Coffeehouse Chronicles: ...Wrist Sprains and Water Runs

Hey, Chroniclers, got yer cup?  

Okay, well, I guess it’s my turn. Many of you know that in my previous life, I rode the two-wheeled stallion for work and for play. Play was usually fine—unless you count that one little driveway incident where I hit loose gravel like it had been planted there by my enemies, laid the bike down in full view of a neighbor, a Hose Wrangler, and had the HB come flying out of the house because the sound convinced her I had just cartwheeled into glory. No real injuries, thank goodness, just a bruised ego and the humiliating realization that a man who was supposed to do this for a living had just been defeated by his own driveway. 

Now work, on the other hand, was less “oops” and more “Lord, here we go.”  

I had two serious crashes on the job. The first one earned me emergency surgery, a full week in the hospital, and six months of rehab featuring the glamorous lifestyle of non-weight-bearing, relearning basic movement, and discovering that wedding vows get a whole lot more specific when your bride has to help bathe you and handle duties no Hallmark card ever mentions.  

Crash number two came courtesy of a distracted woman on the 10 freeway who was apparently more committed to her passenger-seat conversation than to staying in her lane. She clipped me, knocked me sideways, and left enough of my hide on the Baldwin Park stretch of freeway to qualify me as a partial road donation. So when I say I’ve developed a healthy respect for sudden disaster, understand that wisdom like this was hard-earned, expensive, and slightly exfoliating. 

Which brings us to the HB, who, a couple of weeks ago, took her own dramatic tumble on the way into church. Now I’m not saying she was entirely to blame, but there were some contributing factors that deserve to be entered into the record. She was wearing the wrong glasses—sunglasses, no less—she had a Coffeehouse Chronicles travel mug in one hand, and in the other she was doomscrolling through email and social media like the sidewalk had personally assured her it would stay flat and cooperative.  

It did not.  

She missed a raised piece of concrete and went down so fast the whole thing probably looked like an action sequence directed by somebody with a mean sense of humor. She sprained her wrist pretty badly, got it x-rayed, and then entered that wonderful modern medical system holding pattern where nobody ever calls you back, but they do leave you just enough uncertainty to be annoyed for weeks. Ever since, I’d hear the occasional “Ouch!” from another room, followed by the standard report: “I’m okaaaaay. It’s just my wrist again.” And every time, like a man who enjoys being ignored on schedule, I’d say, “Babe, you really need to get that checked out.” 

And then there’s Lupe—Boss Lady, Commander of Clipboards, Duchess of Deadlines, and undisputed taskmistress of the tax office. You would think that with April 15th safely in the rearview mirror she might ease up a little, maybe unclench, maybe let people breathe. Oh no. Lupe treats the day after tax season the way marathon runners treat the finish line—by immediately signing up for another race and dragging everybody else with them. And one of my jobs was getting water for the tax office on time, mostly because I had no interest in finding out what Lupe’s reaction would be if that water showed up late.

Naturally, that was the exact moment the HB called to let me know she had hurt her wrist again. The air in that office still had the tension of a game show lightning round. Printers were humming like they had unresolved childhood trauma, keyboards were clacking like castanets at a family reunion, and Lupe was moving through the room with the precision of somebody who had already had three cups of coffee and was now judging your life choices on cup number four. 

Meanwhile, Lupe was calling out assignments like a drill sergeant with a calculator. “Who filed this? Why is this here? Whose handwriting is this, and why does it look like they filled it out during an earthquake?” People were scattering in every direction. One poor soul got sent back to the copier three times and came back looking like she’d done a tour overseas. Another employee sneezed, and I swear Lupe looked at her like, “You can have allergies on your own time.” Everybody kept trying to remind her, “Boss Lady, April 15th has passed,” as if facts had any effect at all. That was like telling the ocean to settle down because the beach is closed. Lupe heard that and translated it into, “Excellent, now we have time to catch up on the things you should’ve already finished.” And me? I’m standing there trying to figure out how fast I can get the HB to the hospital without accidentally looking like I’m abandoning my hydration post in the kingdom of Lupe. 

So if you happen to pass by the Tax Office and hear the faint sounds of calculators, copier lids slamming shut, and grown adults answering “Yes, Boss Lady” with the urgency of hostages blinking Morse code, just know all is normal. Around there, deadlines don’t die—they multiply. And Lupe? She remains undefeated, unbothered, and fully prepared to run that place like the IRS personally asked her to keep everybody sharp year-round. As for me, I’ll apparently be escorting injured family members to the hospital between water runs and tax-office command performances, because that’s just where life has me right now. Everybody pray for me, Chroniclers.  

You know what to do. Drink ’em if you got ’em—and if Lupe asks, make it quick, neat, and in triplicate. 

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