This pilot episode of the next installment of the Disaster Diaries is a prequel to the other tales. Herein, our narrator meets (or doesn’t meet) a mysterious new man in his youth and falls almost immediately.
His stride slowed as he passed the opening made by the roll-up door on stage right. He walked with a distinctive confidence. A dangerous confidence. I followed the long line made by very good shoes and strong legs past a belt that probably cost more than my car. His shoulders were broad, and nothing he wore had been untouched by a tailor. His dark hair was swept back and his goatee was trimmed with surgical precision. Giant brown eyes greeted me as I met his gaze. His smile matched in radiance even though he only cracked a sideways grin. Lightning struck. Then the world fell silent. I had gone deaf. I was looking through a tunnel focused squarely on him. Like when you overdo the vignette on an iPhone photo. I felt my ears flush. I returned what was probably the most awkward smirk. As the tunnel crept in, I watched his left foot move forward. I heard a crack and felt a pinch in my left hand. Then he was gone.
I didn’t even know his name.
I sat for a moment, stunned, on the floor. My senses began to come back in. The rattle of the air compressor reminded me that I was not actually deaf or blind. I looked down at the nail gun and what I was working on. A trickle of blood ran out of my hand. I picked up the project from the floor and saw the finishing nail sticking through the lumber, complete with a streak of red. I looked at my hand again and watched my palm fill with blood.
I flipped out.
I ran into the shop to find my boss. Within five minutes his concern had dissolved into laughter at my antics as he dumped hydrogen peroxide on my hand. The option of a hospital was discussed, but I wasn’t hurt badly. I was also 18 years old and could not have given a shit if you had told me to. To this day, I still exaggerate the amount of blood. It wasn’t even a through and through. It miraculously missed every important thing in my hand.
The irony is not lost on me. This story begins with a gnarly hand injury and begins to end with a totally different gnarly hand injury, years and years later.