Tuesday, September 30, 2014

You Should See His Face!

The Patriots
Bilal (pronounced Bill-ahl)
I Hurt Myself
Last (Monday) night, I had about 25 dollars on me.
I have typically managed to get ahead something close to this amount after each weekend.
Then, I am faced with the decision to spend a good chunk of it on something which I want, like a USB cable to charge my mp3 player, so I can record myself live; or a new battery for this laptop, which is now running off of the outlet at the emergency room at the LSU Interim Hospital.
The Hospital, What Happened?!?
I watched the Patriots game last night, from outside the Royal 
Sonesta Hotel, on Bourbon Street.
I figured that I had earned the right to treat myself to such a frolic, since I had managed to clear the 27 dollars, or so, after the weekend...
I was watching the game for free from the sidewalk, and only running to the beer store during halftime and long official reviews of plays.
At one point, when the Patriots were already down 17 to 0, a man called to me from across the street, whom I at first didn't recognize, as he was dressed up even more "to the tee" than is his custom.
It was Balil.

He motioned me across the street, whereupon he introduced me to his companion who was none other than his mother, Victoria, visiting from Dayton, Ohio.
She shook my hand warmly as Bilal bestowed encomiums upon me as being "a great guitarist," and, more pointedly, one whom he could jam with seamlessly.
They were very supportive and encouraging, both in words and deeds, telling me not to give up; and repeatedly laying their hands on my shoulders, as if praying over me.
Balil left a 20 dollar bill with me, which let me breath a sigh of relief over the fact that, taking time out to watch my favorite team lose miserably was not going to wipe me out, financially.
After the game, I drifted around, running into a musician whose name escapes me; a middle aged black guy with an acoustic guitar who said that he had come to New Orleans "to learn" from other musicians.
I may have taught him a couple of things, but we weren't thrown any money as we sat there and played for almost an hour. This was a little bit disturbing, because I thought that we sounded alright.
Then, I went to get food at Rouses Market.
I found copious amounts of it and then, to celebrate the bonanze, grabbed my final beer of the night at The Unique Grocery,  before heading to the sign spot.
Once at the sign spot, I realized that I had no utensils to eat with.
I took my box cutter and cut the plastic lid off of a salad container, and was in the process of slicing it up, in order to fashion some kind of crude eating implement when the blade came free of the lid and slashed through the flesh of my leg with an audible and sickening sound as the fabric of my jeans was rent and the blood gurgled forth.
All I could think of doing was to just eat my salad and go to sleep. It was dark and I couldn't see how much blood was seeping out of me until the morning light came and I found myself on a red-stained cardboard bed in red-stained jeans.
Had I gone immediately to the emergency room, the gash could have been stitched, but, as I sit here now 16 hours later, they are telling me that all they will be able to do is clean the wound; as it is too late to stitch it.
I guess I will have a hideous scar on my leg which I can tell people that I got during a knife fight with someone who jumped me trying to steal my guitar; and then add something like: you should see his face!"

1 comment:

alex carter said...

Ouch! Too bad you were too drunk/stoned to get to the ER, they'd have cleaned it up and stitched it up. I guess it's true then that a wound has to be stitched up pronto or if it can't be, left to heal on its own - years ago I met a bum in Santa Cruz who had a horrible gaping wound on his forearm and told me this, that it was too late to get it stitched and it just had to heal "however".

Gotta watch where that blade might go! That being said, I did a fine number on my fingers years ago with a handsaw while up in a tree, and not long ago I was cutting up an old tree at a friend's with a Sawzall and came close to nicking my leg a few times. I like to think I'd have just gotten pants leg and maybe "a mark" but geez, I might have dodged a major oopsie.

The thing is, you've got to keep that thing clean and dry, and you'll have to work extra hard to do so in the New Orleans climate. I remember moving from Hawaii to the mainland US, and I'd just dinged up my knee crashing a motorcycle which I did a lot of at the time, and I was amazed at how much more sanitary the California weather was than that of Honolulu.