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Years ago, I worked in a local bar and rented a small house across the street from it. So it was common for anyone who had drank too much to sleep at my house instead of taking the risk of driving home. While most of my friends gratefully accepted this option, others were a little more stubborn.
One of my closest friends who I will call Leo was a motorcycle rider. He had a beautiful older-model Harley Davidson, one of the kinds that had a jump start on it. This particular night, Leo had stopped in the bar to drink one. A whole group of friends walked in and the shots of whiskey began to fly. By closing time, Leo could barely walk, let alone ride. I offered him my couch and he refused. As he was talking to some other people, I slipped out the door and turned off his gas tank.
When he decided to head home, Leo came out and climbed onto his motorcycle. He began to jump start it. He jumped and jumped. Watching him sweat and pant as he tried to start his motorcycle almost made me feel sorry for him. After a lot of attempts, he finally agreed to stay at my house. He pushed the motorcycle to the house and parked it on the front sidewalk. He barely made it into the house and passed out on my floor, next to a bunch of my daughter’s stuffed animals.
The next morning, I woke up to find my friend still lying on the floor. Here was this 6’ 3” biker with a large stuffed monkey in his arms. Sometime during the night, he must have reached up and grabbed it. After taking several incriminating pictures, I snuck outside and turned his gas back on.
When he woke up several hours later, I joked with him about the monkey (although he didn’t find out about the pictures until much later). Surprisingly, his motorcycle started immediately. To this day, I don’t think that he knows that I let him about kill himself trying to jump start a bike that I knew wouldn’t start. He would probably thank me if he did.
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