Coffee Chronicles ...and How Sharp Can It Be?

OUCH!

Hey Chroniclers! Those of you who follow the Chronicles closely will remember when I told you I noticed a recent uptick in the HB’s viewing habits, specifically her rapt interest in crime shows. After which, I received tons of mail from many of our male followers who not only offered advice on how to avoid becoming un-alive “accidentally,” but some had come to a realization that their partners seemed to show a recent interest in Dateline and Snapped! also.  

Has anyone noticed if their wife is suddenly unavailable for lunch with them every other Wednesday and every 3rd Thursday of the month?

So, this happened a couple of days ago: I made an unexpected trip to the nearest emergency room. Coincidence? I think not.

This is how it started. The FedEx guy bounded up our driveway the other day. He and I are on a first-name basis because I live with the HB, and not too long ago, my daughter and two granddaughters lived here with us for a while, too. There was a daily parade of delivery trucks in front of the house: UPS, FedEx, DHL …you get the drift, right? So, anyway, the FedEx guy rolls up, gives me a friendly wave, and drops two boxes at the door.

Surprise of surprises, one of the boxes was addressed to me! Oh boy! Christmas in March! 

I was sitting in my office, looking at a box of whatever I had ordered recently, curiously because I'm pretty sure I ordered it more than 15 minutes prior, and I have trouble remembering what I needed at the specific time that I was scrolling through my Amazon Prime feed. Amazon Prime is much better than those impulse buys we used to make on “As-seen-on-TV.” It’s stuff we actually need. For instance, the other day, I needed 10 neoprene sunglass leashes in every color because — well, just because.

So I went to open my brand new Christmas present when I realized that I didn’t have anything handy with which to cut the seal on the box. No problem. A few years back, one of the young’ns from my former patrol station was selling knives. I’m not sure what the original use of this knife would be because I don’t hunt or fish, and quite frankly, I always tend to cut myself with any sharp instrument I hold.

I harken back to when I was a brand-new trainee at the best station in the County (No, Dot. Not Firestone. Lennox. But yes, FPK is a close second); I had literally just driven up. Back then, on our Sam Brownes, we had a revolver, three speedy-loaders, two pairs of cuffs, a side-handle baton, and, of course, a Buck knife. All of which had a specific custom leather basketweave pouch with which to hold them. 

On this particular afternoon, the field sergeant, Mike Connolly, inspected me and noticed I was properly equipped, except for the Buck knife.  “Um, hey Trainee?” He looked at me quizzically, “Where’s your knife?”

“Sir,” I said, standing at attention, as I looked over his head, because at 5’8”, I was almost ten inches taller than he. “I don’t carry a knife, sir. Every time I do, I cut myself.” The only sergeant at the station shorter than Sgt Connolly at the time was Sgt Sailorman. Sgt Connolly was a giant compared to Sgt Sailorman. You guys remember Sgt Sailorman? He was the suspected arsonist who tried to elicit false testimony on me about a crash that I may (or may not) have been involved in on Vermont Avenue. Anyway…

“Get a Buck knife,” Sgt Connolly grumbled. This was not Jeopardy; he was not its ex-pat Canadian host, and it was not framed as a question. It was not a request. It was an order. 

So, I got a knife. It never left the leather case that sheathed it, but I indeed had a knife when Sergeant Connolly looked at my gunbelt from that point on.

Back to the present day: The box comes in, I’m in my office, and I want to see what I got, but I don’t want to walk all the way back to the front door to get a letter opener. There's no need. I have that pretty little souvenir knife that I purchased a few years back in my desk drawer.

Ninety seconds later, I’m in the bathroom, my hand under the ice water, trying to clean my severely lacerated index finger. Oh. And unsuccessfully attempting to stop the bleeding. 

D’oh.

I called my neighbor on the phone, “Hey, ‘dre. Could you come over? I cut my finger and need a little help bandaging it up.” 

“No problem, Buddy.” Andre sounded cheerful, “I’ll be over in about five minutes.”

I tried to sound calm but wanted to express a little urgency: “Uh, ya think you could make it sooner?” 

“Oh. Let me get my shoes on.”

About a minute later, Andre was at the front door. He came in, and after a few minutes and a lot of gauze and tape, we thought we’d done good. Andre looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, gave me a high five on my good hand, and wished me luck.

I sat on the couch, holding my throbbing hand above my shoulder, cursing my laziness. 

Dangit! It was only 15 steps from my office to the less sharp letter opener. I looked at my finger to see a red spot swelling on the once pristine white bandage from the area Andre and I had tried to cover. 

“Ugh. This just isn’t working,” I thought to myself. 

The doctor used that tourniquet to keep me from exsanguinating.

A three-hour visit to the ER and seven stitches later, the bleeding was finally stemmed.

Bottom line: If anything happens to me in the near future, the HB can point to this incident to generate reasonable doubt if the police come to the door. And I already know I can’t count on Dion Ingram to back me up. He’s on her side.

You know what to do; Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles