Yesterday my car wouldn't start. I was stranded in the suburbs, alone at the pet food store with my misery. I was sweaty and cranky. And my car, in case I neglected to mention it, wouldn't start.
On such occasions I regret my general ignorance, for I had no clue whatsoever what might be causing my car to not start. I called my wife, who suggested I call her dad, who told me it was probably the battery.
Now what? I had a few options: my father-in-law was willing (bless his heart) to drive out to me to recharge my battery, but that would have been an hour-long round-trip for him. I could ask someone in the parking lot to give me some help; they were much closer than my father-in-law. But I didn't know them, and they might think I was a serial killer or something, and I can't have that.
So I compromised and called my friend Bill. (I called him that, incidentally, because that's his name.) Bill was nearer by, at home practicing his guitar while he waited for dinner to cook, and he suspected I had a bad alternator, not a bad battery, but he nevertheless dropped everything (except the guitar) and came to my rescue. Bill, yesterday, saved my bacon.
I wish I felt free to ask my anonymous neighbors at the pet food store to help me when I'm in need. I wish I lived in a world where people didn't need to fear serial killers. But this is the world I live in, and in the world I live in, the one who saves your bacon is your friend.
Thanks Bill. You saved my bacon, my friend.