So last night as I was leaving I let my hand drift back as I was closing the door and the door closed and it closed on my middle finger of my middle hand but it only grasped the tip as I felt nothing and then looked back and saw bloodandbloodandblood and wrapped in my shirt as I walked downthestairs and outhedoor and out in to the street.

For some reason, I’m one of those people who is squeamish at the sight of their own blood. It’s not like seeing a mouse to me. Just like seeing, well… you’re own blood. It feels like it’s escaping you and it’s not going to come back and you know you have a lot of it, but damnit, you need it to live and stuff and things and this is definitely not good.

I passed a Key Food as I was walking around the corner but figured the employees who didn’t see me defraud a self-checkout machine with a mix-and-match six-pack would be any use in first aid. Rather, I limped with my blood-soaked t-shirt to Two Boots Pizza, where I’d actually been to earlier in the night (at their NoHo location) for some pretty decent slices. I guess I figured that what with the pizza-cutters and all, they might have a kit.

And that they did, giving me Neosporin and band-aid after band-aid to encapsulate my bloody-and-bloodier swollen digit.

I had gotten into this mess when, after turning a 4-page paper for a 5-page assignment, my friend Beardo Malone had informed that they were sousing people on the 8th floor. In a general malaise about my life, this sounded good.

The event was full of arty-kids with oversized prescription-less plastic-rim glass and Three-Buck-Chuck; your typical art school scene. But I figured with my friend Malone already drunk and beardy, I could at least hang around and have a few laughs.

And that I did. The party was centered around a small nondescript room (which turned out to be the booze room) full of some people I did or didn’t know, including friends of Rob, former friends of Rob and a producer who’d grown a beard. I even managed to find, amidst my cups and plastic cups of cheapo-wine, a nice girl to hit on, who apparently was from my Post-Modern Travel-Fiction Class

O.B. (Original Beardo) and teacher Tom Drysdale commented on this when he heard it:

“Why the fuck are you in that class?” He asked, taking his chewing-cigar from his teeth. “Let me tell you what post-modernism is: the failure of teachers to teach students to make up their own goddam minds, leaving them instead spewing back the same crap.”

Nevertheless, the girl was cute, freckled, with a smart-style black-dress with cleavage enough to make me wonder. What sealed the deal was that I found out that not only was she in my class, but she sat behind me.

This instilled panic for me in a second. Oh fuck, I thought to myself. This girl has seen me pick my nose and scratch my hair or my butt or whatever the gross things are that I did that I don’t notice that I do and this, man, this is just terrible.

Play it off as a joke:

“Oh, sorry about that. Ha ha. That must not be too much fun.”

“It’s fine” She said. “You ask good questions.”

Whoof. A comment I’ve been getting since I was”Curious Nicholas back in 3rd Grade.

Still, if this girl had seen the back of me for nigh on 8 weeks and wasn’t instantly repulsed, I knew I was going somewhere and kept on talking.

“That girl’s cute over there.”  I said, consolidating myself to Beardo Malone.

“Her?” He replied. “Oh, yeah, I thought so too.”

“Wait, were you trying to hit on her?” I asked, anxious. “Cause man, I mean, I don’t want to–

“No, I mean she’s Jackie’s friend, I mean whatever. I’ve probably already lost my chance.” Beardo replied.

“Well, I mean, dude you can, like, try.” I told him.

“Well, we can both hit on her.” He said.

Crossing swords.

“…That’s a terrible idea.” I said.

“Well, we could at least both get more wine” Beardo offered and we did, since she was the bartender.

But upon the break-up of our consolidation to get some wine, we turned to see two club-looking-guys in suits talking to her.

I heard their accents and after a moment of wavering trying to cut in to the conversation, I tried:

“So where you guys from? Scandinavia?”

“Lithuania.” One replied.

“Lithuania.” The other replied.

And they kept on talking to her.

Back into the corner with Beardo–

“Those Lithuanians are talking to our girl!” I told him.

“Lithuanians?” He asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I mean, I thought they were Scandinavians but then I found out they weren’t but they’re blond and shit and really good-looking and they’re just not letting up.”

“Think they’re going to split her?” Rob asked. “Think we should have split her?”

“No!” I told him. “No.”

Rob finished his cup of wine, crumpled it, threw it. Took out his empty Jack Daniels’ flask and threw that too.

“All I’m saying is if we did then we could be those Lithuanians right now.” Rob said.

And we split.

The place we went to was a pre-party hang-out, the purpose of buying that mix-and-match six-pack. But once I got there, the only place to sit was the elevated but non-bunked bed, several feet above the couch and where everyone else was talking. And it was there where my drunkenness was fading and there was no freckled girl to hit on or O.B. Tommy D to make cool comments that I realized it was 10 o’clock, my fun-times were over and I was just sitting on a bed of a bunch of people I only-kinda-knew.

It was about then or shortly after that I slammed my finger in the door.

The guys at Two Boots were actually really nice. They even gave me a cup-of-ice to put my finger in, band-aids and all, as I limped home in fading stupor. 

At least I got some sleep.

At least I got some sleep.

One Response to Slam-Crunch-Bam-Blood-Lithuanians

  1. Matt says:

    Where’d you go Friday night? I hope you’re alive!

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