Fast forward 40 miles of bad music and blessedly limited conversation. The home stretch, but still time enough to toss a little more stupid on the pile. As we approached Hammond we passed the AirportDrive exit, which we apparently could have taken, but he didn,,,t know the back way from there. The next exit read Jackson, and there was a sign on the overpass reading Slidell, though only because it indicated a highway that lead back there. Fortunately, now that he,,,s in the right town, our phenomenal fool is starting recognize things. Unfortunately (there,,,s that word again), he,,,s still a complete Frost-ing moron. He thinks I should take the Jackson exit, but, as I have to point out to him because of his aforementioned semi-literacy, that exit is an interchange to another intestate. This extra piece of information was too much, and the overload tossed him instantly back into the hellish confusion that must permeate his daily existence. As the exit rapidly approached I asked him a few times whether or not to take the interchange, and again was told it was up to me. Apparently, though I had been clear about the fact that I had never in my life done more than pass Hammond on the highway, he thought I was better qualified than he to figure out where the hell he was going.
To his credit, I think he was right, and he did what he could to prove it. Not knowing whether to continue as I was going, or jump onto another highway in the hopes he,,,d figure out where he was before we went the whole 100 miles to Jackson, I pulled into the V-shaped median area between the interstate and the exit and popped on the hazard lights, with the thought that he would make a choice, or at least make another call to someone who might offer some actual, useful direction. Nope, I told you, this guy was special. Profoundly, greatly, immortally stupid. No, to my shocked amazement, and I am not a man who shocks or amazes easily, he get,,,s out of the car, stands at the point where the exit ramp and highway diverge, and resumes the grand mal callisthenic routine that he had been undertaking when first I saw him, trying to flag down a passing motorist for directions. At this point, soft spot or not, I had to consider whether helping this guy further was actually in the best interest of the his child. The urge to throw the car into drive and lay down some rubber was a powerful force to reckon with. If someone else had stopped I may have gone ahead and ditched him, but in the end I just told him to get back in the car, and with an eenie-meenie-miney-Frostit, I made a random choice and took the exit.
To my great relief, it was the right decision, and a few exits down the new highway we were hitting the Tickfaw exits he was familiar with. Right town, right region, right highway, right on. Soon we were at his exit, and having taken him that far I was now determined to get him the rest of the way. We made one last stop at a gas station. I needed a coffee, he needed to piss. Again, I almost ditched him, but I settled for a tiny outlet of frustration. While he was in the can and I was paying for my coffee, I leaned just slightly across the counter, lowered and looked over the top of my sunglasses at the cashier, and informed her in a low but clear tone that, ,"This guy needed a ride, and I,,,m trying to help him out, but I think he may be the absolute dumbest mother-Froster I,,,ve ever met,, to which I added a very brief description of him not knowing north from south from ass from elbow. A minute later, as he returned from the pisser and brought his own purchase, a single Busch tallboy, up to the register to pay, I was rewarded for my altruism with a little laughter. As I watched, both the poor girl at the register and an older gentleman who,,,d also heard me struggled to contain themselves as dumbass counted out, with great difficulty and at least two restarts, the price of one can of beer in nickels, dimes, pennies and I think maybe a quarter. Their explosive laughter behind us as we left coupled with the confused look on his face was a wondrous balm for the frustration of my soul. That and the crestfallen look on his face when I told him not to even think about opening the Frost-ing beer in my car helped lift my spirits enough to forge ahead.
There isn,,,t much left to tell, no climactic finish I,,,m afraid. A few more miles down the road and I pulled onto the street we were headed for, lined with rusted out trailers. I dropped him off, third from the end of the road on the left, at the one with the rebel flag and cardboard substituting for glass in at least 2 windows. I Shakespeare you not. I watched him for a moment, this strange, ignoble savage, as he opened and quickly drained the tallboy, belched loudly, tossed the paper bag wrapped can into the yard next door and headed for the door.
It was an experience, a memory, a lesson and a warning. I was left pondering, was it truly a good thing I,,,d done, or had my good intentions not only paved the way to hell, but offered door to damnation service. I may never know, but I think that,,,s for the best. We traveled together but briefly, he and I, on unfamiliar paths and roads unknown. He was a true rarity, a man set apart by qualities of unique distinction, and I wonder if I will I ever again see his like. Will I, having known such a person once, recognize immediately such profound depths of dumb? And , if I do, will I once again stop to help, or pehaps just swerve a little onto the shoulder?
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