Source: Good News Network
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It was June of 1988. Out of a 13-year-old’s early summer boredom, I had pitched a tent in our rural Virginia yard with the intention of sleeping in it for the night, but I was staying late in the house to finish watching the Lakers’ play-off game.
It was almost midnight and my dad had been asleep upstairs for hours when someone knocked on the front door. It never occurred to me not to answer it.
On the other side was a woman in her thirties in an evening gown with a bloody gash on her forehead. She was awkward and a bit embarrassed, but she asked if she could use our phone to call her boyfriend to get a ride home. I escorted her to our rotary dial on the kitchen wall and watched her struggle to finger the numbers correctly. After several false starts, I offered to dial for her. She said, “Sure, go ahead, you can talk to him, too.”
Once she stammered out the number, I found myself with a ringing phone on my ear and no idea what I was supposed to say. There was a groggy hello on the other end and I think I said, “Hi. Um, your girlfriend is at my house and she would like a ride home. Can I give you directions?”
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He was mostly incoherent. I tried several times to explain where I lived, but he was unable to sensibly indicate that he had any idea what I was talking about. I’m not entirely certain that he was even fully conscious. After getting little more than grunts from the other end, I hung up, looked at my guest, and said, “Want to sleep in my tent?
”I treated her forehead with hydrogen peroxide and bandages and then left her in the bathroom while I found another sleeping bag for the tent. When I came back into the house, she was sitting on the couch looking like she was trying to figure out where she was. I accompanied her into the darkness of the yard, unzipped the door to the tent, and turned my lantern on. I was just starting to realize that she must be exceptionally drunk. I was 13, remember, and I had not been around that level of inebriation, but she certainly wasn’t a threat and…
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