BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Honestly, this is probably one of those “had to be there” sorts of stories… Be that as it may, I’m going to go ahead and tell it. Why? Because I was there. I can’t help it if the rest of you didn’t check your schedules and missed it… So, anyway…

I’m getting up there in years. I’m not what you’d call old, although most of the O-spring’s friends think I am. I’m actually right there at middle age. Just a couple of months shy of that half-century mark, where life really begins. However, as we age, even if we are simply reaching our prime, other bullshit goes on inside us. Things like our immune systems getting tired a little more easily. So, to boost things, we do silly stuff like get flu shots. I know some folks out there who REALLY think it’s silly and refuse to get flu shots at all. More power to them. They just need to stay away from me with their germs, because the simple truth is, nobody is really as immune to common illnesses as they think they are. I guess the long and short of what I am prattling about is this: I get a flu shot every year, and 2011 is no different – especially since I am about to go out of town to a gathering of bunches of people where I will be signing books, shaking hands, and being exposed to all manner of bacterioviralmorphingpowerranger pathogens.

As it happens, the insurance that covers our family is of the sort that covers such immunizations 100%, so I recently headed out to the post office, dropped off some stuff, then continued up the block to the local Walgreen’s and got myself into the queue for a flu shot. As I waited, an older lady possessed of a white cane arrived with a friend, and they got themselves into the queue as well. While we sat waiting – it was a hell of a busy day at the Walgreen’s – I couldn’t help but overhear the older woman talking about how nervous she was, and how she was going to scream when they gave her the shot.

Eventually the pharmacist came out, packing a gihugic hypodermic that looked like a hunk of telephone pole with a sword sticking out of the end… Okay… not really. But I’m pretty sure that’s what the blind lady was imagining. As it happens, I was first up, and it had taken quite a while before the pharmacist had been able to come out to the “inoculation area,” so she was a bit harried about finding a place to give me the injection. You see, oddly enough the blind lady and her friend were sitting behind the blind where they normally do this sort of thing. I told the poor gal to just, “Grab, Stab, and Plunge,” adding. “It’s just a shot, not surgery.”

This elicited a ton of laughs from people who were in line for various things, up to and including more flu shots. However, it’s not the part you had to be there to appreciate.

Upon hearing my comment, the blind lady called out from behind the blind, “I don’t know how you can do it. I’m going to scream like a little girl.”

I replied with a serious question, “Would it help you to feel better if I screamed, too?”

“Maybe,” she said with a nervous chuckle.

Moments later the pharmacist had, in point of fact, Grabbed, Stabbed, and Plunged. Me, not really seeing shots as that big a deal, I didn’t even realize she had done so until she was sticking a band-aid to my arm. I asked, “Oh, so you’re done?”

“Sure am,” she replied.

Not wanting to disappoint the lady on the other side of the blind I said, “Hang on a sec…”

Then I screamed.

Yes.

In the middle of Walgreen’s.

Employees came running, shoppers peeked around the endcaps of nearby aisles, and everyone in the immediate vicinity who had been “in on the joke” burst out laughing – especially the blind lady behind the blind.

On my way out I wished her and her friend a good day. She chuckled and said, “You, too… And thanks for the entertainment…”

Another satisfied customer.

More to come…

Murv

I used to love Quincy.

Not Quincy himself; I mean the show. And the novelizations, even. It probably didn’t hurt that I happened to like Jack Klugman as an actor, because when you get right down to it the scripts weren’t stellar and the acting by some of the weekly extras was pretty wooden. All in all, it was a typical 70’s era crime drama that adhered to the strict formula of the day. Still, I loved the show.

These days we don’t have Quincy, M. E. We have “Body of Proof” with Dana Delany. Well, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m more than happy to spend 42 minutes every Tuesday evening looking at Dana Delany. I like her as an actress, and I’m not opposed to the fact that they go to great lengths (pun not intended) to work a gratuitous leg shot into the scenes whenever possible. Hey, I’m not shy – the lady has a set of gams that won’t quit.

Still, while the acting from the weekly extras and peripheral cast members is far superior to that of the 70’s era shows, and the scripts are minus some of the appended melodrama that was the formula back then, they really aren’t all that much better. However, as a rule, TV shows tend to do only cursory research on topics and will adjust procedures to fit their needs at the time. Of course, that’s a wholly different topic… I’m not actually here to write about that today.

You see, there I was, standing in the back yard, chainsaw in hand, covered in wood chips and chain oil, sweating profusely, and aching all over as I went about the task of removing a dead tree from the back corner. It wasn’t a huge tree by any stretch. It only stood about 12 to 15 feet tall, and the trunk diameter was no more than 6 inches. No biggie. I’ve felled trees much larger in my day. Of course, I was younger in those days, but once again we are diverging from the topic at hand.

This particular tree had split off into a triple trunk, therefore in order to avoid turning myself into Shazam by dropping it all at once and taking out the overhead power lines, I went after it one section at a time. I had already removed the front split of the trunk and dragged it out into the yard, then taken my filthy, sweaty, tired, and achy self right back up the incline to begin sawing on the next. However, before I could start the chainsaw, I heard a thoughtful “Hmph” a few feet behind me. A second later the “Hmph” was followed by a curt, businesslike pronouncement: “This is a recent death…”

As you might expect, I was a bit perplexed, but not as much as I was about to be.

I turned and looked back over my shoulder. There, among the carnage of the fallen tree was E K, decked out in a stylish business skirt and blazer, stiletto heels, and a pair of latex gloves. For a minute I wondered if she had a sudden desire to play doctor, but she usually wears a white lab coat for that.

Even more confused I asked, “What?”

The sharply dressed redhead squatted down next to the tree and fondled the branches in a purely scientific fashion, or so it appeared. “See here?” she said, without looking up. “These branches bend without breaking, which means they are still green. This tree died recently. A month. Maybe a little more. I won’t be certain until I count the rings.”

“I thought that just told you how old the tree is,” I mused.

“Who’s the Tree Examiner here, you or me?” she snapped.

“Tree Examiner?”

“Yes. I used to be a Tree Surgeon, but that was before the accident.”

“What accident?” I asked.

“We don’t talk about that,” she replied.

“But you brought it up.”

“That’s not important,” she grumbled. “Right now we need to get this tree to the morgue so I can perform an autopsy.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Because it’s my job to be an advocate for the dead trees since they no longer have a voice,” she explained.

I thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

She ignored the question, answering instead with, “Like I said, have them get this tree back to the morgue right away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” With that, she stood up, stepped over the tree carcass, and began to carefully tiptoe across the yard toward the driveway,  lest she skewer fallen leaves on her spiked heels. (Would have saved me a lot of raking, though…)

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“There’s a shoe sale at the mall,” she shouted back without slowing her pace. “You don’t think I’m going to miss that, do you?”

And since they say a picture is worth a thousand words…

More to come…

Murv