May’s Take – Sweet Walker
Deid the awful daeth. The Honda Accord flameboat. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t have pulled over, that would’ve been the worst job you ever got. Youlda gone up. But hey- at least no more oil changes…ever!” he roared. Well, I did pull over, and I didn’t die the awful death. I escaped by realizing getting off the freeway and postponing dinner another hour was the wise move. Turned out to most definitely be the wise move, or else this column would be “Trudy’s Take” or something. I was on the way home from my job in Mortgage Banking, [short lived] when I saw a piece of the car in front of me break off from underneath and skid along the ground toward my 75mph moving vehicle. Immediately I ran over this metallic misfit and it became lodged in my underbelly, creating a 4th of July celebration in the middle of the winter. I was sparking and screaming and I sensed something really bad about to happen. Usually when I sense really bad things happening, I just go with them and figure they can’t stay that bad for too much longer. Luckily for my existence and for those who care that I exist I decided to be proactive this time. So I abruptly crossed four lanes and hit the off ramp. Ultimately, my car was towed to my mechanic, and the next morning when I went to discuss the issue, I was basically told, “you were seconds away from exploding. That would’ve been the worst job you ever had.” Got. Had. Whatever. It would’ve been bad.
The doctor told my mom, “two inches to the left and he would have been paralyzed.” I was seven, and climbing a tree on the side of my house. This tree had a thin rope that extended down the trunk, a thin rope that I held tight and began to climb. Luckily, I had just established footing and was maybe three steps up the tree when the rope snapped and I fell directly onto a sharp, jagged stump. It punctured my lower back, but it missed my spine and only stabbed flesh. That fortuitous fall enabled me to elude potential captors at freeze tag, win me the Dodgeball championship in 6th grade, swim in oceans around the world, wrestle young ladies and stand at a urinal smiling wide in the two decades since. Thank you for my legs and the use of them, and for the ability to dance if I didn’t possess an innate inhibition that prevented me from it without the aid of at least ten cocktails. But if I wanted to dance while a product of sobriety, I could. I grew tall and strong, physically capable of whatever I want, except perhaps playing a sport professionally, but who needs the scandal anyway. I can compete on most any playground, and I am a blessed, ecstatic man for this gift and so many others.
