| Impaled On A Cool Spring Morn In The Mother Lode |
It was cool. No, it was cold. No, it was fuckin’ freezing. My 68 VeeDub bus was loving the icy cool air. She was running like a young
girl, happy to feel the wind blow through her hair, like a picture from some hair conditioner ad. We were rolling up 395 from L.A.
heading north toward Reno. Boo, my beautiful mate, was a nervous wreck, as she tried to catch sight of the black ice patches on the
curvy mountain road before we hit them. We were near Mammoth Mountain, Los Angeles’s own personal super volcano, waiting for
it’s time to rip California a new asshole. But not today.
Our destination was the wild country near Virginia City. My buddy was building one of those log cabin do it yourself houses.
Basically a set of Lincoln Logs on steroids. And me, being the good friend I like to be, had stupidly offered to come help him. I’m not
a construction worker but I figured there had to be something I could do. Bobby, who was the real carpenter was in transit as well.
He had just escaped a big K Pot case for some technical reason, and was ready to party after a few days in the hoosegow. If you
don’t know what K Pot is, let me illuminate you.
Back when the wild west was being tamed, the railroads were given ownership of the land right away on both sides of the tracks, by
the feds. This was back in the 1800’s. Being wise business people they needed to figure out a way to make money off these strips of
land running across the country . Their solution was hemp. As in Cannabis Sativa. Only back in those days they weren’t smoking
fatties. It was used for oil and fiber to make rope. Anyway what remains of all that is there are fields of the shit growing wild in
Kansas. It’s total crap weed, doesn’t even get you high, but Bobby had some swindle scheme going on, so he went back there and hired
a bunch of cowboys to do a midnight harvest run. Today, it’s known as K Pot.
The sun was finally starting to warm the road surface and melt the ice except in the shadows, so the drive became a bit more
relaxing as we drove alongside the Walker River. I had wanted to take a side trip and go to the White Mountains National Forest to
look for the Methuselah Tree. It’s the oldest living being on the planet. How old you ask? Let’s just say that when the great pyramid
of Egypt was built, 4500 years ago, this tree was already more than 100 years old. It’s so special that Rangers keep it’s actual
location hidden.
Anyway, as we roll into Carson City it’s about noon. So we hit a small casino for a cheap breakfast and then make our way up the
pass to get to Franks house, or house site to be more exact. Frank and I grew up next door to each other so we’ve always stayed
close. We were met with a cup of coffee and a fatty to spark up. We pulled up a lounge chair and sat watching wild mustangs run in
the hills across from his road. We spent the afternoon reminiscing and doing a little guitar playing till evening, then rolled into Reno
for some all you can eat prime rib, and keno…of course. We went back to the site and smoked a few more in the trailer he had there,
then me and Boo went back to the bus to crash. It was a beautiful night with the Pinon Pines silhouetted against the light from the
full moon.
The next morning we rose early. I wanted a couple joints and a few cups of coffee in me before we got to work. Bobby of course,
hadn’t showed up. He had that special knack to show up about an hour before the job is done. Having got my buzz, I went over to see
what had been done. The back hoe had already carved out the 8 ft. deep basement, and an adjoining sub-basement that was another
4 ft. lower. In this area it’s more like a cold storage area. The footing for the foundation had already been poured, and the cement
truck was due in the afternoon to pour the foundation for the sub-basement. I hopped down the 4 ft. from the basement to the
sub-basement floor, when…
Do you know what rebar is? It’s that ribbed steel reinforcing rod they put inside concrete structures for added strength. Frank
had said we needed to set the rebar before the cement truck showed up. He didn’t tell me he already had done half. That’s why I
wasn’t looking when I jumped down and landed on…
Landed is maybe not the correct or best term here. It seems that impaled is more appropriate. Not stuck, impaled. You see when you
get stuck with something you tend to pull back reactively. Being impaled however is a whole other story. Back to rebar. We’re
talking ½ inch here. So, about the size of your thumb. That’s what I landed on. It went through my shoe, through my sock, and almost
through my foot. That instinctive pull back thingy when you get poked or stuck, well that didn’t work. I was already trying to pull
my foot back while in the midst of my scream. After two tugs with my leg, I suddenly began to realize, I wasn’t just going to lift my
foot off this motha’ fucker! So I bent down and grasped my leg just above the knee and pulled as hard as I could.
