Rub Some Dirt on It

I have a lot of scars. This isn’t a macho statement. I’m not trying to impress anyone. Birds have feathers, fish have scales, and I have scars. Literally from head to toe, front to back, inside and out, I have marred myself in countless ways. I’ve had them all; burns that taught me what ligaments look like, vertebrae jammed together, even my tongue serrated by my teeth. Some people treat their bodies like temples, others like works of art accented with ink and metal, and mine is like a derby car with a jackass behind the wheel and a huge advertisement for the best-selling book “An Idiot’s Guide to Life.”

Once I wanted a pack of Scooby-Doo fruit snacks from the pantry. I hadn’t eaten since snack time at school and those artificially flavored, gelatinous little faces sounded like the greatest thing on Earth. So I opened the pantry and rummaged around. Plenty of things like boxes of pastas, bags of chips, and plastic, ant-proof containers of cereal were inside, but no fruit snacks. They had to be somewhere. I just had a pack at lunch. A shock of terror shot through my spine. What if that was the last pack? Without hesitation, I opened the trashcan lid and started digging. Lots of garbage, but thankfully, no Scooby Snacks. Mom must have hidden them in one of the out of reach cabinets. I just had to figure out how to get up there.

Skulls are weird. Heads in general are just an odd thing. Here’s a tissue covered bone-jar that houses different lumps of meat of various importance. To make matters worse, the skull is not as hard as people think. It can be dented, cracked, or even protrude in spots. If we’re lucky, most of it is covered by hair, which is also kind of weird. To cover or accentuate these features, mankind has invented an uncountable number of hair-dos. When I was nine, my brother and his buddy found an old couch sitting out on the curb with someone’s trash. They decided that they needed this couch to kill an afternoon. They set it up on the peak of a hill and took turns jumping into it. If you knocked the couch down the hill, you lost and had to drag it back to the top. Seeing my obviously cooler than life itself brother and his friend playing this new, intellectually stirring game, I had to join. Instead of just jumping, they decided that it would be fun to throw me. The only description I can think of that will generate enough commonality with readers is that it was like firing a nine year old out of a catapult. I’m sure that’s something we’ve all experienced. My memory gets fuzzy after that, but I know for sure that I reached the bottom before the couch. Because I distinctly remember the weight and, most of all, the sound. My brother raced down the hill, bent over and said, “You better not tell mom about this, you little pussy.” It was my first of five concussions so far, and that is why I’ll never shave my head.

I was fixated on those Scooby Snacks. Checking to see if the coast was clear, I saw mom playing with the extended cord of the wall-phone as she talked to Aunt Denise. They’d be gabbing for hours, so now was my chance. I lifted a kitchen chair to set near the sink. I immediately learned that it was to heavy and what a back spasm felt like. Tipping the chair back, I scooted it across the floor. This too taught a lesson as the cheap wood scraped across the linoleum. Checking on mom again, she hadn’t heard a thing. Sliding a floor mat under the legs of the chair, I was able to slide it much easier and with complete silence. I climbed on top of the chair seat, from there onto the counter, and finally my prize was within reach.

The human-body is an incredible machine. Millions of parts, most too small to see with the naked eye, working in harmony. All this so a three pound organ can pilot a robot like Krang. It’s a marvel to think about. Unfortunately, most of us don’t think about the machine until it doesn’t work right. When I was twelve, I remember waking up on the couch. I had just landed on my neck after falling out of the bed of a truck. One of many “Tag” related injuries. A feeling swelled up inside me so intense I knew I was going to explode. Throwing the covers off, I sat up and swung my legs to the floor. Without a thought as to whether or not the machine was working, I stood up. I felt my body sway sideways and as I looked down, my leg bowed out. As gelatinous as any fruit snack, my legs simply folded in on themselves and I belly-flopped onto the coffee table. Like a hair-dryer concentrated on one spot for too long, my ribs burned. I got my breath back, because ribs or no ribs, I had to get to the bathroom before I exploded. I propped myself against the couch and tried to stand again. This time, my legs didn’t pretend to hear me. I reached down and squeezed my legs. I don’t know what I expected to happen. It’s like when your car breaks down, so you pop the hood. More than likely, you won’t be able to solve anything, but you feel the need to do it. My legs didn’t magically respond to my touch, quite the opposite. I couldn’t feel the squeeze. I rubbed my hands against my thighs and nothing. Almost half of my body just sat there like firewood. Panic tried to take hold, but nature’s call was more urgent. I might be a crippled kid, but I wasn’t going to be a crippled kid with pee-pants. Leaning back on my arms, I drug myself across the carpet. I felt the fibers scrap across the seat of my pajamas, but the rest was a meaningless load I had to carry. Sweat beaded my brow as I trudged down the hall. I thanked God we didn’t own a doublewide. The bathroom door loomed over me. Its knob teasingly out of reach. Just then, my mother came out and stared blankly at me on the ground.
The silence was painfully uncomfortable so I giggled, “Look, Mom. My legs won’t work.”
I giggled again until she said, “Why are men such babies. You’re just like your father. Now get up.”
“I really can’t. They don’t work.”
She hoisted me up by my armpit and started to drag me back down the hall. My feet tilted back as my toes drug the floor. She tossed me onto the couch. “I have to go, stay right here and don’t get in trouble again.” She slammed the door as she left, and I had to make the trip again.

In the back of the cabinet, next to the sink, I found my fruity treasure. They were stashed behind some cough drops and funny colored medicine I had to drink when I felt sick. I snatched a single bright-foiled pack, hopped onto the chair, again onto the floor, and put everything back the way it was. I quickly searched for the perforated edge to tear off, but it was gone. I looked and looked, but there was no tear-able seem. Undeterred, I ripped at the corner. Despite my incredible four-year old strength, the foil wouldn’t tear. Logically, I bit and chewed the bag, but it still laughed at me. Then I had a stroke of pure genius. I would use scissors and teach this stupid bag not to get between me and my Scooby Snacks. Quickly searching the drawers, no scissors could be found. Not even in the junk drawer. Another idea came to mind, not as good as the first, but plan B’s never are. Carefully taking a knife from the silverware drawer, I lined the blade up with where the stupid seam was supposed to be. With a single thrust, I slew the beast and won my snack. Victory was short lived as an inferno raged across my middle finger. Pulling the knife away, I heard droplets hit the floor. Like in the scary movies I wasn’t supposed to watch, but did anyway with my brother when Mom went to sleep, the stainless-steel was so heavily coated that it flowed onto the floor. Slowly, I brought my hand into view. Pink flesh spasmed in protest as droplets turned into a stream threatened to flood the house. First, I grabbed a paper towel to dam the leak. Next, I washed the knife and placed it back in the drawer and used another paper towel to wipe off the counter and floor. Mom came into the room as soon as I finished hiding the evidence in the bottom of the trashcan, so I quickly threw my hand behind my back.
“Whatcha got there, sweety?” She saw the fruit snacks in my other hand. “Okay,” she said. “Just the one pack. I’m making dinner soon.”
I scurried out of the kitchen, hiding my hand the whole time. On the couch, I had lost my appetite, but had to eat to avoid suspicion. I felt the gash with the neighboring fingers. I never had a cut like this before. I knew it would be my first scar, but I didn’t know how many would follow. This was the first in a long series of cuts, concussions, and ER visits. Lifting the open bag, I realized that the knife, and counter, and floor, weren’t the only issues. I ate around the blood.