The Funniest Story I’ve Ever Told My Wife

I love making people laugh. I thrive on it. I’m hoping this telling of this particular story will translate well to written form, because, in it’s spoken form, it caused my lovely wife to laugh the hardest I have ever seen her laugh in all of our years together. It involves me getting injured as an adorable youth, so think what you will of her.

Picture it, Sicily, 1942. I grew up in the tiny, backwater community of Bridle Creek, just left of the cows in Mouth of Wilson, VA. I’ve heard the area I grew up in referred to as a Third World Country by those who grew up in more “civilized” areas. Not disparaging the area, I learned a lot of great life skills, in both the “survival in the woods” and the “keeping myself entertained” categories. But I digress.

It was late summer, early fall. I was probably 10, playing my last year of pee wee football. We had a game this particular evening, so I invited by best friend from that time, Fred (friends and family called him that, but that wasn’t his name), to come over after school to ride bikes until time for my mom to take us to the game. I lived about half way down a super long hill/mountain, and there was a small Baptist church at the bottom of the hill. I refused to attend this church because Baptist brimfire preaching at it’s fervent peak creeps me out, even to this day, but they had a rad parking lot perfect for riding our bikes in circles, or as we called “the only thing that was available for entertainment”. Later, after we were old enough to drive in this area, the activities list expanded to cruising, mudding, mooning, and mailbox baseball. But I’m getting off topic.

My bike was sweet. It was a middle-of-the-line Schwuffy with a neon yellow and black body AND a water bottle mount. SHIT YEAH! I was like the envy of my little sister with that bike. Fred was relegated to said little sister’s bike, which was lavender and had a banana seat. He was thrilled. We decided, or I decided, I should say, that we should race these bikes. We went a little farther up the hill past my house to make sure we had ample time to travel at excessive speeds. We started the race. It became quickly apparent that I had the superior machine. I’m not sure I’ve ever gone so fast, even with the aid of internal combustion engines. I was easily traveling at what Science refers to as “Ludicrous Speed”. That’s right, I went plaid! Fred was squeaking along at a snail’s pace. He didn’t have a chance.

I easily reached the church parking lot/finish line and began to bank into my usual left turn to make the circle. However, this time, as a result of my blistering velocity, I was having a hard time banking. I would later have traumatic flashbacks during Harry Connick Jr.’s demise in Independence Day. I realized I was on course for a head on collision with the side of the concrete handicapped ramp on the said of the building. There was nothing I could do. My life was over. I was too young to die, but, like a man, I accepted my fate, closed my eyes, and waited for impact. I remember the sensation of flying, something I had dreamed about and thoroughly enjoyed in those dreams, but this had a different energy to it, a darker tone. I didn’t open my eyes until after I hit the ground. And I did hit the ground. Hard. H. A. R. D. The breath was knocked from my lungs and there was a sharp, relentless pain in my right wrist. I rolled over on my back and began crying. And I’m not talking that big girl, “we just ran out of ice cream” kind of crying, I mean I was really crying. I heard Fred coming squeaking into the parking lot, he immediately started laughing until he realized that I was probably hurt. He took notice of my bike and brought it to my attention that the front tire was now bent in half at a perfect 90 degree angle, a picture of childhood beauty and pride ruined.

I’m standing in shame and pain, still crying and hoping that Fred wouldn’t tell the other guys on the football team about how I cried. He said he’d help me back to the house, but first he had to relieve himself. He chose to walk around the side of the large picnic shelter that was adjacent to the church. I remember, prior to this day, enjoying cookies and juice time in the picnic shelter, the only bright spot on the black memories that are forced vacation Bible school. My fond memories were about to be washed away with a combination of a bicycling injury and one single word, screamed by my best mate, Fred. “BEEEEEEEES!!!!” 

That’s right. Of all the places my childhood chum could have chosen to micturate, he chose the same spot that a swarm of hornet chose to build a lovely home underground. This angered the beasts, to be sure. They swarmed us, thirsty, not for the urine they were soaked in, but for bloody retribution. We scattered. I ran as best as I could what with my probably-broken wrist flopping around and tears filling my eyes. My friend, my best friend, my companion, abandoned the shit out of me. His healthy bones carried him well beyond the reach of our adversaries. It was brutal, and, I think, one of the reasons we’re not friends anymore. That and his decision to live with his dad on Whitetop Mountain after his parents separated. He would go on to be one of a graduating class of 2. I’m sure Senior prom was interesting. Also interesting, he is now a tattoo artist and white supremacist. Funny old world, innit?

For those of you wondering, I had what is referred to as an impounded fracture of the bones all the way around my right wrist. I had landed face down with my hands in front of me and took so much pressure on my wrist that the bones just cracked. It could’ve been worse, I guess. I could’ve gotten stung by b… Shit.