Good morning, commuters! Our winding mountain roads today are essentially free of hazards, other than lots of turns. It’s clear out there, with no fog, no rocks, not even any sawhorses, thanks to a decent citizen I observed yester- eve, on the down- bound side, who had stopped to remove a full- sized sawhorse from lanes. Other vehicles stopped at a safe distance, with emergency flashers on. It was good to see people taking care of people, doing the right thing.
So, not a lot to report today regarding road conditions. Let’s call this, “Completely Random Story Day.”
A few years ago, a friend of mine was exiting a convenience store with a 12- pack of beer that he had purchased with the last dollar bills in his pocket. A woman approached him, and suggested that perhaps the two of them could go on a date, in a nearby van. He laughed, held out his hand, and replied, “Oh… what am I gonna get for sixteen cents?!?”
Turns out, that counted as a, ‘proposition with the offer of cash,’ and he was arrested by the undercover police officer. Apparently, sarcasm is not a viable defense in situations like that.
I, too, have suffered from poorly chosen words, while attempting sarcasm. Many years ago, I was with a friend, lounging on the sunny banks of a popular river in Northern CA. Hundreds of people were swimming, lounging, relaxing in the area. The beach was only accessible by hiking down, down, down, from the road above… the road itself crossed this river on a bridge 60 feet above the river’s surface.
My friend casually and spontaneously said to me, because friends say things like this (!), “Hey… you should jump off of the bridge!”
I responded SARCASTICALLY… “Oh, sure… I’ll jump off of the bridge!” The reason it was sarcastic was because, in addition to my obviously sarcastic tone, the idea of jumping off of that was bridge was so obviously ridiculous that NOBODY would really be that stupid. I had no intention whatsoever of jumping off of that bridge. Come on, that was even the example used by ours moms, for our whole lives: “If your friends all jumped off of a bridge, would you?” It was OBVIOUS that I was not really planning to take that leap.
However, in all fairness, the actual words that I spoke were technically a suggestion that I would jump off of the bridge… and some kid nearby heard those words. He jumped up, and shouted, “Hey! Some guy is going to jump off of the bridge!”
Well… this was news to everybody for a quarter- mile upstream and down… soon the beachwear clad zombie horde appeared, demanding a show. It soon became apparent that whether I wanted to or not, I was going to jump off of that bridge. I feigned confusion regarding who might have indicated an intent to jump, but that same kid with the big mouth was also excellent at facial recognition and finger- pointing… It was like a police line- up with ONE guy for them to choose from.
I began the death march, my green mile, to the bridge… dead man walking, I thought. My life flashed before my eyes… but there wasn’t that much, because I wasn’t that old… a tragedy, I thought, to go so young.
I stood on the bridge, and realized that from the top, that 60 feet looked a lot more like… a bad idea. But… I had no choice: I jumped.
There was a lot of time on this journey, so I did some thinking… some reflection, pondering, musing on the way down. I thought about regrets for the things I had never done… and regrets for some things I HAD done. I considered poor decision- making skills, that should have been more carefully attended to in my short life…. No point now, though, in considering that. I considered the ramifications of sarcasm, and how it could sometim
BAM! I hit the water, feet- first… I figured that gave me the greatest chance of survival, rather than breaking the fall with my head. The impact immediately jackknifed me, so that I kicked myself in the face with my knees, smashing and breaking my nose. And, given the jackknife position and my probable supersonic speeds (thanks a lot, Newton), I received a mighty enema, of such grand proportions that neither my colon nor my semi- colon could contain that volume of river, thus immediately rejecting said enema, and bringing with it anything else that had been in that particular cavity. The swimming trunks I was wearing had acted like a parachute on the way down (although I can’t testify that they really helped to slow me down), and when they impacted the water, they blew wide open… leaving just shreds of thin swimming trunk material to very- partially cover me like a wispy blue loincloth. I wrenched my back, to the point that standing was not an option for a few days afterwards.
Well, clearly, I survived. However, my emergence from the water was not a glorious moment of the crowd realizing just how brave I was. Instead, the swamp creature CRAWLED out of the water, gasping and choking and groaning, man- parts and butt clearly exposed, blood and snot all over my face, and the aforementioned exposed butt having its own enematic indicators. Mo’ butts, no glory. Instead of cheers and high fives, parents shielded their childrens’ eyes, and they shuffled quietly away, surely to use me as an example of how not to be.
I recovered, eventually, or at least, I assume that I will… it’s only been 30 years since it happened, so my dignity will eventually return. My nose is sort of crooked, and sometimes my back still feels a little stitchy. At least I have gotten new swimming trunks since.
I’m a lot more careful now with the sarcasm, though… especially while sitting on the beach. And if anything strange ever happens at 7- 11, you can bet that I won’t make my buddy’s mistake.