A Gory Celebration

I was doing mental cartwheels Saturday, celebrating my big scratcher win in my mind, at the counter of the Gas Station Chicken Store. Oh, it was a real win, a $500 win, not imaginary. Only the celebration was imaginary.

The Man Owner waited on me. Good thing I saw his car out front. The regular clerks can only pay out $300 or less. And here was a new clerk getting ready to start her shift, getting last minute instructions from the Woman Owner, like a second-string quarterback getting advice from the head coach before running onto the field.

The Man Owner was behind his plexiglas partitions, counting out my money. He's a friendly fellow. I reached into the opening and pulled out my stack of bills. He then rang up my soda and another scratcher. A customer had entered, and was standing behind me. Closer than 6 FEET! Anyhoo... I left the store and started across the parking lot to T-Hoe.

As I looked down on the little asphalt ramp that is in front of the door (looking a bit like it had been poured by Farmer H and his leftover-blacktop-scoring buddy, Buddy)... I noticed blood dripping off my arm!

WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN???

How did I injure myself in the Gas Station Chicken Store? I didn't get jabbed by anything sharp at the soda fountain. The hole for the 44 oz cups was empty, so I'd helped myself to one sticking out of an already ripped open plastic sleeve of 44s in a box at the end of the counter. Us regulars can do that, you know.

I hadn't touched anything at the counter. Only shoved my tickets through the slot, and took my money back. There was nothing else to gore me in there.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Now my short sleeve had dipped itself into the free-flowing river of blood on my forearm. AND I had a spot on the bottom of my shirt pocket.

THAT'S IT!

A toothpick in my pocket had poked its pointy end out, and stabbed my arm skin! When I got to T-Hoe, I dabbed at it to staunch the flow. There were TWO wounds. Like one good stabbing deserved another. I dabbed and dabbed. Got a new Puffs With Lotion, and dabbed some more. Applied pressure. I really need to carry some bandaids in the T-Hoe. There's never one when I need it. I'd just bought some at Save A Lot on Monday. But they were all in the Mansion.

Once safe in my lit basement lair, I took a picture of the now-scabbing entry wound.

I assure you, my wound was much bloodier than this photo makes it look. A virtual bloodbath, I tell you! Almost in need of a tourniquet! Believe it or not, that's my TANNED arm, from hanging out T-Hoe's window while I wait in line at Dairy Queen.

Here's a bit of a closeup...

The littlest 'pick-prick has a small lump under it. As if I'd skewered the skin with that pocket toothpick. I guess my mental celebration and the resulting endorphins made me oblivious to the puncture(s).

I'm sure glad I don't carry fish hooks in my pocket! And I might want to re-think the two aspirins a day I'm taking in an effort to take a break from the ibuprofen.