Nothing. It didn’t even budge an inch. And this is with the aid of the adrenalin rush. So I took a deep breath, as I paused from my
screaming, and called forth all my strength to extricate me from this evil rods death grip.
Nothing. About this time Frank shows up, and like the good friend and typical male of the species, he begins to laugh. Needless to
say I wasn’t amused . I guess my look told him he better get serious, so suppressing a grin he comes over, and gives it a yank.
“God damn bud, that things really stuck on there isn’t it?” I said something to the effect that I really appreciated his observation,
but this was definitely a job for two. By then, my sock was soaked with blood almost up to my ankle. So Frank calls to his wife
Shawn and tells her to get some bandages. We both had silently reached the conclusion that this thing was really gonna bleed.
With three rapid tugs, we finally pulled my foot off this damned ribbed iron serpent from the pits of hell, who had reluctantly
released his death grip on his prey. But at least I wasn’t bleeding bad.
No…I wasn’t bleeding, at least not for the first few seconds. Then I began to bleed. No, I wasn’t bleeding. More like I had sprung a
fuckin’ leak. My tenny filled with blood so fast, we decided I’d better put it back on. But not before I pulled off my sock and got
some sterile gauze in the shoe to apply some pressure, and slow the blood loss. Then we went over and all four of us piled into his
van. Boo was getting in the front seat, but Shawn told her to sit in back with her, so she hopped out and swinging the front door
closed with her left hand while simultaneously pulling herself into the back with her right hand, she…
She slammed that damned door shut. With my finger still in the door. Not shut as in ajar, no, I can’t be THAT lucky!. Nope. It was
shut, closed, not going nowhere snug and tight. And for the second time that day I found myself screaming, while making a futile
attempt to extricate a body part from the grip of a steel predator. After what seemed like hours while everyone was wondering
what in the hell I was screaming about now, Frank jumped out and ran around to the side of the car to open the door, which was
locked, and his keys in the trailer, he had to run around, crawl over the seat and unlock the door. I’m not sure exactly why I didn’t
do the unlocking. Perhaps I was just waiting for Frank to climb half way over me to reach the door, to unlock it, as he…
Stepped right on my fuckin’ foot. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. At that instant, my body cast aside what ideals of manliness my
poor brain, under assault, still held dear, and told it, it was OK to shed some tears. My brain however, was soaking in the fact that
the nearest emergency room was in Carson City, and that was a good half hour away, meaning this agony would be going on for some
time.
Frank, god bless him, would have made Dale Jr. proud, the way he drove those curves that fast as we plunged down the grade. My
body, was still telling my mind it was OK to cry, but my mind was looking down the sheer several hundred foot drop we would be
making if Frank didn’t make one of these curves. I hooked up with my body, and told it that if it quit bothering my brain, I would be
more than willing to oblige it by crying as we plunged downward over the edge. Well this story could have gotten worse, but
thankfully we got to the Carson City hospital, just in time for things to get…
Worse. The ambulances (3 of them) were pulling up as we arrived. When we got me inside we found that we just arrived after the
passengers in a private plane crash had been brought in. And, (of course) this being a small facility, I would need to be driven to
Reno, another good half hour, to forty five minutes away.
Did I mention my finger? By this time my finger was throbbing as the pressure from the bleeding behind my nail increased. The
throbbing wasn’t that painful actually, but the nail was black. How can I describe the pain? Have you ever hit your thumb with a
hammer while trying to hammer something in? OK, now imagine hitting your thumb with that hammer twice as hard, at a rate of
seventy two times a minute, or once each time your heart throbbed. I was starting to think that that cry would be a good idea about
then, but I still had to make that drive to Reno so crying would have to wait. Shawn, god bless her, (at least somebody had their wits
about them), had grabbed the pot, so Boo twisted up a fatty for me for the ride to Reno. Now from Carson City to Reno, was open
highway back then, instead of freeway like now, so there weren’t any obstacles or curves or cliffs for me to worry about, so I tried
to enjoy that joint as much as possible under the circumstances. In no time at all, we had reached Reno hospital, where the ER looked
quiet. Thank god, I was finally going to get seen by a doctor! Or so I thought…
I went to the triage desk, where I was told a station wagon (that’s a hybrid mixture of car and SUV for you kids), filled with
children had just collided head on with a school bus, and there were at least 10 people on their way in, and I would probably have to
wait a few hours. And of course to add insult to pain, she suggested they drive me to the hospital in Carson City. Well at this point I
can tell you that if the girls weren’t with us, I would be trying to talk Frank into driving me to Belle’s Star Ranch. I was somehow in
the mood for a little extra curricular activities with one of Belle’s gals, for a modest price of course, while we waited. But it wasn’t
to be. I would have to say hi to Denise some other time. Back to the mission. I decided to stick it out. I wasn’t about to drive
anywhere again. I was staying put. My friends and girl however, rather than staying to console me decided they would go do a little
gambling. Good riddance. Maybe I could have that cry now.
