Half-dead in Wheeling

“I think he’s dying!” she cried out.

In the old days, I could drive from Columbus to Fort Lauderdale non-stop, hyped up on White Castle coffee and thoughts of wet t-shirt contests.

Now, I was attempting to reach Pittsburgh for the next stop on my 3-month barnstormin’ stand-up tour. It was past midnight.

Near Wheeling, WV, I knew I wouldn’t make it without crashing for a bit. Those spring break runs seemed eons away.

I pulled off and parked in what looked like the main street of a small town business district near the exit. The barbershop, hardware store and other shops were dark. I put the seat back and was out like a light.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him! He’s not moving! I think he OD’d!”

I woke up to a panicked young woman standing near my car shrieking into her phone. I pretended I was still asleep until I could figure out what was happening.

She was fraught, pacing back and forth or walking in circles. I don’t know what happened to the guy she was talking about, but it had to be serious.

It sounded like she was talking to her husband or boyfriend.

“Honey, he’s just laying in the seat, not moving! I don’t know what’s wrong! He might be dying! And he’s an old man! I think he OD’d!” she said loud enough to be heard in Cleveland, looking right at me.

Me?

Wait a minute? OLD?

“You want me to talk to him? He’s an old man! What if he’s dying?” she said.

I know most of us don’t look so good when we sleep. Maybe some drool hangs down. Your face is puffy.

Apparently I look like a dying old man who might be ODing.

She tapped on the driver’s window apprehensively. I leaned forward and popped the seat up which made her jump back.

“Hi!” I said.

“Are you OK?” she said, her hand shaking.

“Sure. Just pulled off the 70 there for some rest.”

“Oh, well, OK. Are you sure you are OK?”

“I’m sure. Really. Thank you.”

“OK.” She walked away, probably telling her husband I was alive but still looked half-dead.