Karma's a bitch

It's funny how one step can change your life so drastically. Certain events seem to have a celestial impact on your existence. It's as though the stars align perfectly every so often, so that one particular event in your life that could have been avoided, becomes a reality. I know this, because it was proven to me inside the emergency room of Suburban hospital.

There’s a sense of urgency as I’m walking to my car from the metro during the monotonous Wednesday rush hour. It’s as though, in my warped mind, the 5 minutes I gain by walking just a bit faster and being just slightly more rude as I shove people out of my way will get me home faster and, therefore, will allow for that much more time to do absolutely nothing. This feeling becomes quickly interrupted when I see a monstrous Ford F-250 parked uncomfortably close to Ramona (my car). So close, that I can’t even open my door to get in. I’m staring at the truck in anger and fury, quickly wishing upon the driver a particularly slow and painful death via dysentery or flesh eating bacteria. A couple of days before, I had been watching an Indie film as part of my latest “get cultured and worldly” regimen. The movie was "Paris, Je t’aime", and there’s a scene where the girl’s French dad is walking down the street, keying every car in sight that is parked obtrusively on the sidewalk. Call me easily influenced, but this scene played a key role in what I was about to do next. As I climb through the passenger side of my car, I feel enraged enough to key this person’s truck. As anger and frustration takes over me, I run my key along the passenger door of the F-250. Immediately, I’m riddled with guilt and for the remainder of the night, I have trouble sleeping. I’m certain that, unless I quickly find a way to rescue a drowning baby or an injured raccoon, I would either get hit by a bus the next morning or attacked by a fleet of angry geese, whichever Karma decides I’m more worthy of. It’s not a matter of “if”, but more so “when”.

It’s 9:44pm on Thursday and I’ve been drinking at an open bar event for a good part of 2 hours to gain liquid courage and make the dismal crowd appear more attractive. My phone alarm goes off, telling me I have exactly 3 minutes left on my meter. As I put my drink down, I tell my friend to keep an eye on it, secretly hoping he fails so that someone fun and attractive slips me a roofie to spice up my night. I’m descending the stairs quickly, but feeling confident that my now 2.5 minutes to spare will give me plenty of time to refill my parking meter. My shoes are squeaking against the stairs and I feel annoyed that rubber in contact with linoleum makes such an obnoxious sound, resembling the sterile halls of a hospital or nursing home. As I turn the corner, I spot the vulture of a meter maid standing over my car, Segway parked against the nearest tree, examining the printed pre-paid meter ticket on the window that reads “9:47 pm”. I glance down at my cell phone and notice that the time reads “9:45 pm”, giving me a full 2 minutes to walk the remaining 30 or so feet. I hear myself yelling, but the meter maid and her curly-fry weave remain oblivious, leaving me to wonder if I’m so drunk that I only think I’m yelling when in reality, I may very well be yawning. As I run, I notice the brick sidewalk is uneven. My foot falls in. CRACK. I fall only slightly, as I regain my balance and think “Fuck, this hurts.” I hobble over to the meter maid, breathless and in pain, and grasp her arm to keep me from falling over. In my head, I expect her to look at me and say, “Good hustle!” as she gives me a high-five or perhaps a slap on the ass and cancels the half-written ticket. Instead, she gives me a head roll and sternly says, “Sir, please do not accost me”. As I walk back into the bar with my broken foot, I’m proud of myself for getting out of an unfair ticket. Therefore, I reward myself with more vodka sodas. By the end of the night, the place is closing down and the attention starved gays with insecurities and low self-esteem are finding someone to go home with. I go home with a broken foot.

The next day at the E.R., I’m bitter. The x-rays confirm I’ve broken my 5th metatarsal, and I immediately think back to the Ford F-250. Karma’s a real bitch, I think. As I look around the waiting room, I overhear a woman crying. “I found mom at the bottom of the stairs face down, bleeding. Everyone I love gets hurt or dies. I’m cursed.” Then her flaming homosexual brother hugs her as they sob together. On the opposite side, there’s a little girl with a bloody chin and scraped face, sobbing as her mother holds her on her lap. If karma and curses are so real for everyone, I can’t help but think what this little girl must have done. Was she mean to her sibling? Did she light too many ants on fire with a magnifying glass? Did she accidentally urinate on one of her minority kindergarten classmates? At this point, everything seems possible.

