Coulda stopped a drunk driver

I heard a voice while walking down McCaul Street last night. I was only a thousand inches from home. The voice emanated from a red car that had slowed down and stopped at the curb. The streets were empty and the car idled gently.

Its driver leaned toward the passenger side window as it slid open. He was a middle-aged man with a moustache. He looked tired. With a friendly tone he asked me,

"Hey, which way to the Don Valley Parkway?"

He was drunk. I could tell by his demeanour, and his stilted speech, and the aroma of the air inside his car.

I thought about calling the police. The effect of the law on his life. His wife and children, if he had any, would be robbed of his presence. He could go to jail. His life, his work, his family: ruined. I imagined, briefly, what it would be like to destroy this man's life, by simply making a phone call on this quiet street in the middle of the night. It involved effort to be sure, but it was justifiable. The man swayed in his car, waiting for my answer.

"You need to turn around and go south." I said. "Then go east on Queen. You can't miss it."

I felt sick as the man drove away.