Past Injuries.... Part IV

     OK, I’m sick and tired of recalling the times I got hurt; a guy dwells on that stuff too long and pretty soon you’re in the fetal position on Dr. Freud’s sofa, babbling about how the ATM machines are stealing your brain.  So, here is one of many stories about how those around me got hurt, sometimes by my actions, although never by my intentions. 

 

     The first one that comes to mind was the first time I was really, really scared while working.  It started in the County Jail receiving area.  I was helping another officer book a heroin addict.  You actually don’t see too many of these any more; heroin has been replaced by methamphetamine, a drug that is preferred I think because prolonged use negates the need to buy expensive toothpastes and brushes, as it makes your teeth rot quickly. 

 

     Anyway, here is this doper, getting booked for something, and I was standing behind him.  All of a sudden, this guy goes nuts!  I have no idea why, maybe cause he could not get the in-room Jacuzzi upgrade, or maybe because the ATMs had just taken too many brain cells.  The guy yells out at the other officer, and then takes a swing at him.  I grabbed the guy’s long, greasy hair (which reminded me of a filthy mop that needed to be replaced during the Carter administration) and pulled hard. 

 

     What I did not know is that the other officer, doing a great job of ducking the haymaker, had gone low and grabbed the guy around his legs and lifted.  My pulling high and his lifting low had the cumulative effect of flipping this guy like a burning pancake.  I saw his feet come up, and some of the dirty hair came out in my hands, I then heard his head hit the concrete floor like a rotten pumpkin thrown from a bridge. 

 

      Time sort of went still for a moment, and then the only thing my brain registered was how much blood was coming out from under his very still head.  I could only think: “Oh, my Lord, we killed him!”  I was certain that the world was one heroin addict less, and that I was going to jail for murdering Mr. Mophead.  Just then, I heard the sweetest sound ever; Mr. Mop rolled his eyes and said, “I ain’t gonna resist any more.”  Those were his exact words. 

 

     I was so happy that I clapped my partner on the shoulder and said, “He’s OK!”  My partner just looked at me and said, “Ya right, everyone’s supposed to have blood pouring out of their head like that.”  OK, he was bleeding pretty good, but at least he was alive. 

 

     I saw him in court a few days later; some stitches were in his head, right about the same place where he was missing a large patch of hair. 

 

 

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