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Memory of St. Paddy’s Day past

3 min read

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I am convinced St. Patrick is the patron saint of bad decisions. I think the dude would be aghast at Pittsburgh’s South Side on his special day.

A few years ago, St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Saturday. It also happened to be more than 70 degrees that year. Also, niece Brittany turned 21, and she and her friends wanted to go to a house party on 16th Street in the historic South Side. It was a confluence of bad decisions. I decided play chauffeur for the momentous occasion, because I didn’t want Brittany or any of her friends to drive under the influence.

There is no award for World’s Greatest Uncle, but if there was, I would be somewhere on the list (the actual award would probably go to the guy who talked his niece or nephew out of such shenanigans).

It was mid-afternoon, and Brit and I were in the car somewhere between Station Square and her destination. The parade had let out, and since it was a nice day, an endless stream of emerald revelers shambled to the mythical land of limitless alcohol.

Side note: In a recent article in Time magazine, I read that Pittsburgh’s South Side has the largest number of bars per capita than anywhere else in the nation. Yay us!

P.S. Sarcasm.

Most people hoofing down Carson wore jeans and a green T-shirt. Some went a little farther out. Occasionally, you would see someone in a green tutu or face paint or going full-on Leprechaun. It took an hour to drive one mile on Carson, from Station Square to 16th Street.

I dropped her off and found a different way out. Later that night, she texted me and was ready for pick-up.

If you thought going down there in broad daylight was bad, you should have been with me after midnight. Though, there wouldn’t be room for all of you in the car.

Picture it, a horde of green zombies aimlessly stumbling around. I saw someone walk into a parked car and fall down. I saw blank, expressionless fiends wandering in search of cabs, pizza and … um … companionship.

I picked up Brittany and a group of her friends. They were also drunk. I was the only sober one in the car. Being the sober guy on St. Patrick’s Day is like finding out your hotel has a pool, but you didn’t pack your swimsuit.

We were sitting at a red light, and a girl on the corner swayed toward us. She looked mighty unhealthy. I didn’t know if I should get out and help her, or blow through the red light. No officer stopped me that night, but I ran the red light. My defense would have been, “There was a sad girl in a green wig with a curl, but when I saw her face, I had to leave at fast pace, because said girl was ready to hurl.”

Since it was St. Patrick’s Day, my answer would have had to be in the form of a limerick.

Ever since that night, dropping off and picking up Brit on the South Side has become a yearly ritual. And I will gladly take her anywhere she needs to be on St. Paddy’s Day, but, secretly, I’m just glad we have 362 days before I have to do it again.

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