Alan Moore, �Supreme: The Story of the Year�
Ok, while nursing this stupid broken collarbone for the last six days, I�ve gone through 40 episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, a four-and-a-half year span on Monster Rancher 4, five doses of Vicodin, four doses of Percocet, one Danny Boyle movie, and one Etta James concert (if you can call nine songs a concert, especially since only two of them were her songs). Today, I finally went back to work.
I took the time off because the doctor told me after two weeks that it still wasn�t healing, which meant I was using my arm too much.
Yes, yes, I know. Dirty. We�ve covered all that, remember? And yes, that was dirty as well.
Anyhoo, I know I was using it too much. I�ve never been good with injuries, having this fascination/revulsion theme going and constantly picking and poking at whatever was injured. Scabs rarely get the chance to fall off on their own accord on my body, and having something that was in pieces, the bones swimming around inside my shoulder, was both the coolest and the grossest thing I have ever gone through.
And so I obviously wanted to share. I would grab random people by the hand, put it on my collarbone and sway back and forth like a metronome, complete with the clicking sound as the bones rubbed together.
ClickClickClickClickClickClick.
�Ewwwww!� People would exclaim. �That�s sooooo gross!� They would draw their hand back and look at the fingers, trying to will the memory out of their fingertips. When the sensation did fade, they�d look at me, and then at my shoulder.
�Do it again,� they�d say.
ClickClickClickClickClickClick.
I didn�t even need an audience, as I was just as fascinated as everybody. More so, because even though others could feel the bones moving, I could feel it inside me.
Oh, shut up.
ClickClickClickClickClickClick.
When I went back to the doctor, he asked if I heard or felt any kind of clicking sensation.
�Sometimes, yeah,� I said.
�Well, you should think of it like this: your bones are trying to knit. That clicking sound is like you�re snapping the seal they made.�
Wow. I am not smart.
So I took the last six days off, keeping my broken side wedged across my chest. The only exception was for that last entry, which led to the first Percocet day. But coming back to work reminded me how unconscious the use of both your hands happens to be. Time after time I would be shelving and switched the stack of books I was shelving from my good arm to my not-so-good arm, only to feel the weight pull at my shoulder.
My bad arm just wanted to help, especially since it hasn�t done a damn thing for so long. I�d try to unsuccessfully maneuver purchases into the bag when the broken side would shoot up, offering to help. Then I�d feel the bones grind against each other.
Eventually, my life had turned into a appendage (rim shot!) of Of Mice and Men.
�All right,� I�d tell my arm when we were alone, �you see that guy right there? When he comes up with his books, you ain�t gonna do nothin�. You just gonna stand there. You got that?�
�Sure Dean. Sure I got it.�
�Ok. Now when this guy comes up, what you gonna do?�
�I .... I .... I ain�t gonna do nothin�. Jus� gonna stan� there,� my arm said.
�Good boy. That�s swell. You say that over two, three times so you sure won�t forget it.�
I�d ring up the purchases, make the small talk, ask if they wanted a bag and then work with the one hand to make change. I�d start fiddling with the bag, which most of the time refused to cooperate. Suddenly, the other arm shot up to hold the bag in place.
Click.
Goddamn it.
