A Damsel In Distress

For reasons that have yet to reveal themselves to me, one recent night I decided to stop by one of Montgomery’s franchise steakhouses for dinner.  One of those where they bring you a bucket of peanuts to shell while they cook your supper.

I sat at the bar because the hostess said service would be quicker there.  So I nursed my sweet tea and shelled peanuts and looked around.   Immediately to my right were two ladies engaged in animated conversation.  No clue what they were discussing, but they were intense.

Dinner came and I went about my steak and baked potato.  One of the ladies left and the one beside me ordered another drink.  About the time my potato was gone, she turned to me and asked, “Which way is the front door?”  My first reaction was “Houston, we have a problem.”  I mean, who doesn’t have an idea which way you get to the front door?

She paid her bill about the time I paid mine and began to wobble out.  She was rather substantial sized.  A least six feet tall and as mama used to say, “big boned.”  Put shoulder pads on her and she could’ve passed for a tight end.

The young lady tending bar realized that this patron did not need to be driving and scurried for the manager.  He and I go to the front door about the same time and found the lady on her hands and knees on the sidewalk a few feet away.  We helped her to her feet and guided her to a nearby bench.  The manager insisted that he would get her a cab, but she would have none of it.

Suddenly to my surprise, someone inside of me asked, “Would you ride with me if I take you home?”  She agreed and I thought the manager was about to kiss me.

So I brought my little two door sports coupe around and somehow we folded the lady into the passenger seat, her knees wedged against the dash.  As we drove away my first question of myself was, “What the hell are you doing?”  Right behind came, “Please Lord, let her remember where she lives.”

Luckily she did.  When we get there she tells me to go around behind her townhouse and we’ll go through the garage.  She fumbles through her wash tub sized purse looking for the garage opener.  She did not find it and my guess was that it was in her car back at the steak house.  But she did find her house keys and I was able to unfold her from the car and guide her to the door.  At one point she told me that I didn’t have to hold her by the elbow, that she could make it on her own.  Heck, I was just trying to make sure she didn’t fall on me.

The key worked, the door swung open, she made it inside and into the Montgomery night I went.  As I drove away, I wondered if she would remember where her car was the next morning.  But I did not lose sleep about it.

An act of chivalry, or just a random act of dumbness?  Don’t know.  But it left me with a tale I will long remember.

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