Brian hit 40 today, so his wife flew Mike Huyck and I out to kick some sense into him and convince him he’s not a broken-down old man about to die tomorrow. We flew into BWI, jumped in a rented Charger, and cruised out to Journey’s End. On the trip, we tried to figure out just how we’d pull off the surprise.
An hour later, I walked into Brian’s roof. Surprise! I have a gaping head wound!
Yes, you read that right: I walked into the roof.
In our infinite wisdom, we decided to sneak around the back of the garage to get into Brian’s office. The ground slopes up and away behind it, so as I’m watching my step around the remains of his old shed, the roof attacked me. Bam, flat on my ass. It’s dark, but I feel warm and wet on my face and my hand comes away bloody. It’s dark, can’t see shit, but come on, what else can it be?
Mikey takes one look at me and alters the plan: “How about we just go knock on the front door and ask for some paper towels?”
Just that moment the phone goes beep beep! A text message has come in, but I can’t grab the phone yet. We walk around the corner and there’s Brian coming down from his deck with the dog. Ah. The text message must be from Cassi and say “B’s walking the dog.”
“Hello?” Brian calls out. Judging by his expression, he is wondering if he needs to start shooting.
“Hey bro!” we say.
“Holy shit!” he says when he gets sight of me. I’m not sure who made it to the house first: Brian running for towels and bandages or his dog Sam trying to flee the strangers who are obviously out to get him.
At this point I think I am so blogging this. (And, as it happens, this is a great way to celebrate my 3000th blog post.)
After a flurry of activity, the bleeding is under control. Which, of course, means it’s time to take a picture.
It’s also at this point we decide to involve Coop. Coop is not only one of our best friends, he’s a paramedic. And he happened to be on duty at the time, albeit doing a brake job on one of his buses. (In a past life, Coop was also a mechanic.)
The text message to Coop went like this:
Bring ur first aid kit when u come out. Busted my melon, MIGHT need butterfly bandage. Stress on MIGHT. Bleeding stopped easy.
The resulting phone call from Coop went like this:
Coop: “Can’t we have a normal fucking weekend for once!?”
Me: “Hi Coop! I walked into the roof.”
Coop: “How the fuck do you walk into a roof when you’re five foot fucking four?”
Actually I’m 5’7″ and change, but it’s hard to correct the paramedic when you can’t stop laughing. After calming Coop’s nerves, he tells us he’s got to test the brakes so he’ll see how far the test drive takes him.
At this point the gash is steadily weeping blood. It’ll bubble up a bit, then after five or ten minutes send a trickle down my nose or into my eye. By the time that slowed a bit more, we heard a siren in the driveway.
Standing under the porch light isn’t all that conducive to proper medical care, so Coop says “Step into my office.” Following some concerned probing by Coop and his boss, it was determined I had the option of a butterfly bandage or stitches. The former would be sufficient, but the latter would prevent scarring.
Given the latter would also cost money, I opted for the masculine scar that would make a great story over a round of beers.
This is when a dual realization struck me:
- The good thing about a scalp wound above the hairline is the hair can potentially hide it.
- The bad thing about a scalp wound above the hairline is there is nothing for a bandage to stick to.
Out came the disposable razor. Scritch scritch scritch.
Then came the laughter.
“You might want to think about shaving your whole head,” says Coop.
“Way ahead of you, bro,” says I. In fact, I thought the very same thing as soon as he produced the razor. This morning after a shower, I’m somewhere between “not so bad” and “special ed.”
The guys say I can shave the little bit off the left side and it’ll look like a receding hairline. Ah, yes, because looking like Brain on his 40th is so much better.
Anyone got a hat?