I've given many, many people a quick Q&A period on my dazzling Smart car.
How fast? How much? etc. etc. etc.
I always invite people to sit in it; and occasionally, I'll give them a ride around the parking lot.
It brings me joy to bring joy to the lives of others.
I could be more selective about where and when (and with whom) I bestow my particular brand of philanthropy, as I learned outside Jilly's Gentleman's Revue at Queen and Broadview.
Perhaps the time of day, or the dark, moonless night, or the reputation of the neighbourhood should have put me on alert; but no! When a fella, obviously drunk, knocked on my window as I warmed up the Smart in a Green P lot across from Jilly's, my first instinct was to chat.
When he asked me if he could sit in the car beside me, "because it's so cool looking!", I should have said that I needed to get going--that if I didn't show up at my house in 5 minutes, my wife (a cop) would get her gun and come looking for me.
Instead, I said "Absolutely!".
Not just "yes"; but "absolutely".
This is when, on The Flintstones, The Great Gazoo appears over Fred's shoulder and says, "What on Prehistoric Earth are you doing, Dumb-Dumb?!"
I have no Great Gazoo to assist me in my daily choices.
When "Brian" climbed in beside me, left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, my inner voice found only these two words: Oh snap.
I positioned my hand near to the driver's door handle, knowing in my heart I came from a long line of "flighters"--men who didn't know how to fight, and weren't interested in taking any first-hand pointers.
As it happens, B2 was very well-versed in our lovely little brewery, and spoke with enthusiasm about the brand and the biz in general.
I began to feel so comfortable that I moved my hand slightly away from the door handle, and was just taking back my Oh snap! when he asked me if I'd like to smoke some crack with him.
My hand went back up in flight position.
Rescuing me from B2's persistent crack advances was a lonely friend, Barry (B3), who B2 had abandoned in Jilly's Perv's Row. I gave them both bottle openers for their praise of Steam Whistle; in return, they swore to buy some of our pilsner once safely back inside the Club.
After my new friends staggered away, I checked to see if B2 had wet my passenger seat.
It left me, the Great Philanthropist, wondering whether or not I'd share my last rock of crack with some random beer salesman I had just met.
My generous streak and love of my fellow man, I figure, stops at sharing crack.