The Hungry Hungry Writer

‘Ahhh!’ I screamed in pain. The shock of the knife slowly sinking deep into my left index finger froze me. It seemed like a few seconds as I watched myself accidentally push the sharp blade through layers of skin. The pain shot up my arm and to my brain as I finally pulled the knife away and dropped it into the sink. I immediately grabbed my finger with the intent to close the gash as I always do with a paper cut. But this was no paper cut.

Normally a little blood would seep through as I push the broken skin together hoping for a quick blood clot. Normally this would take a minute or two with limited loss of blood… or consciousness for that matter. Normally this would be done and over with without cause for medical attention. This wasn’t normal.

The blood beat me to it. It didn’t seep out of the cut it flowed like a broken dam, crawling all over my hand and other fingers. It ‘waterfalled’ all over the kitchen counter and into the sink. I instinctively ran the water over it - which only elicited another scream of pain. I grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around my finger trying desperately to suffocate the flow of blood. It only helped soak up the mess.

I knew it too. I knew that this was going to happen. Just seconds before I saw the knife slip down, toward my hand, and deep into my finger I thought, I’ll just cut this way to save time. It was a deliberate act of carelessness. It was a split second of realizing that it was not a safe thing to do but it’d save time, and a split second too late and a blood flowing open gash on my finger was the result.

My son, who had been asleep, heard my scream of pain. I was scrambling for something… anything… bandages, towels, napkins, alcohol, Neosporin. He watched me walk around holding my finger with a blood soaked paper towel wrapped around it. I had to change it – too much blood. And we were out of towels.

I fumbled around the pantry for a new roll and my son noticed the difficulty I was having of opening the roll while holding my blood gushing finger. And he did one of the many sweet things he does and said, “I can open it for you, papa!” I replied, “But you should be in bed.” My response was instinct, a learned reply from being a dad I guess. But I let it go and dwelled in the honest concern and sweetness of my awesome son.

He got it open: much longer than it would have taken me with my current disability, but he got it open.

I checked the clock. I had a few minutes before my online ‘live’ football draft. I had to be there. I’m reigning champ and proud of it. So I was in a hurry to repair the injury as fast as I could.

I wrapped my finger as tight as possible with the paper towel – a temporary bandage. I couldn’t get a Band-Aid on because every time I let the pressure go, blood would simply gush out. I was able to apply pressure much easier with the towel while I wrapped it tight. I secured it with athletic tape and I held my finger up proudly.

I called my sister to see if she could watch the kids if I had to go to the Emergency Room but the priority was getting online to draft my team first.

The throbbing continued as I tried to type. I held my finger up and after a fast draft (1 hour and 20 minutes) I had an awesome team.

I figured it was time to change the dressing. The bleeding must have stopped and a ‘band-aid’ should be sufficient - so I thought.

It wasn’t. As soon as I unwrapped the towel the blood started to flow. I saw clotting on one part of the cut, but the other side was still open. The blood flow wasn’t as fast as before but it was still of concern. I figured my homemade bandage actually helped so I redid it, had a couple of Advil’s and went to bed.

The next morning I woke up to a little nagging pain from my finger. I unwrapped it and the scab that was formed was pulled off by the towel. Ouch! That hurt. My finger began to bleed again and Donna told me it was too late to get it stitched. She helped me bandage it up with a ‘band-aid’ this time and I was off to the golf course where… to make a long story short… at the during driving range I noticed my glove was blood stained as the cut reopened as I hit balls. That was the end of golf for the day.

So there you have it. My tragic experience with a sharp switch blade and a sticker on my golf club. And you thought I was chopping vegetables. Nope. I was removing a sticker from my golf club. And because of my carelessness I went through some difficult times with my finger the next few days. It’s still sore to be honest.

But, as my cousin James (who had two broken arms, a finger and a busted lip from a car accident two months ago) hates to hear… “It could be worse.”

My friend just died.

Two weeks after he turned 40. A month after he got engaged to the love of his life. In May I saw him for a few moments after 14 years. We promised to ‘catch-up’ soon. He was alive. He was well. He was happy. That was the main thing.

I lost sight of Robby 14 years ago. Our last conversation we had was on the phone. He was thinking about joining the military and was trying to get me to join with him. He was searching for something. He was searching for himself. He was in need of something in his life. Love. God. Acceptance. He was lost. I knew it. I called him a couple of times after that and never got a hold of him.

His life was rough. But from what I have been told, the last 3 years of his life he became a better man. A person people looked up to. A person who was saving others only after he himself had been saved. He was given a new lease on life and in return, he was inspiring others.

I was on vacation last week with my family when I heard the news. I’m sad I missed the funeral. But I have the memories.

So many times in life a memory of high school wanders into my brain. Every time I hear the song, “Forget Me Nots” (by Patrice Rushen) I think of my old friend, Robby. Every single time that song comes on the radio I’m back at the USC Student Village as a 14 year old tagging along with Robby and a girl from his neighborhood. We just had some pizza and were waiting outside in the parking lot for his mom to pick us up. “Forget Me Nots” is playing from a car radio and the next thing I know Robby is French kissing this girl like you wouldn’t believe. I was mesmerized with the kiss. The parking lot lights, the buzz of whatever someone was smoking and the slow motion, tongue action kiss… It was a surreal experience. It will always come to my mind.

The terms like “Cool Breeze” or “Kerm” or “shit-hook” are only in my vocabulary because of Robby. He used to call me “Cool Breeze” or “Kerm” as he was convinced I looked like Kermit the Frog. Till this day, “shit-hook” has no meaning to me other than the fact that Robby said it. What the hell is a shit-hook?

I saw Robby cry when he got another ticket for riding his dirt bike on the street. I saw Robby kiss the girls I wanted to kiss. I saw Robby beat all of us in Kai-Bai-Bo (the Korean scissors-rock-bo game) or Muk-Chi-Ba after lunch in high school.

Robby blocked for me several times on power sweeps to the right in flag football. “He’d say, “Follow me GlenBurr” (another nickname he had for me). I’d follow his lead and if you knew Robby, you didn’t want to be the one he blocked.

I was the first one he called to help him find his T-Top on the Glendale freeway the summer before College. Yeah, he tried to change his T-Top off of his car while driving.

He came into my life every once in awhile after the first two years of college. He’d stop by unannounced and we’d chat. The last couple of times he came by was only to borrow money. Then all I’d hear about Robby were updates from my buddy Rich who only had limited information through the years. I tried to contact Robby through an email I found on Classmates.com but he never replied.

And then I finally heard good news. And I finally got to spend a little time with him. And then I was looking forward to seeing him again…

He was happy. He was in love. He was smiling, funny and the same old Robby except new and improved. He smelled the same too! I was so happy inside to know everything was going great with my old friend.

And then he died. Killed. While he was going to work on his motorcycle.

I’ve always missed Robby. Now… I will always miss Robby.

Yeah, he owed me money. But I’ll take the memories over the money any day.

I miss you Robby. Please, rest in peace.

Your old friend,

GlenBurr

Robert Odell Knight, Jr.
July 31, 1967 – August 10, 2007