True story: (Not suitable for youngsters.) We were working an outdoor construction job on a nice sunny Halloween Day.
Scott and I. Concrete foundation form-work. A perfect late Fall day. Scott's a bit of a joker, a card, a screwball. He's a very tough hombre, but afraid of bees. And one started to chase him, and he flipped out and hopped all over the place like a rodeo bronc, bouncing tools and screws out like a sprinkler. Then he turned over that way and fell forward on a pile of two-by-sixes; slipped in the gravelly dirt.
I ran over to help him get up, and when he turns back to me, he's got on a really really gross, rubbery Halloween mask. Uh huh. I'd been kind of waiting for this. The staged bee appearance, and the bee dance over to the pre-stashed, pullover mask. Right above the eyes, the flesh of the forehead flops open, horizontally, all the way across the forehead.
I'm not amused. Dan was always pulling this crap, and it always pisses me off; maybe because I always fall for it.
So I smile at him, and say are you okay, because, by god, I'm just going to ignore it. He nods and smiles, and says I think so, and just stares at me, smiling. I think it really is kind of funny. He starts rolling his eyes, real funny like heehee googly, and brushes his hair back, and as his hand runs up into his blond hair, it streaks it with blood. Nice touch ~ the fake, palmed blood. Scott's pretty vain, ala Sammy/Ted Danson, and I think wow, he would never even think of messing his hair for a joke. But I look at the flap of skin, and it's as wide and deep as the pouch of a tool belt.
What the?
I take his wrist, he's kind of bent over, and lift him up straighter. The blood looks real, yah, but jeez ~ no wait, those are his eyes right there ~ I'm looking in them to see if there's a mask-waxline at the brow of some kind; and this perfect slice is gapping open at me like a giant rubber coin purse.
I was having a heck of a time computing. He wasn't bleeding enormously, like I'd seen this do on myself, on a smaller scale; but this was GIANT.
"You OK?"
"I think I got knocked out there for a second."
He hasn't noticed the blood.
"I'm going to go get a towel." I DASH in and get a full bath towel for a turbandage.
He's stumbling around, bent over Quasimodo, and I think it's appropriate. I hand the towel to him. It's a full fluffy bath one, and he doesn't want to get blood on it. "No, it's cool, MJ can get it out." It's the least of our worries, and it's gonna be toast. "I think we need to go to the Hosp ~ to the Doctor's."
He smiles at me; pleasantly. "I'm OK."
"No. I think we need to go to the Doctor."
"No. I'm fine."
He leans over and puts the toweled hands on his knees.
"You cut your head."
"Oh jeez!!!" He panics. "Is it bad?" he winces, as he pops up. I can tell he is immediately looking for a mirror. He's worried about girls and perfection.
(Whaddya say in this circumstance?)
("It's flapping open at me. Like Keiko's mouth.")
("You could put three pounds of screws in it.")
I grab him by the arm and drag him past the entrance to the house. "Hold that to your head ~ and leave it there."
When I get him to the van, he wants to twist my rear view mirror, and I tell him no you don't. The Doctor is two blocks away, but before I can get there he has rolled down his window and adjusted the big flat side mirror inward so he can peek in it.
"I wouldn't do that."
He's squinting, and I'm oversteering to slosh him around, out of it's view; and he's got some blood in his eyes; but he finally gets the fluffy towel adjusted and makes it out.
He sort of started screaming.
I would have too.
Never seen anything like it.
He gradually calmed down to crying; and said "I shouldn't have looked."
Yah, well; whatcha gonna say.
A hundred and ten stitches; a row on the inside of the thick latexy layer, to draw the halves together, back to the same side of the street; and a nice neat row on the outside.
I got to watch the whole thing.
The Doc says, laughing, "This person needs a Doctor." What a hoot, huh? He's really OK, though, this Doc; we love him. The stitch job was first, first class. Biggest gash he'd ever seen on a forehead. Three and three quarters inches long. That's all the way across. Check it out on your rulers, friends. (Watch the metal edge.)
Scott was fine. No concussion. Incredibly, there is only the tiniest evidence of a scar.
Scott's favorite expression, was perfectly delivered:
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"Nothing a shot of whiskey and a blowjob wouldn't fix." |
