Let's be clear on this: I've never been in the military, and neither Tim nor Matt has ever had to drag me home from behind enemy lines, conscious or otherwise. Now that we have that straight, let's examine the events that did occur.
The morning was cold, though it was certainly not going to set any records, even in our end of the world which is hardly famous for temperature extremes. The weekend's snows were rapidly yielding to the onslaught of the suddenly unfiltered sun that has definitively claimed its place in the endless blue sky.
The world that lies beyond the boundaries of my house was gradually becoming more hospitable, and I found it more and more difficult to resist the urge to brave the elements and attend to the nagging problem with my vehicle which I can only describe as incontinence. The fact that the truck leaks exhaust fumes rather than gasoline or some other essential liquid does not make the driver's experience any more bearable, since said fumes are deposited directly into the cabin. In short, intervention was needed, and due to a combination of reasons, it was something I had to do myself.
I soon found myself underneath my beast of a vehicle, surveying the mass of rusted metal above me with a dull stare, and asking myself the dreaded question: "If I start this, can I finish?" Reality, in the form of a compulsively buzzing phone soon forced me out of my stupor and I was past the point of no return in no time. As it turned out, a quick poke with a screwdriver caused the remainder of my exhaust system hardware to disintegrate into a cloud of fine dust and small to medium size particles. As I had known from the beginning, the only option was to fabricate a complete replacement, and I made sure that I was prepared to do this using the tried and true "I'm sure there is plenty of junk in the garage" approach.
Welding of the replacement part was nearly complete when I flipped up my helmet and was instantly reminded of why I had reservations about using acetone prior to welding: my left glove was on fire. It was a pleasantly warm sensation, and in the time it took me to process what I was seeing and perform the "Holy crap I'm on fire but I can't drop the electrode holder in my other hand" dance, the glove did not experience any visible damage. I thanked the Harbor Freight gods for manufacturing something out of unexpectedly high quality waste products, and proceeded to fight honorably with the 8 foot long exhaust pipe that was not inclined to be manhandled.
It is relevant to mention that throughout my under-truck experience I was subjected to a constant sprinkle of oxidized steel, interspersed with flurries and periodic all-out showers. These showers occasionally included small hail which bounced precariously off my cheeks and forehead, occasionally succeeding at outsmarting my "Seems Safe" brand of protective eye wear. While I'm not a fan of having metal in my eyes, it is not something that concerned me terribly at the time since I would simply blink it out the one or two times I noticed. It was not until some hours later that I noticed the persistent but mild discomfort which I attributed to irritation or abrasion.
The next day I found myself sharing my story with my non-combatant comrades who promptly insisted that I seek the opinion of a vision professional. Their insistence was sufficient to sway me from my otherwise "Wait and see" course of action, which, in this case, may have been problematic on several levels.
I found myself in an office occupied by two men and one dog, all apparently belonging to one household. The two men practiced dentistry and optometry, respectively, while the dog practiced cushion flattening, although it may certainly have other talents. One of the men instructed me to look in various directions using a compassionate yet very steady voice showing no emotion, or at least no variation of emotional overtones. He proceeded in that same invariant tone: "look to your left... right... up... you have a piece of metal in your cornea... I'm sorry about that... look to your right...". As I did my best not to move while he extracted the extra part with a 27 gauge needle, I had no choice but to mentally say what he wasn't saying: "I'm glad I bought the iron-free multivitamins".
I returned to work feeling much less metallic, where my story was greeted by Tim and Matt's: "We totally saved his life!"
Sometimes the heroes among us have no weapons or tactical training, require no unusual bravery or even the ability to sell girl scout cookies - and yet they save a life. And a piece of Dodge legacy thanks them.
No comments:
Post a Comment