Nope. The nurse, doing as thorough a job as she could under the circumstances (the bodies had begun to arrive) had managed to give
me some clean bandages and had a nurse come hook up an IV to give me some fluids as she was concerned about my blood loss. The
nurse (I use the term loosely), who was given the job to start the IV was about to stick the needle into my arm a fourth time, not
paying attention to the fact that I kept telling her my veins roll, when I said “forget it!” grabbed the needle from her, and…
to her horror and protestations proceeded to do it myself on the first try. I later got scolded by a nurse supervisor. Oh well, there
are just some things that a man has to do. That would include preventing himself from becoming a human pin cushion. The wait turned
from a few hours to four, then five, then I finally got seen. The doctor was a nice guy who apologized profusely till I made him
understand that I’m a firm believer in shit happens, and that the odds of a piece of toast with butter and jelly falling buttered side
down are directly proportional to the cost of the carpeting it falls on. In other words, shut the fuck up and fix me damn it. This is a
gambling town after all. So I got x-rayed, to make sure no foreign objects were inside the hole, and the wound which had clotted up
nicely got to be reopened so it could be cleaned and bandaged. Thankfully pincushion girl must have gotten off duty. Then I mention
to the doctor about my thumb, which is still in hit it with a hammer 72 times a second mode, and is killing me. So he sits me down at a
table and tells a nurse to get him a pair of hemostats, (those little clicky lock in place plier like things everyone uses for roach
clips), a paper clip, and an alcohol lamp. Since this table was in a little windowed area adjacent to the ER waiting room, the crew,
having finished their gambling junket, were gathered round. They too were curious just what the fuck this doctor had on his mind.
The nurse, a bit surprised and mystified by his request, returned with the items and was told to stay.
OK so, he gets the paper clip, unbends it, and grasps it with the hemosatat. He then lights the alcohol lamp (don’t ask, I don’t have a
fucking clue why a hospital would have alcohol lamps unless they were into aroma therapy or some such shit), asks the nurse to use
both hands to hold my hand down on the table, palm down, and tight enough so I won’t move, and sticks the paper clip into the flame.
You don’t have a clue what happens next do you? LOL Well join the club because at this point I’m so dumbfounded with pain and
Demerol even if I knew I’d probably forget. He says “I learned this trick in med school.” He then takes this glowing white hot poker
and pushes it down on my poor throbbing finger nail, burning a hole all the way through it. JESUS CHRIST! This is worse torture
than I saw in that Viking movie with Kirk Douglas. I mean this probably wasn’t an everyday procedure, and he did push it a bit too
far through the nail into the skin underneath. And it did smell like the fuckin ovens at Auschwitz. But I got to tell you. This thing
went off like old faithful. James Dean could have just brought in a gusher in Giant, and this could compare. Some of the blood
actually made it to the roof. There was so much pressure it just spurted straight up, and actually brought me instantaneous relief.
Oh thank god, something went right. I signed away my life at the hospital cashiers, and we drove back home in what turned out to be
an uneventful drive.
Well I’m pretty much done in after this day, so I get out of the van, hobble on my crutches (did I tell you I got to use crutches?)
over to my bus in the headlights from the van, grab my little stash bag and hobble back to the trailer where we do some lines, and
smoked some good gold Columbian bud I brought up. I’m telling you this stuff was the shit. It was truly golden and smoked like an
atomic bomb. Hell this crap was beyond being the bomb. No, this shit was more like the nuclear waste that put a smile on your face.
