Now I am Flying Through the Fucking Air!

I was enjoying my first bike ride in ages, making plans with myself to do it more, reveling in the feeling of freedom. The wind against my face, the thrill of the roll, the concrete surf, it was beautiful.

The reflection of the street lights on the damp roads created a cinematic look to the city and I was eager for the many twists, turns and sights the ride home was going to offer.

This was to be the monumental life-changing ride of my life: I was going to start drinking less, exercising more, volunteering, donating blood, helping seniors (by not stealing their drugs), and definitely, definitely easing up on beating off!

I was cutting across a four-lane road downhill and eyeing the next turn with glee when my front tire got stuck in the streetcar track. I tried pulling out quickly, but instead went shooting over the handlebars.

And now I am flying through the fucking air.

I am sperm about to splat.

A parked moving van with decaying brown advertising decals fills up the movie screen of my life. I am front row to a show about to end, and I can sense the credits coming soon.

That last thing I am going to see in my life is the word ‘cheap’ in fucking comic sans serif on the back of a parked van as it ends my life.

The sick irony is setting in, along with my fate, when I turn my shoulder into the van and avoid going face first into the ugly, taunting vehicle.

Hockey instincts save me from concussion. Now only if I could drop the gloves with this van.

It turns out a human shoulder smashing against a parked van sounds a lot like Bigfoot cannonballing into a pool of Rice Krispies. Those are the bones.

I pop off the ground immediately to a standing position, because fuck this van, it ain’t that bad. Then I hear a sound just like tape being pulled off a newly painted wall. Those are the ligaments.

An ambulance is on the scene within minutes. Impressive. I attribute this to my strong vocals and colourful use of language. The paramedic looks at my shoulder while I stand in front of him, dangling a shoulder halfway down the left side of my body. He is unsure of a diagnosis. Not impressive.

Five hours later in Emergency I am granted a sling and a painkiller. X-Rays reveal total obliteration of the clavicle and its surrounding ligaments. Take a bow Harvey!

Thirty hours after surgery, the good drugs have worn off and acute pain has set in. I appreciate your over-the-pant handjob Tylenol-3, but the oxycodone already hooked me up with a sweet orgy and I don’t feel you at all. Next time for sure T3.

I am alone.

Why the fuck is my book on the floor and not on the nightstand? I am locked in a staring contest with Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. A standoff.

Twelve minutes, many groans and one yelp later I am on my hands and knees retrieving my book. A junkie in search of words, writers everywhere start wanking.

Reading, this is good, but in two sentences I am going to have to turn the page. That’s going to really hurt and I’m not sure Portnoy’s problems have enticed me enough to go through the agony of turning the page. Confused wanking writers everywhere scramble to their computers in search of illicit word junkie porn.

I hurl the book across the room. I remember pitching a no-hitter when I was nine. I had talent. The book bursts like a packed colon and spews shitty words across my wall.

They form the same sentence over and over again and circling me like wild rabid dogs.

The animals bark in unison: ‘You are weak!’

These loud English-speaking dogs are relentless. I’m not sure which is worse: The pain, the panic, or the power of these hallucinated, rabid and incredibly harmonic beasts.

More drugs needed.

With just one hand it is difficult to get the child-proof cap off the Tylenol bottle. What happened to the talented nine year-old?

How about a flip-top for these situations? There’s a large portion of the population that is childless, you ever think of that? And if I did have children, I’d want them to get this damn cap off for me!

The dogs and their barking are closing in while beads of sweat are leaping from my forehead like suicide bombers. This task will not beat me.

I have ingested many bottles of beer that weren’t twist-off without a bottle opener. I can do this. I push the bottle against my teeth, twist the cap and pop it off with my mouth. I think I just passed the gay test.

I take a swig, my first swig of pills.

I throw back three-ish times the directed amount, a respectable adjustment, I believe.

Fuck that streetcar track, fuck that van, fuck pulling out, fuck that paramedic, fuck that emergency room, fuck Portnoy, fuck those dogs, fuck suicide bombers, fuck child-proof caps, fuck the fucking pharmaceutical companies!

Fuck me.

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About Brett Butler

if my dick were a gun is a collection of short stories by Brett Butler. He is also an award-winning filmmaker/screenwriter and co-creator of the Toronto based entertainment production company SubProd. View all posts by Brett Butler

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