As you may have guessed from the title of today's post, I suffered a severe trauma recently. I may never be the same.
So I'm a letter carrier, which is to say, a mailman without the man bits. But we'll get to man "bits" in a minute. I'm also not technically an "employee" of the Postal Corp, so that means if something happens - and it did - I'm pretty much SOL. Since this is my default modus operandi anyway, I can usually roll with it. After two years of on-again, off-again that would make Robin Wright and Sean Penn green with jealousy, I finally got offered what's called an OA. This means I'm guaranteed 40 hrs a week. Joyous celebration ensued.
OK, not really. I treated myself to an extra Tim Horton's coffee that morning though, and pretty much for every morning the rest of the week. This meant I was suitably alert when disaster struck on Thursday, less than a week into my new gig as schlep #10000000001 for the post office. Did I mention this is a very nicely paying gig? I mean, I jumped a tax bracket and everything. During a recession. Just saying.
Now the fella who owns this house where I met with disaster - he's obviously on social assistance and cannot afford to fix it up. He can't afford much apparently. He can't afford shampoo, nail clippers, or pants. He sits in the window and watches for the mail so he can cash his pittance government cheque and hold off Death via starvation for another month. He wears the same stained threadbare white t-shirt and brown (God I hope they're brown and not just dirty... ewww....) boxer shorts every day. I mean, it's hard to miss him sitting on his chair just beside the window, you know? To me, he didn't look like a big game hunter, which explains why I wasn't expecting the tiger trap he had laid out for me.
The route I was covering is not the best section of town, but it's hardly the worst. That being said, the Hunter's house was built - at best guess - sometime shortly after mankind decided that cave dwelling was perhaps just a wee bit too rustic. Nevertheless, he is entitled to receive his mail, and the mail slot is in his door. To access this slot, one must step onto a deck that has seen better days, and would likely make a nice bonfire the moment the sun comes out and dries it up. But on Thursday it was overcast, and since I had stepped onto this deck the three days previously without incident, and the places I had to step seemed like normal wood and lacked the patchwork quilt motif going onto the rest of the deck, I chanced it again. I almost made it to the door before I fell through up to my knee, whereupon my foot hit the concrete ground below. My right ankle turned beneath me, and the pain was sharp and severe, so I threw myself backwards onto my ass. But this was not the horrible disaster to which I have been referring. What happened next has scarred me for life, and haunts my dreams.
Upon hearing my roar of pain (and having witnessed it from his usual perch on the chair in front of the window by the door), the Hunter came out to assess his capture. He peered down at me, seemingly concerned. "Are you okay?"
No, I was not okay. I had a face full of hairy, ninety year old saggy balls in my face.
"Ow!" I said, and yes... I did actually use that word. I was not referring to the ankle.
I shut my eyes and thrust out his mail in his general direction, which he took. Apparently, he had moved closer to do it. I discovered this when I opened my eyes to make good my escape.
I think I swore. It's against company protocol - swearing in full uniform - but I was in pain, and again... not talking about the ankle.
I heaved myself upright, all weight on my left foot, while wearing a full 35 lb satchel on my back. I did it without assistance from the Hunter, or a railing, or any support whatsoever. I was veeeeeeeeeerrrry motivated.
I limped out to the street, repeating "Ow, that hurts," and called my supervisor, who asked if I was okay. I thought at first my ankle was just twisted, and I could walk it off, but the truth was, I could barely feel it. I couldn't even begin to focus on the ankle. I'd have left the ankle in the deck and gone on without it if I'd had to. All I could see were his balls, shrivelled and hairy, hanging low.
You know that song...
Do your boys hang low
Do they wobble to and fro
Can you tie them in a knot
Can you tie them in a bow
Can you throw them over your shoulder
Like a continental soldier
Do your boys hang loooooooooow?
He can answer "yes" to all of that.
I can testify.
Oh, BTW, it's a sprain and I'm off for 5 weeks, so instead of earning the big bucks, now I'm getting a pittance from Worker's Comp. They've decided to defend my honour though. They're suiing the Hunter on my behalf. Yeah, the Hunter who can't afford pants. And I thought PETA was hardcore. *shudders*