Throw in some high quality wine. We’re talking my favorite Famiglia Cribari Vino De Qualitay, Rose vintage last month, $1.99 a
gallon. Thunder Chicken ain’t got nothing on this. This crap made you see colors. So basically I want to end this sad little tale on a
good note. I’m so fuckin high, I’m floatin, but it has been a long day and it’s time to put it behind me. So I excuse myself say
goodnight grab my crutches and hobble, or swing is more like it, my way to my van for some well deserved rest. Until…
Until the moon goes behind a cloud and it gets pitch dark instantly. Have you ever seen a Pinion Pine Tree? It’s not like a Christmas
Tree kind of pine. It’s six to seven feet high and bushy, with a lot of sap from the branches and covered with cones. You break the
cones open, and they are filled with pine nuts. The edible kind you buy in stores. It also tends to stick the bushy branches out from
the trunk instead of up. It’s the end of one of these branches that does it…
FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK! That was all I could think of to scream out as I vaulted myself straight into a Pinion Pine bush, with
my crutches, which went straight into my eyeball. Now I’m sitting on the ground sure the juice is squirting out my eyeball, and I’ll
end up with a little shriveled raisin under my patch where my eye once was.. Frank, with a flashlight he could have offered me,
though with both hands busy with crutches I probably would have declined anyway, came running up. And of course, he’s laughing his
ass off. I on the other hand am wondering if it’s time to finally cry? But, I’m so thankful someone can get such joy from my pain and
humiliation. He looks at my eyeball and assures me it’s not leaking. My eye is just watering cause I scratched my eyeball. He lifts me
up, and helps me hobble over to my van where I crawl in and laying on my back finally and gratefully go to sleep. That is…
For about 5 minutes. You see my eye is watering so much, that my eye socket is creating a little mini pool of tears, that after about
five minutes overflows and runs into my ear. Waking me instantly. So I can’t lay on my stomach because my foot needs to be
straight. I can’t lay on my side because the hand starts throbbing, and I need it to be above my heart. So I spend the rest of the
night, on my back, waking about every five minutes. I wake up on my side. I had finally fallen asleep about dawn and managed to get
a couple hours in. Understandably wanting to get home, and understandably aware that I’m not gonna be doing any work, I smoke a
last joint with Frank and Shawn over our morning coffee.
We then say our goodbyes, and as I step out of the trailer, Bobby pulls up in his van. He has got two of the most drop dead gorgeous
ladies with him. Man, they were smoking hot! I then recount this little tale of woe to him and say we are leaving for home, and he
says “Bummer dude, We came up here to see if you and Barb wanted to go to the hot springs, get naked and have our own little mini
orgy?”
I started crying.
girl, happy to feel the wind blow through her hair, like a picture from some hair conditioner ad. We were rolling up 395 from L.A.
heading north toward Reno. Boo, my beautiful mate, was a nervous wreck, as she tried to catch sight of the black ice patches on the
curvy mountain road before we hit them. We were near Mammoth Mountain, Los Angeles’s own personal super volcano, waiting for
it’s time to rip California a new asshole. But not today.
Our destination was the wild country near Virginia City. My buddy was building one of those log cabin do it yourself houses.
Basically a set of Lincoln Logs on steroids. And me, being the good friend I like to be, had stupidly offered to come help him. I’m not
a construction worker but I figured there had to be something I could do. Bobby, who was the real carpenter was in transit as well.
He had just escaped a big K Pot case for some technical reason, and was ready to party after a few days in the hoosegow. If you
don’t know what K Pot is, let me illuminate you.
Back when the wild west was being tamed, the railroads were given ownership of the land right away on both sides of the tracks, by
the feds. This was back in the 1800’s. Being wise business people they needed to figure out a way to make money off these strips of
land running across the country . Their solution was hemp. As in Cannabis Sativa. Only back in those days they weren’t smoking
fatties. It was used for oil and fiber to make rope. Anyway what remains of all that is there are fields of the shit growing wild in
Kansas. It’s total crap weed, doesn’t even get you high, but Bobby had some swindle scheme going on, so he went back there and hired
a bunch of cowboys to do a midnight harvest run. Today, it’s known as K Pot.
The sun was finally starting to warm the road surface and melt the ice except in the shadows, so the drive became a bit more
relaxing as we drove alongside the Walker River. I had wanted to take a side trip and go to the White Mountains National Forest to
look for the Methuselah Tree. It’s the oldest living being on the planet. How old you ask? Let’s just say that when the great pyramid
of Egypt was built, 4500 years ago, this tree was already more than 100 years old. It’s so special that Rangers keep it’s actual
location hidden.
