It’s that time of year where I cut myself with the knives I got for Christmas. By accident. As gifts. It’s early baseball season. I hear high-pitched thunder, which is an absurd description, but accurate. The whole atmosphere reminds me of the time I caught my dad laughing in bed. I could be lonely.
I was not alone. In fact, I was speaking. I was making an elaborate suggestion to a high school class about their futures. I had a crystal ball as a prop. I was clutching my business cards. Their teacher called for a round of applause and I didn’t get one.
Then, of course, I was stuck in their mud in South Yalobusha County between Grenada and Coffeeville when I encountered an angel in a motorized wheelchair. Every life decision the two of us had made led us inexorably, messily, to this exact conversation.
He said, “I need a new hip.”
I said, “No. I’m stuck.”
It’s at about this point in the story that most people expect the man to drag my car out using only the small engine on his chair, but sorry. In fact, the most interesting part has already happened. The rest just took a long time.
As I suggested in a roundabout way above: it is just now Spring. The drive home on the spare is straight and smooth. The prediction of rain has been delayed. The tire pressure light on as it should be.
But look at these cuts on my hands! Did you know I was so tough? That one there is all black!
That man in the motorized wheelchair is talking about me—this is not an idea of reference. My nose is actually itching. Maybe, it is some of the high school students, considering my advice. Regardless, I’m thrilled. Why should I not get the attention I deserve?