Scooter

The pounding wouldn’t stop. Bang bang bang. Who the fuck was down stairs at my door. I was still drunk, it was around 8:30 AM, I was naked in bed and I was pissed of someone was ruining my sleep.  I was deep drunk sleeping. The kind of sleeping that you wake up well after noon and then go back to sleep for another two hours. It was winter break and I had a six hour drive home. I was in no condition to drive. I needed sleep. 

The banging at my front door would not stop.  I was trying to wait it out. I concentrated my energy and repeated a mantra, “I’m not here. I’m not here.” The banging was relentless. Shit, what the fuck, I thought. Go away! The door couldn’t hold up much longer. I couldn’t imagine who the hell could have the kind of energy to keep up that much banging. They must have been in amazing shape.

I wrapped the sheet around my waist and slowly heading down the stairs using the wall for support. I tried screaming, “hold on” to the loud pounding at the door but my energy level only produced a whisper. As I opened the door, the bright Gainesville, Florida sun blinded me and I shielded my eyes with my hands. My ears came to focus before my eyes did. I heard, “Are you ok?” and then another voice said, “can we come in?”

My vision was blurry, but I could finally make out there were two cops at my door. My heart started racing like crazy. The female officer looked down and then back up into my eyes. I looked down. My sheet was on the floor. The blaring sun made my white naked body glow like a ghost. I snatched the sheet up with Spiderman like speed. I thought, why are these cops here and, more importantly, where was my morning fucking wood? Confused, I let the officers inside.

The male officer seemed too confident to me. It was bothering me. Was he thinking that his pecker was much bigger than mine? Was he winking at his female partner cop, bragging about his dick? I started to fluff myself under the sheet. I planed that once in full chub, not a full stack, but a nice chub, I would “accidentally” drop the sheet and regain my rightful standing in the room.

The lady cop interrupted my rubbing momentum. She said, “What happened?” I was clueless. She pointed to my left hand. This would have been the perfect time to drop the sheet. Without the fluffing complete, I wasn’t ready for the show. I grabbed a hold of the sheet with my right hand and brought the left up for inspection. My left hand and arm was covered in dried up blood. The sheet I had tied around my waist was covered in blood also. I looked nervously back at the two cops in front of me. They were not smiling. He was still smirking, but definitely not smiling.

Did I kill someone, I thought. As I closely inspecting my body, I realized that I had a serious wound to my let hand and finger. I searched my empty brain for what went down the previous night? I kept trying to think, but nothing happened. The police officers searched my apartment, probably to make sure there were no dead bodies there. I was alone. They noticed plenty of empty beer bottles flung around. They were hoping to find drugs so the could arrest me. No such luck coppers.

The lady cop said, “do you know how we found you?” I said no. She told me that they followed a stream of blood from two blocks away to my front door. They thought that someone must have died or been close to death in the apartment and that’s why they were just about to kick in my front door when I opened it. They told me to get dress and we were all going to re-trace the blood to the scene. I asked, “There’s a scene?” The dude cop said, with an attitude, “yup.”

As we marched the blood trails, I thought how could I still have a pounding, throbbing headache if I lost that much blood? What was beating like a hammer in my brain? Was there anything in my brain at all? The blood trail was thick. It didn’t take inspector Clouseau to solve this case. We followed the trail to the back of an old Toyota with metal louvers on the back window and a scooter laying on the ground next to it. The lady cop pointed to blood covering the back of the car and said, “we think you were riding drunk on this scooter and ran into the back of this parked car. Do you remember?”

Oh, boy, I thought. “Nope” I said. Then some memories started to invade space. My friend’s friend, Adam, asked if he could keep his scooter in my apartment when he went home for winter break. That was his scooter on the ground. I examined the accident scene carefully. I came to an important conclusion: Who the fuck puts metal louvers on the back of their car? Had it not been for the metal blades on the car, I would never sliced my hand open. Was this car a time travel machine from the 60s?

Through my shear shorts, I was finally sporing a bit of wood. The cops weren't going to arrest me and we all walked back to my apartment talking like old friends. Should I offer her a re-look now, I thought. I was holding my rod through my short pocket. My head was clearing. Normal thoughts began to return. No, I said to myself, dropping your shorts by accident get you arrested. I let go of the wood and the crazy thoughts, for the time being at least.

Why this story now? Because I ripped by Achilles tendon off my heal bone and had extensive surgery. This is the first time in my life that I have serious injury and being a drunk fool is not the cause. I can happily say I got hurt playing basketball, not riding a scooter drunk, or bar fighting, or tripping in a bar parking lot braking my jaw etc.