Jim Thompson, �The Nothing Man�
Ok, despite that it�s been a double dose of Vicodin kinda day, when the pain from my arm makes me look like Private Pyle in the bathroom scene from Full Metal Jacket, I�ve actually felt a little better. So let�s see if I can�t make an actual entry.
Oh, I nearly forgot...
Dear Mom,
You are not allowed to read this entry. Sorry.
So, I read The Nothing Man. How fucking appropriate, as that�s what I�ve been saying for the last week.
�What happened to your arm?�
�Nothing, man.�
That�s an appropriate answer. Nothing happened to my arm. My arm is just fine. It�s my collarbone that�s in pieces. But then again, I don�t really want to talk about that either.
I know, I know, my bookstore has a lot of regular customers, and people want to hear stories about people who have it worse off than themselves, but really � what makes you think it�s any of your business? And what�s the limit on questions anyway? Would you go up to a guy who was in a wheelchair, and say, �Dude, what happened to your legs, dawg?� Would you want the details from a burn victim? Do you think that a guy who used to have two eyes and suddenly only has one wants to talk about it?
So the fake answers kept coming.
�Dude, what�d you do to your arm?�
�I was defending democracy and freedom from the barbarian hordes.�
�You know that program Celebrity Boxing? Funny show, until they call you.�*
�Oh, so now you�re saying you don�t remember last night? Bastard.�
Usually, the smart-ass answer is enough to let people know that I don�t want to talk about it and they drop it. But some keep pressing, trying to figure out what happened.
Apparently, I look like I�m in better shape than I feel, as extreme sports keep getting mentioned.
�So, you broke your collarbone snowboarding? Fall off your motorcycle? Water-skiing? Cycling?�
No, no, no, and no.
�Horseback riding? White water rafting? Parasailing?�
What the fuck? I don�t know anybody who has done those things... Wait a minute, I�ve seen those commercials � are you trying to figure out how I broke my collarbone, or are you trying to find out if I have herpes? Because the answer is no to all of the above.*
�Caber tossing? Jell-o wrestling?�
Ok, fine, you want to know what happened, I�ll tell you.
Wait a minute... Mom, you�re not still reading, are you?
Just checking. So here it is. Here�s the reason my clavicle is broken in three places.
Um... actually, I�m not sure.
My birthday was on Sunday the 17th. The Ex and I were supposed to hang out that day, so on Saturday I utilized the chance for free booze. Somewhere around 11 o�clock, after having three beers at home, I hit the bars. The first stop was the place I�ve been spinning records lately. I locked up my bike and went inside. There wasn�t anybody I knew there, including the bartenders. I got one drink and walked to the next dive bar, where I knew I would at least know the bartender.
That was the only person I knew. Whatever. The next three Newcastle�s were on him. Finally, some people I knew walked in.
Dive bar etiquette is an interesting phenomenon. The norm seems to be that you walk in, search frantically for someone you know, and then loudly announce your presence to that person. I think it�s more out of insecurity � like you�re broadcasting that you have friends here to the rest of the room, who couldn�t care less. But, since it was my birthday, it served my purposes well.
�Hey, dude, what�s up?�
�Nothing. It�s my birthday.�
�Oh, yeah, lemme get you a drink!�
�Thanks,� I said. �I�ll just have a beer.�
�Nah, you can�t just have a beer, it�s your birthday, you gotta have a shot!�
�I really just want a beer.�
�Nah, you get a shot! Whaddya want?�
�Fine, how about Jack?�
�Nah, no Jack, what do you really want?�
�Whose birthday is this?�
�How about Jameson�s?�
�Fine.�
Suddenly four shots of Jameson�s are placed in front of me.
And they�re doubles.
Other people show up, taking a break from the nightclub with the over-priced drinks down the street where the Phenomenauts are playing. More drinks are offered. I again try for Newcastle. Again, my request is turned down, and more shots are placed in front of me. The crowd gathered around me talks eagerly about how puking on your birthday is a time-honored ritual, and I�m gonna honor it, goddamn it.
Suddenly, I find myself inside the over-priced dance club, not paying the cover charge because it�s my birthday, even though it really isn�t until tomorrow. Another double shot of Jameson�s is put into my hand.
I have an ingrained self-preservation system in regards to alcohol, where I know it�s time for me to go before I make a total ass out of myself. I have it down to a science, so much so that I will find my way back to my bed and put on a tape of MST3K before passing out.
The self-preservation kicked in. I found the chance to escape when people weren�t looking, walked back to the first bar, got my bicycle, and went home.
The next day, my alarm went off. This should give you an idea of how worked out this self-preservation system really is � I set my alarm when I got home. I woke to NPR, with Tom and Ray from Car Talk doing their braying horse laughter.
�So that was my birthday,� I thought. �Time to go to work.�
I got up.
And then I screamed.
My shoulder was on fire. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was a scrape on my forehead, just above the eye. I took off my shirt and saw the bruise forming around my shoulder. I showered, brushed my teeth, and hoped the pain in my shoulder was just a nasty bruise.
I tried to recollect how the scrape and bruise had gotten there. Nothing came. So I went into Encyclopedia Brown mode, only this is set in the later years after Brown moves out of his parents house and starts a band and a heroin habit. I hunted around for clues: my Ash statue was knocked off the television and lay in pieces on the floor. Ok, that probably means I did put in a MST tape before going to bed.
I continued looking for clues. No furniture was out of place. There weren�t any holes in the walls. I went down to the basement, ducking below the storm cellar doors and descended the eight steep concrete steps, only to see my bicycle in a heap at the bottom of the stairwell.
�Well, that�s a hint,� I thought.
I went to work.
I couldn�t lift my left arm. Actually, I really couldn�t do much of anything. So I sat in a chair and attempted to do data entry, thanking any and every deity that this was the one day when I didn�t have to dig through moldy boxes of books from the general populace.
I fashioned a sling from the cheap first-aid kit underneath the register. Four hours into the job, it was obvious that I did something to my shoulder that was more than just a bruise. I called The Ex and told her she would have to come see me if she was planning on hanging out with me. She came over that night, we watched The Muppets Take Manhattan and Freaks (which are eerily similar) and then she went home.
The next morning she came back and took me to the hospital.
My doctor was in a sling himself. This meant one of two things: either he was going to be an expert on how to help me, or he was going to make sure I was suffering as much as he was. I haven�t decided which way he went.
I got out of X-Ray, and he showed me the two pieces of bone floating freely in my shoulder. He handed me a sling, filled out a prescription, and said he�d see me in a month.
And that�s why I have the catalogue of fake incidents of what happened. The truth is rather, well, stupid. I�m in a sling because I fell down and went boom.
I�m not proud of that.
The next day I called my mother, who isn�t reading this, yes? I told her I fell down the steps.
�Oh, you poor kid!� she said. �So you were getting ready for work and you grabbed your bike and fell down the stairs?�
�Um, actually, I fell on Saturday night.�
Silence.
�You stupid� wait, were you drinking when you fell down the stairs?�
�What, when I fell? No, I was not drinking at the time I fell.�
Yeesh. Happy birthday to me. But, you know, it�s all worth it in the name of preserving democracy from the space aliens. And by the way, I didn�t puke. Not that I can tell anyway.
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*These two lines were stolen from Bobcat Goldthwaite and Jasper Redd, who are funnier than I am. But they also have usage of all their limbs. And I�m on drugs.
