The Glare of the Gash

In the case of bathroom stories, there is one I have told that overcomes all others. In fact, it could be assumed to be the best and most emotionally gripping of any such tale. I think now would be appropriate to specify the time, place, and persons involved in my tragic event. The year, if I can recall, was 2000; a new millennium for a new disaster. In this year, the fear of Y2K was abandoned, but that's a whole other story. What's more important lies in my memory. I lived in Park Ridge -- a suburb in Chicago that, strangely, almost spells a name backwards (Egdir Krap, only it could have been Edgir Krap if the "d" and the "g" were switched).

Now on this particular day (whose date escapes me currently, but shall be posted on a later date), I was wearing blue khaki shorts with a white T-shirt. It was obviously summertime which implied that children would most definitely be found on a playground; I was one of such children. It was a weekend -- a sunny one. The green leaves had already been taken for granted, and therefore blended each day into an collage of blue, green, and yellow colors (sometimes it was gray, but I would not count a rainy day (they are best forgotten)).

A visitor from another state had arrived the day before and, being a child, joined my brothers and I at the local park. Although some playgrounds use sand and/or gravel for their ground foundation, this "jungle jim" saw it fit to use wood chips. There were three slides: one long (open faced) slide, one semi-entertaining (closed faced) slide, and one dull (open faced) slide which cannot be blamed for its dullness in that it was meant for toddlers. This is beside the point, seeing as it has nothing to do with my bathroom story. I have been told, however, that detail imagery can help paint a picture in a reader's mind (to which I disagree; readers should always keep an open mind). After 10 years of childhood, playground equipment (with the exception of the swing) usually shifts from primary entertainment to secondary entertainment -- making room for imaginative recreational games which can, if necessary, use the equipment as set pieces.

So on that day, me, my two brothers, and our visitor agreed to play an extraordinary game. The rules were a bit complicated, so I shall do my best to describe them. One player would be deemed "monster" while the other three players were merely... well, players. The monster would try and catch the other players by touching them with his/her right and/or left hand. If the monster caught all the players in a given amount of time, he/she/it would be victorious. And that was our ingenious idea. I was chosen to be the first monster (most likely because I could run like the rabbits we often chased on our lawn). So, I closed my eyes while the players scrambled to find a place to hide; they didn't realize I had a plan. After approximately 20 seconds (a number which could never be calculated accurately), I sprung into action.

A gray port-o-potty was located not too far from the playground. I would hide inside the miniature bathroom and wait for the unsuspecting players to pass by who, suddenly seeing me bolt out of the john, wouldn't have time to run away. It was masterfully planned -- almost too beautiful. And I say 'almost' because of the events that followed.

Here was the problem: I kept the bathroom door slightly ajar, so I could watch my prey approach my trap. Unfortunately, I underestimated the intelligence of my fellow playmates; my younger brother, Luke, who had been wandering by my hideout, spotted me before I had the chance to emerge. Acting like any player should, Luke instinctively closed my slightly-ajar bathroom door in the hopes of keeping me inside. What he didn't realize was my thumb -- which was in the hinged crack of the door. With a very loud smack, the door swung down on my right thumb, gashing it dead center. The problem with port-o-potty doors, however, is their tendency to swing on their hinges after closing. And with such a hard push, the door came down on my thumb several times before coming to a halt. I pried my opposable friend out of the crack, holding it with my left hand (I was covering the wound so I didn't have to see it).

It was throbbing, and I was crying. I also was yelling at my brother for his careless mistake (which now I realize was a transference of anger). I sat on the grass in a collapsed, defeated position, not looking at the severity of the wound. How pathetic a monster I was. A beast of my caliber should have disregarded the flesh wound and kept after his prey. But I realized I was human, and humans (especially the little ones) didn't take well to injury. My relentless crying and/or screaming must have alerted the rest of the park, because it was only a matter of time until an old tennis player came by to see what had happened. She bent down next to me and uncovered my injured thumb. The penetration was deep; it was a dark blue and red gash that seemed to glare at me. It was a creepy sight. I think I may have gagged. The kind lady took me home; and as I walked, I couldn't escape the glare of the gash. It was talking to me. Why did you do this to me? I didn't! It was Luke. It doesn't matter. YOU were the one that hid in a bathroom with your thumb in the crack of the door. I'm sorry! Well it's too late now.

I went to the hospital, bandaged the thumb, and put it in a miniature "thumb-cast" which I still have -- it sits in the top drawer in my kitchen next to the toaster. It was hard to play video games afterwards. My thumb still cracks when I bend it, and I always think it's growling at me. Maybe this wasn't really a bathroom story.