Anyway, as we roll into Carson City it’s about noon. So we hit a small casino for a cheap breakfast and then make our way up the
pass to get to Franks house, or house site to be more exact. Frank and I grew up next door to each other so we’ve always stayed
close. We were met with a cup of coffee and a fatty to spark up. We pulled up a lounge chair and sat watching wild mustangs run in
the hills across from his road. We spent the afternoon reminiscing and doing a little guitar playing till evening, then rolled into Reno
for some all you can eat prime rib, and keno…of course. We went back to the site and smoked a few more in the trailer he had there,
then me and Boo went back to the bus to crash. It was a beautiful night with the Pinon Pines silhouetted against the light from the
full moon.
The next morning we rose early. I wanted a couple joints and a few cups of coffee in me before we got to work. Bobby of course,
hadn’t showed up. He had that special knack to show up about an hour before the job is done. Having got my buzz, I went over to see
what had been done. The back hoe had already carved out the 8 ft. deep basement, and an adjoining sub-basement that was another
4 ft. lower. In this area it’s more like a cold storage area. The footing for the foundation had already been poured, and the cement
truck was due in the afternoon to pour the foundation for the sub-basement. I hopped down the 4 ft. from the basement to the
sub-basement floor, when…
Do you know what rebar is? It’s that ribbed steel reinforcing rod they put inside concrete structures for added strength. Frank
had said we needed to set the rebar before the cement truck showed up. He didn’t tell me he already had done half. That’s why I
wasn’t looking when I jumped down and landed on…
Landed is maybe not the correct or best term here. It seems that impaled is more appropriate. Not stuck, impaled. You see when you
get stuck with something you tend to pull back reactively. Being impaled however is a whole other story. Back to rebar. We’re
talking ½ inch here. So, about the size of your thumb. That’s what I landed on. It went through my shoe, through my sock, and almost
through my foot. That instinctive pull back thingy when you get poked or stuck, well that didn’t work. I was already trying to pull
my foot back while in the midst of my scream. After two tugs with my leg, I suddenly began to realize, I wasn’t just going to lift my
foot off this motha’ fucker! So I bent down and grasped my leg just above the knee and pulled as hard as I could.
Nothing. It didn’t even budge an inch. And this is with the aid of the adrenalin rush. So I took a deep breath, as I paused from my
screaming, and called forth all my strength to extricate me from this evil rods death grip.
Nothing. About this time Frank shows up, and like the good friend and typical male of the species, he begins to laugh. Needless to
say I wasn’t amused . I guess my look told him he better get serious, so suppressing a grin he comes over, and gives it a yank.
“God damn bud, that things really stuck on there isn’t it?” I said something to the effect that I really appreciated his observation,
but this was definitely a job for two. By then, my sock was soaked with blood almost up to my ankle. So Frank calls to his wife
Shawn and tells her to get some bandages. We both had silently reached the conclusion that this thing was really gonna bleed.
With three rapid tugs, we finally pulled my foot off this damned ribbed iron serpent from the pits of hell, who had reluctantly
released his death grip on his prey. But at least I wasn’t bleeding bad.
No…I wasn’t bleeding, at least not for the first few seconds. Then I began to bleed. No, I wasn’t bleeding. More like I had sprung a
fuckin’ leak. My tenny filled with blood so fast, we decided I’d better put it back on. But not before I pulled off my sock and got
some sterile gauze in the shoe to apply some pressure, and slow the blood loss. Then we went over and all four of us piled into his
van. Boo was getting in the front seat, but Shawn told her to sit in back with her, so she hopped out and swinging the front door
closed with her left hand while simultaneously pulling herself into the back with her right hand, she…
She slammed that damned door shut. With my finger still in the door. Not shut as in ajar, no, I can’t be THAT lucky!. Nope. It was
shut, closed, not going nowhere snug and tight. And for the second time that day I found myself screaming, while making a futile
attempt to extricate a body part from the grip of a steel predator. After what seemed like hours while everyone was wondering
what in the hell I was screaming about now, Frank jumped out and ran around to the side of the car to open the door, which was
locked, and his keys in the trailer, he had to run around, crawl over the seat and unlock the door. I’m not sure exactly why I didn’t
do the unlocking. Perhaps I was just waiting for Frank to climb half way over me to reach the door, to unlock it, as he…
Stepped right on my fuckin’ foot. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. At that instant, my body cast aside what ideals of manliness my
poor brain, under assault, still held dear, and told it, it was OK to shed some tears. My brain however, was soaking in the fact that
the nearest emergency room was in Carson City, and that was a good half hour away, meaning this agony would be going on for some
time.
