True Story (Or Not)
This morning a bottle lay shattered on the pavement. Remnants of a wild night or a clumsy shopping trip. Carefully stepped over the glass fangs waiting for a nibble and carried on.
Imagine I stepped into one. Awful way to start your day. Sure, my workplace is a mere 10 minutes away, but still. Would have to limp all the way. Stagger in the office, dump my backpack and headphones on the first chair and head straight for the shower. A shower nobody uses. Shoe off, sock carefully off, inspect the wound, slight damage with an abundance of blood. Try if the shower works: it does. Spend about 10 minutes washing the shower, balancing on one leg like a squeamish water bird. When I’m content with the sanitation of the cubicle I proceed to rinse my feet. Carefully, it stings. Once I’m done I’m reluctant to use the towel, this Komodo dragon mouth of a cloth. I know I have some plasters in my bag, but I ditched my bag outside, didn’t I? Contemplate my options while my foot dries.
Then the bathroom door opens and my head pops out, apologetically asking the nearest person to pass me my backpack. Plasters on, I even find a clean pair of socks in the side pocket. I use only one, I might need a change later on. Scrutinize my shoe; take out all the shards I can see. In no time I’m at my desk. Limp for a while, try to keep my foot on its edge under my desk but by noon, when the whip is really down, I completely forgot about it.
Just like I forgot about the shards on the pavement while contemplating this absurd what if. My typical absent-minded walk, trying to solve this hypothetical problem until I feel a sharp pain in my foot. For real this time. The limping is genuine too, so is the bag ditching as soon as I reach work. Barge into the shower just as imagined, but the sock won’t come off. There is a gooey mess of shards, sock and blood formed in an inseparable entity. Try to dampen it a bit: the shower doesn’t work. Turn the tap: a faint squeak, but no water. I jerk the sock off with a swift move, my scream echoes through the air vents. Unsuspecting coworkers on every floor are throwing puzzled glances at the vents. Someone calls maintenance.
Meanwhile, with my newly found consideration for waxing, I’m peeping out the door, waiting for someone to pass me my bag. No one walks by for a long time, so I hop out and pounce on my gear like a critically endangered predator. Back in the shower room, I turn it inside out: no plasters. I decide to make my way to the upstairs toilets; at least I could wash it there. Couldn’t find a clean pair of socks in my bag either, I seem to recall a condom dispenser in that loo. Anything would do.
By now the pain is excruciating. Start casually, one hop at a time, heading for the lift. I’m stopped halfway through, a director is alerted by my peculiar movement and after a few short questions I suddenly find myself in a cab.
And soon enough I’m here, waiting for my turn in the hospital, not exactly an emergency, but patience is urgently needed. Sitting here, my leg aloft, still without a shoe. Scribbling this down. Fun story, if you’re not the one squatting in an aseptic waiting room.
Since I can’t compel you to stay as there are laws against it why don’t you do it on your own? Stick around and read more of my short stories. All of them are amazing. Well, most of them are. OK, honestly, some of them are. Why don’t you decide for yourself? Take a look around –> Here’s a map!
Or, if you’re really adventurous, get off the beaten track and read a random story!