat Portage.
“I don’t want to see you kids ever behind the wheel under the influence,” offered Big Pye on the occasion of a daughter obtaining her driver’s licence.
“As a matter of fact, I’ll pick you up if you’ve had too much to drink or don’t want to ride with someone who’s been drinking. Just call! Anytime, anywhere, no questions asked,” he stressed as he speared his fifth pork chop off the supper platter.
“That goes double for me,” added his ever-lovin’ wife, Sweet Charlotte, as she cranked up the heat under the skillet and threw in another package of chops before checking Big Pye’s dessert–the two apple pies browning nicely in the oven.
It’s good advice. Many of us have given the same to our children or received it from our parents. But who has ever acted upon it?
Well, late one night, the call came to Big Pye’s.
“Ise had a bit too much . . . hic . . . t’ drink. Kin y’ pick me up? I’m at the Legion,” came the slurred voice.
“I’ll be right there!” promised the suddenly alert reply.
Night clothes flying, the missionary of mercy hustled out over the icy yard to the cold pickup and roared off into the night.
“Keep calm! Keep calm! Don’t blow your cool. A promise is a promise,” reasoned the driver as she slithered around Rat Portage’s icy curves.
Skidding to a stop in front of the Legion, all that greeted this messenger of mercy was an empty parking lot with a few pieces of paper skittering across the frigid pavement.
“Oh gawd! The other Legion,” the frustrated driver moaned and, burning a U-turn, headed for the other end of town. But no truck there, either. Just another empty parking lot and more blown garbage.
“The fool is driving around drunk. If the cops see that vehicle, a night in the drunk tank is the minimum or, Heaven forbid, an accident,” sighed the worried driver as the first big fat flakes of snow floated down and quickly thickened to a blinding blanket.
“Where to look? Where to look?” the searcher wondered as street after snowy street yielded not a clue to the misguided miscreant. Suddenly there it was–pulling into the doughnut shop.
“What’s the matter with that idiot? That place is crawling with cops!” fumed the driver, pulling up beside the errant culprit, jumping out, and whipping open the truck door.
“Who are you? What are you doing driving this truck? Where’s my Daddy?” wailed the messenger of mercy as she gazed at the startled, but stone sober, driver.
“Oh Big Pye had a trifle too much to drink and he didn’t want to drive. Said it would set a bad example for his kids. So I dropped him off at his house about a half-hour ago,” explained the stranger.
“I’ll bring his truck back in the morning. An’ say, isn’t it pretty late for a young girl like you to be out runnin’ the roads? You better get on home now,” he lectured.
When Sweet Cheeks stomped into the house 15 minutes later, she was greeted by the deep snores of Big Pye stretched out comfortably on the kitchen floor with a half-eaten, cold pork chop gripped in his left fist.
She drew back her foot, prepared to deliver a good swift kick to Big Pye’s commodious rump, but stopped in mid-swing, smiled, and reminded herself, “Just call. Anytime, anywhere, no questions asked.”
