At our Household Hazardous Waste collection, we were lucky enough to be joined by volunteers from The Rock, a church at the University. Eight God-fearing Christians appeared bright-eyed and ready to work at 8 in the morning on a Saturday and because the event was not too demanding, and definitely did not require more than three or four extras, I spent much of the day lounging in the sun, supervising and getting to know the help (i.e. eavesdropping).
As I sat and sweated and directed cars containing either paint or cleaning fluids which line to stay in, a tall, male volunteer said loudly to the girl beside me, "Hey, I know how much you like stories about open wounds. I've been meaning to tell you this one about my brother." He walked over to a youngin not a day over eighteen, in sunglasses and blond ponytail and squatted down beside her. He began to describe in detail a large, black pustule that had developed on his sibling's knee. Its appearance was blamed on exposure to toxic chemicals (much like how super hero's gain their powers), which his brother was frequently vulnerable to as he works in sanitation. His brother sought a doctor to attend to his wound and the infected area had to be squeezed, pulled and ripped open, leaving a rather large, gaping hole on his knee. Since, three more abscesses have developed and the painful removal process will need to be repeated.
When the gruesome story was finished, the tall male stood. The girl stared up at him with her mouth open, sunglasses now in her lap, looking strangely satisfied. After the storyteller left, I turned to the girl and asked her if I had heard correctly? Did she really enjoy stories about open wounds? She replied with a serious, wordless nod. Her blue eyes piercing my own. It appeared as if she was waiting expectantly for my own gaping wound story. I had none. I felt strangely inadequate.
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