Frank, god bless him, would have made Dale Jr. proud, the way he drove those curves that fast as we plunged down the grade. My
body, was still telling my mind it was OK to cry, but my mind was looking down the sheer several hundred foot drop we would be
making if Frank didn’t make one of these curves. I hooked up with my body, and told it that if it quit bothering my brain, I would be
more than willing to oblige it by crying as we plunged downward over the edge. Well this story could have gotten worse, but
thankfully we got to the Carson City hospital, just in time for things to get…
Worse. The ambulances (3 of them) were pulling up as we arrived. When we got me inside we found that we just arrived after the
passengers in a private plane crash had been brought in. And, (of course) this being a small facility, I would need to be driven to
Reno, another good half hour, to forty five minutes away.
Did I mention my finger? By this time my finger was throbbing as the pressure from the bleeding behind my nail increased. The
throbbing wasn’t that painful actually, but the nail was black. How can I describe the pain? Have you ever hit your thumb with a
hammer while trying to hammer something in? OK, now imagine hitting your thumb with that hammer twice as hard, at a rate of
seventy two times a minute, or once each time your heart throbbed. I was starting to think that that cry would be a good idea about
then, but I still had to make that drive to Reno so crying would have to wait. Shawn, god bless her, (at least somebody had their wits
about them), had grabbed the pot, so Boo twisted up a fatty for me for the ride to Reno. Now from Carson City to Reno, was open
highway back then, instead of freeway like now, so there weren’t any obstacles or curves or cliffs for me to worry about, so I tried
to enjoy that joint as much as possible under the circumstances. In no time at all, we had reached Reno hospital, where the ER looked
quiet. Thank god, I was finally going to get seen by a doctor! Or so I thought…
I went to the triage desk, where I was told a station wagon (that’s a hybrid mixture of car and SUV for you kids), filled with
children had just collided head on with a school bus, and there were at least 10 people on their way in, and I would probably have to
wait a few hours. And of course to add insult to pain, she suggested they drive me to the hospital in Carson City. Well at this point I
can tell you that if the girls weren’t with us, I would be trying to talk Frank into driving me to Belle’s Star Ranch. I was somehow in
the mood for a little extra curricular activities with one of Belle’s gals, for a modest price of course, while we waited. But it wasn’t
to be. I would have to say hi to Denise some other time. Back to the mission. I decided to stick it out. I wasn’t about to drive
anywhere again. I was staying put. My friends and girl however, rather than staying to console me decided they would go do a little
gambling. Good riddance. Maybe I could have that cry now.
Nope. The nurse, doing as thorough a job as she could under the circumstances (the bodies had begun to arrive) had managed to give
me some clean bandages and had a nurse come hook up an IV to give me some fluids as she was concerned about my blood loss. The
nurse (I use the term loosely), who was given the job to start the IV was about to stick the needle into my arm a fourth time, not
paying attention to the fact that I kept telling her my veins roll, when I said “forget it!” grabbed the needle from her, and…
to her horror and protestations proceeded to do it myself on the first try. I later got scolded by a nurse supervisor. Oh well, there
are just some things that a man has to do. That would include preventing himself from becoming a human pin cushion. The wait turned
from a few hours to four, then five, then I finally got seen. The doctor was a nice guy who apologized profusely till I made him
understand that I’m a firm believer in shit happens, and that the odds of a piece of toast with butter and jelly falling buttered side
down are directly proportional to the cost of the carpeting it falls on. In other words, shut the fuck up and fix me damn it. This is a
gambling town after all. So I got x-rayed, to make sure no foreign objects were inside the hole, and the wound which had clotted up
nicely got to be reopened so it could be cleaned and bandaged. Thankfully pincushion girl must have gotten off duty. Then I mention
to the doctor about my thumb, which is still in hit it with a hammer 72 times a second mode, and is killing me. So he sits me down at a
table and tells a nurse to get him a pair of hemostats, (those little clicky lock in place plier like things everyone uses for roach
clips), a paper clip, and an alcohol lamp. Since this table was in a little windowed area adjacent to the ER waiting room, the crew,
having finished their gambling junket, were gathered round. They too were curious just what the fuck this doctor had on his mind.
The nurse, a bit surprised and mystified by his request, returned with the items and was told to stay.
