delay, steel and magnets

when you go to the airport to the ticketing counter, you ever notice those little poles connected by straps that define the never ending zig-zag you will no doubt be stuck in for what seems like eternity. I was at the hemlock tavern, one of my favorite places in the world to drink minding my own as usual. there was some sort of commotion or tussling that began at the opposite end of the bar. my curiosity got the better of me, when a friend of a friend joked that Ben [the person I arrived with] was being accosted by the bouncer. arriving at the site of all the drama i was relieved to see Ben was merrily entreating some fine young lady with his usual humor and charms. At this i began on my way back to the other end of the bar when suddenly wrought iron weighing easily forty pounds in the form of one of those poles from the airport, came flying from the front door directly onto the back of my knee, making my half drunk smirk of insipid joy transform to something all together ugly. reasoned contentment was morphed into agony and silence.

i'm thinking to myself, "uh...why me?"

lets leave this question in the rhetorical range.

this shit always happens to me. injuries are a part of my identity. its kinda cool to come back to work every weekend with some brutal limp and people can't help but wonder. it made me think about how tired people must get though, when they get a cast or a brace and every dumbfuck and stranger comes up to you and asks, "what happened?" today alone i had about four different answers to that question. when i went to get my afternoon coffee, this young girl behind the counter asked me what happened and i told that i got into a barroom brawl. a lie, yes, but composed of elements of truth, kinda?

anyway, after they kicked the shit out of the guy who threw the fucking pole at me the bouncers came over and offered to let me drink for the rest of the night for free.

"fuck yeah," i replied, thanking my unlucky stars that i was caught in the crossfire.

as a wannabe writer i must relish these moments as the ones that defined my desire to put thoughts to the page. every writer needs these bruises, broken limbs, limps, injuries of the mind, body and soul that scar them for life. these are mine to carry, so to that drunk fuck at hemlock with 80's metal hair, alpha-maling your way back inside, throwing hitless punches to the sky, throwing forty pound poles at my leg as an innocent bystander, I say to you, thank you. thankyou for validating my parking in the writer's lot. thankyou for five pints of pilsner, two rounds of fernett and a jameson "neat" for good measure. thankyou for the heavy limp in my left foot and the inevitable hyperbole that has and will ensue.