As I walk through the back of the E.R., I see a Mexican day laborer stretched out on a bed, bleeding and bruised from head to toe. As I turn to sit on one of the beds, I notice how thin and scratchy the sheets are, as if someone from the hospital has been sent on a pilgrimage to Soviet Russia to obtain sheets that resemble a brillow pad. There are two nurses arguing about the Mexican man. “No Barbara, from the looks of his injuries he must have fallen at least 25 feet from the ladder while he painted that house” says one. “No no, Kathy, the EMT said the ladder was only 10 feet tall. Unless he was hanging by one arm from a gutter and painting the side of the house like a baboon on steroids, he’s fallen only ten feet”. The man is laying on a gurney, bleeding and cut all over and slipping in and out of consciousness. Does it really matter what height he fell from? Really, all that matters is that this poor man’s Cinco de Mayo has been completely and utterly ruined. The height should be the least of his worries. Instantly, I feel the need for a double vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime. The doctor puts a splint on me, hands me a pair of crutches, and says, “Stay off your foot until you see the orthopedist.” To which I reply, “Does this mean I can’t go on my trip to Nashville tomorrow?” Instead of an answer, he glares at me and walks away. Doctors can be so pretentious.

The next morning, I’m watching the news and see that Nashville is under 20 feet of water as a result of severe flooding. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go, as I’m confident I would have been one of the people walking around the downtown area who gets tragically swept away by a raging river. I can imagine myself on the television being filmed by the local news chopper, clinging to a tree branch and waving one of my crutches in the air as branches and rednecks with mullets flow past me. I can picture Obama sitting in his living room watching CNN as he calls out to Michelle, “Hey ‘Chelle, come look at the floods! White people can swim right?” She responds with, “Remember Katrina?” “Oh yeah…well it’s a recession, we’ll wait to send help.” says Barack, as he sits back and pops open a beer, cracking a smile at the picture of George W. Bush hanging on the wall alongside previous presidents, thinking to himself, "Karma’s a bitch, huh Bush?"

When I finally get back to work, I’m bombarded with questions about my broken foot and stylish boot that I must wear for the next 6-8 weeks. “So what happened?” my boss asks. In my head, I run through several possible responses:

-I kicked a midget in the face as he tried to steal my wallet.
-The vagina of a woman doing the crab walk in a skirt down a sidewalk clamped onto my foot and snapped it in half (I’ve heard vaginas are volatile. God knows what they’ll swallow and spit out these days).
- I was playing naked leap frog and slipped on a giant, black dildo.

I realize my mind is even crazier than I thought. “I fell while running on an uneven sidewalk” I respond, hoping he won’t pry for further details. He smiles and says, “You have to watch out for those, they can be deadly.” In my head, I think, "Yeah, well so can rabid vaginas and angry midgets". Moments later, I’m on a crowded elevator and a group of women I work with (one of whom I don’t care for) gets on the elevator as they nurse their afternoon coffees. One of them asks what happened to me, and I respond with my generic “I fell while running” response. The woman I don’t like (we’ll call her Annette) laughs and in an effort to be funny says, “Be serious. You were drunk and had no one to hold you while you walked home alone from a bar!” The three women laugh in unison and I smirk and say, “Oh I just can’t get anything past you, can I?” As the elevator door opens, the three of them file out. Annette doesn’t make it out fast enough as the door closes and hits her on the arm, spilling her hot coffee all over her hand and beige silk sleeve. “Oh no are you ok? These elevator doors are so volatile you really need to be careful!” says one of the women. I laugh and call out to her, “Yeah, be careful Annette! And watch your step!” I guess often times, karma can work in your favor.

~ F.A.G.