Monday, October 16, 2006

Embarrassing Memory #4: Glass-hole

Ah, the Grand-Daddy of Embarrassing Memories ~ The night I got blind drunk and scarred myself for life.

It had been a typical day at work; bland and uneventful with a barely perceptible gnawing at my soul that left me in a constant state of apathy, so when I’d learned of the complimentary drinks in the staff canteen that evening, I was in there like a French rat up a brothel drainpipe.

More people turned up. Some managers appeared to offer hackneyed platitudes; lots of “Well done”s and “Keep up the good work”s that didn't apply to me. The place was soon full of staff chatting happily among themselves while I was now blasted and chainsmoking outside, a couple of stolen bottles by my side.
More time passed and everyone went home, barring a hardcore of us drinking nicked plonk in the sun.

I first sensed trouble when I found myself carrying a round of drinks to our table. To this day I have no recollection buying them, let alone leaving to go to the pub in the first place. Nevertheless, I had a cold beer on a hot summer’s day. It was great to be alive!

I sat the beers onto the table and walked to my seat, releasing all tension in my legs as gravity propelled my alcohol-sodden corpse backwards and into the chair;
- the chair with the rear legs dangling over a ridge.
- the chair with the open, exposed back.
- the chair that unbeknownst to anyone had a broken, jagged bottle below it.

Suddenly, I was fully seated and staring up at a gorgeous azure sky, a look of confusion and pain etched across my face as, in layman’s terms, I’d tilted backwards 90ยบ and landed on glass thanks to my new invention of the anus impaler.

I heard gasps, then laughs, while I thought it best to go cold and limp.
Monkey Dave ran over. I croaked at him that something bad had happened as I’d landed on something hurty, and help.
Monkey escorted me to the toilets, where I fumbled into the back of my shorts and felt a flap of skin as thick as a local phone directory. I brought my hand to my face and saw it saturated from fingertips to wrist with blood.

I did yell this at the security guard who’d been telling me to shut up and wait my turn in his empty hospital. I was, after all, just another drunk who was destroying this country’s health service with his substance abuse. But the longer I waited for nothing to happen, the more stressed I got, something I demonstrated to the guard as the drips hit the floor between my feet with more frequency as my blood pressure rose, but he’d seen it all before. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I‘d spent an hour numbing each buttock as I juggled from one to the other and bled onto their plastic chair. And neither did their receptionist care that I’d accidentally torn myself a new arsehole, even when I screamed that at her.

I’d sobered up several hours later having been x-rayed and wheeled into theatre, where a beautiful nurse with big round eyes rubbed my shoulder and looked down at me with sweet, tender pity. When I came to, I was shivering and confused, having been drugged, stripped, sewn up, and deposited into a nappy. I was then wheeled into a room where a young man with malaria spent the rest of the evening vomiting into a bucket.

The following day, some work colleagues visited me to laugh, and I called my Mum to tell her I was in hospital, and not to worry.

She didn't.

The chap with malaria’s mother arrived later that day with his girlfriend, leaving me free to play Ignore The Display Of Affection and Concern. When his mother left for the night, his quite attractive girlfriend drew the curtains for privacy and I spent that night hospitalised, listening to him get smothered by his girlfriend’s soft kisses.

Unable to bear the sound of love and attention a moment longer, I waddled gingerly over to the Nurses’ desk to ring my absent family and scream abuse at them down the fucking phone. I know I had told them not to worry, but in retrospect that was largely a suggestion, not a demand. Furthermore, staffing the desk was the beautiful nurse who had been so kind before my operation, but when she looked up at me, she sniggered and looked away, unable to make eye contact. Wincing in confusion I stood my ground, willing her to look back. She did. She snorted with laughter, and had to leave the desk.

To this day and in my darkest moments, I’ll often wonder what it is about my naked prone body that’s so bloody funny.

The horror… the horror....

2 comments:

luna said...

You're letting your imagination run away.
She was amused at the expression on your face that's all.

Make the most of your scars.you can offer to show them to attractive compassionate girls.

luna said...

Your mother reminds me of mine.

When I got into a 110miles per hour car crash and escaped death by half an inch,I rang her from the hospital to ask her if she could come and pick me up,otherwise I'd have to come home via the express lane driven by the same idiots who had caused the accident in the first place,and I was fearful.Understandably.

She replied the car was already in the garage and it was too much hassle to get it out again.

But unlike you I don't bother ringing her anymore.

However, I do have an interesting scar on my lower back...