a night out with big rig.

"Hey. Can I borrow a lighter?" asks the guy called Big Rig. I don't know his real name. For all I know, his birth certificate could say Big Rig Jones.

"You can't smoke in here, man," Josh says for the third time.

"Who says I was gonna?" Big Rig answers, his Marlboro falling out of his mouth and onto the floor. He reaches into a giant bag from McDonalds, the contents of which are making the car smell like french fries. It could be worse. The car could smell like Big Rig.

It's 3:30 AM, and somehow, I have been dragged into playing chauffeur. It's Thursday night, and the band has just played at the Farmhouse. I don't much care for the Farmhouse. It's usually cramped with people. Large crowds in tight spaces make me anxious, and it's sometimes all I can do not to revert to my high school basketball days and start throwing elbows. Most of the people are college kids, some underage, but a healthy minority of them are Farmhouse regulars, which is to say, raging alcoholics. I enjoy alcohol, really I do, but I seem to have a lower limit than most of the people there, if they have any limit at all. It is no fun being the most sober person in the bar, which seems to always happen to me at the Farmhouse. But the beer is cheap, and at least I know what to expect. I find that unpleasant events are often made more bearable if I can just do a little mental preparation first.

We left the Farmhouse at 2:30, when the bartenders were starting to drop f-bombs to show lingering patrons that they were serious about kicking them out. There was an afterparty, but we were not going, because it was Thursday and I had to be at work in a few short hours. But since everyone else was going to the afterparty, someone had to drive the van back to the guitarist's apartment. Someone sober. No, it wasn't me, but instead the person who depended on me for transportation from the show: Josh.

I followed behind the van along the empty Raleigh streets. I had survived another night at the Farmhouse. I struggle with the partying lifestyle that seems to come with being associated with a band. Everyone else seems to thrive on staying out, getting trashed, passing out on the couch of someone you may or may not know. Even when I don't have to go to work the next day, that's not the scene that I seek. There is often tension between me and Josh. He wants to hang out with his friends, even make new friends and I want to go home. When I've been sitting in a bar for four hours, I already feel like I've done my girlfriend duty. Surely it's time to go home? Honey?

I have been disappointed to discover in the last few years that I am a terribly whiny person. It took a long time for me to figure that out and even longer for me to really understand it. Once I started to suspect, I asked Josh outright if it was true. He's a very generous person, and so he said, "Not really. Only when you're hungry. Or cold. Or tired or in any way uncomfortable." Now, you can imagine how uncomfortable I might be at three in the morning, after having spent an evening in the company of people who think I'm a stick in the mud. Misery loves company, and I do a good job making others miserable. When I think of all the stormy moods I've been in, it makes want to cower in the corner and wonder how anyone could ever, ever love me.

So I've been trying. So hard. I don't have to make others miserable. I don't even have to be miserable myself. People can remain cheerful even when they are hungry, cold, tired, and surrounded by intoxicated college students. As we left the Farmhouse that night, I was hungry and tired, ready for bed. But I had been good all night long, friendly and not complaining. No one should be rewarded for acting like a decent human being instead of a wrathful bitch, but for me, this was gold star behavior.

Josh parked the van while I waited in the car, the engine running. As I sat there, I saw someone else stumble out of the backseat of the van: Dan, who had decided to crawl in the van and take a nap at the bar. And then an SUV pulled up and parked. A portly Farmhouse regular fell out of the driver's seat, clutching a McDonald's bag. I cringed to think that this person had been operating a motor vehicle on the same streets with me; how nearly we escape death every day. I did not know it then, because I had never met him before, but this was Big Rig.

There was a nagging feeling in my mind, a sneaking suspicion that I was not going to be able to go home to my soft warm bed just yet. The suspicion grew as I waited in the car, watching Josh making calls on his cell, watching Big Rig try and break into the guitarist's apartment, hearing Big Rig ask where his friend Mike was at the top of his lungs. These people had to go somewhere and they needed someone to drive them. Someone sober.

Josh opened the passenger door and asked if we could give these guys a ride. It's not as if I had a choice here. I might be whiny, but I'm not irresponsible enough to leave a drunk guy alone with his keys. We cleared out the backseat, dumping all the stuff into the trunk. There was a little difficulty getting Big Rig into the car. Between his balance problems and my car's limited space, the process took an extra minute or two. We also had to convince him that we were taking him to the party. No, really, we are. Yes, Mike is there. Our passengers secured in the party coupe, Josh got into the passenger seat next to me.

"We need to stop for cigarettes, too," he said grimly. He knew the ice was thin.

"What's open at this time of night?" I asked with only a slight edge. I was calm, I was good.

"The Kangaroo."

"Alright."

I navigated down the street to the only gas station with its lights on. Big Rig ate fries. Dan tried to call someone on his phone. Josh rubbed my shoulder gently, unspoken pleas travelling from his arm to mine. Had I not been so preoccupied with feeling sorry for me, I might have felt sorry for him, as he tried to take care of his buddies and keep his girlfriend from exploding all at the same time. I parked and we waited while Dan went inside to get cigarettes. Big Rig asked for a lighter. Having been denied the right to smoke, he went back to his fries and McNuggets with no thought to manners. I'm not very prissy when it comes to eating, but there were some...interesting gastric-related noises coming from my backseat. It occurred to me that he might throw up. I realized that while I had been very patient and calm up until now, if I had to deal with the vomit from a guy named Big Rig, I was probably going to lose it.

Dan came out of the store, having failed to secure cigarettes because his debit card was not working. He got back in the car and asked to bum a cigarette from Big Rig. Josh explained that that he couldn't smoke in the car. Both passengers acted as if I had denied their right to a fair trial.

I think that was the point when I came closest to losing my cool: when my drunken passengers couldn't wait five minutes for a cigarette.

But no, I kept it in, because I could tell I was in the home stretch now. We had left the gas station and all we had to do was deliver them to the party. Kick their inebriated butts to the curb and go home to my pillowtop mattress. Have you ever had a nice pillowtop mattress? I recommend them.

Josh directed me to the apartment where the party was happening. Big Rig asked for a lighter again, which brings us back to where I started in this convoluted story. Having been denied the right to smoke again, he launched into a political tirade.

"It's the global elites! They're doin'...the global elites...eugenics!"

I have never been so surprised to hear the word "eugenics" in my entire life.

Because Josh is a glutton for punishment, he attempted to have a conversation as Big Rig shouted out buzz words. I'm not sure if they were even talking about the same thing, since I had no idea which elites Big Rig was talking about. There was no context to his side of the conversation. He was pretty upset about the global elites, though. Maybe they told him he couldn't smoke in their cars.

I laughed. Because it was funny. Because "eugenics" had surprised me so. Because otherwise I would have started crying.

We rolled up to the party. I could not get those guys out of my car fast enough. They thanked me for the ride. I told them to have a lovely evening with so little warmth that even Dan caught my tone. Big Rig told us to call him when we got home so that he would know we were safe, which was unexpected and bizarre.

I mentally awarded myself about eighty gold stars on the drive home. As I parked the car, I spied a bag of McDonalds in the backseat. I sighed, having already given my sighing mechanism a great workout for the evening. Remembering the sounds of Big Rig eating, I was a little grossed out, but I ate the last two McNuggets anyway.