OK so, he gets the paper clip, unbends it, and grasps it with the hemosatat. He then lights the alcohol lamp (don’t ask, I don’t have a
fucking clue why a hospital would have alcohol lamps unless they were into aroma therapy or some such shit), asks the nurse to use
both hands to hold my hand down on the table, palm down, and tight enough so I won’t move, and sticks the paper clip into the flame.
You don’t have a clue what happens next do you? LOL Well join the club because at this point I’m so dumbfounded with pain and
Demerol even if I knew I’d probably forget. He says “I learned this trick in med school.” He then takes this glowing white hot poker
and pushes it down on my poor throbbing finger nail, burning a hole all the way through it. JESUS CHRIST! This is worse torture
than I saw in that Viking movie with Kirk Douglas. I mean this probably wasn’t an everyday procedure, and he did push it a bit too
far through the nail into the skin underneath. And it did smell like the fuckin ovens at Auschwitz. But I got to tell you. This thing
went off like old faithful. James Dean could have just brought in a gusher in Giant, and this could compare. Some of the blood
actually made it to the roof. There was so much pressure it just spurted straight up, and actually brought me instantaneous relief.
Oh thank god, something went right. I signed away my life at the hospital cashiers, and we drove back home in what turned out to be
an uneventful drive.
Well I’m pretty much done in after this day, so I get out of the van, hobble on my crutches (did I tell you I got to use crutches?)
over to my bus in the headlights from the van, grab my little stash bag and hobble back to the trailer where we do some lines, and
smoked some good gold Columbian bud I brought up. I’m telling you this stuff was the shit. It was truly golden and smoked like an
atomic bomb. Hell this crap was beyond being the bomb. No, this shit was more like the nuclear waste that put a smile on your face.
Throw in some high quality wine. We’re talking my favorite Famiglia Cribari Vino De Qualitay, Rose vintage last month, $1.99 a
gallon. Thunder Chicken ain’t got nothing on this. This crap made you see colors. So basically I want to end this sad little tale on a
good note. I’m so fuckin high, I’m floatin, but it has been a long day and it’s time to put it behind me. So I excuse myself say
goodnight grab my crutches and hobble, or swing is more like it, my way to my van for some well deserved rest. Until…
Until the moon goes behind a cloud and it gets pitch dark instantly. Have you ever seen a Pinion Pine Tree? It’s not like a Christmas
Tree kind of pine. It’s six to seven feet high and bushy, with a lot of sap from the branches and covered with cones. You break the
cones open, and they are filled with pine nuts. The edible kind you buy in stores. It also tends to stick the bushy branches out from
the trunk instead of up. It’s the end of one of these branches that does it…
FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK! That was all I could think of to scream out as I vaulted myself straight into a Pinion Pine bush, with
my crutches, which went straight into my eyeball. Now I’m sitting on the ground sure the juice is squirting out my eyeball, and I’ll
end up with a little shriveled raisin under my patch where my eye once was.. Frank, with a flashlight he could have offered me,
though with both hands busy with crutches I probably would have declined anyway, came running up. And of course, he’s laughing his
ass off. I on the other hand am wondering if it’s time to finally cry? But, I’m so thankful someone can get such joy from my pain and
humiliation. He looks at my eyeball and assures me it’s not leaking. My eye is just watering cause I scratched my eyeball. He lifts me
up, and helps me hobble over to my van where I crawl in and laying on my back finally and gratefully go to sleep. That is…
For about 5 minutes. You see my eye is watering so much, that my eye socket is creating a little mini pool of tears, that after about
five minutes overflows and runs into my ear. Waking me instantly. So I can’t lay on my stomach because my foot needs to be
straight. I can’t lay on my side because the hand starts throbbing, and I need it to be above my heart. So I spend the rest of the
night, on my back, waking about every five minutes. I wake up on my side. I had finally fallen asleep about dawn and managed to get
a couple hours in. Understandably wanting to get home, and understandably aware that I’m not gonna be doing any work, I smoke a
last joint with Frank and Shawn over our morning coffee.
We then say our goodbyes, and as I step out of the trailer, Bobby pulls up in his van. He has got two of the most drop dead gorgeous
ladies with him. Man, they were smoking hot! I then recount this little tale of woe to him and say we are leaving for home, and he
says “Bummer dude, We came up here to see if you and Barb wanted to go to the hot springs, get naked and have our own little mini
orgy?”
I started crying.
