As I mentioned in an earlier post, the downstairs toilet in our house is literally 45 years old. I saw similar plumbing in the ruins of Ephesus. That sounds like I’m trying to sound poetic but… I’m not. The Romans would look at our toilet and think it dated. Anyway, my point is that we needed a new toilet since my profusely pregnant wife refuses to use the ancient one and has to waddle up the stairs every time she needs a tinkle which, let us be frank, is often.
So off I went to Home Depot to purchase a new toilet.
Toilet bought, a store employee stowed it in my trunk. Making sure it was safely inside, I slammed the trunk shut…. on my hand. Well, to be specific, my little finger.
Thank God my parents were there.
At first, I hoped that no one would notice. I could just slip my finger out and go about my merry way. Unfortunately, trunk would not relinquish my tenderest of digits. And a fraction of a second later my mother noticed my predicament and reacted as calmly under pressure as we’ve all come to expect.
“HIS FINGER IS STUCK IN THE TRUNK! OPEN THE TRUNK OPEN IT!”
My father, technically proficient, was unable to find the trunk release and instead hopped from foot to foot saying. “There’s no button there’s no button” while my mother wailed and scratched at the trunk.
I tried to be as calm as possible to perhaps bring some cool-headedness to the proceedings. “It doesn’t hurt that much, really. Just push the button on the driver’s door.”
“HE’S IN PAIN HE’S IN PAIN OPEN THE TRUNK PUSH THE BUTTON!”
My dad, (now certain that the existence of the trunk release was just a myth) had moved on to removing the keys from the ignition, but sadly also found this to be too much of a challenge, and I glanced nervously at the growing crowd as his legs wiggled, sticking out from the car door as he sprawled across the front seats clawing at the uncooperative keys.
As any hope of salvaging my finger drained from my heart, my mother ran to my father’s aid. “I’LL DO IT!” She proceeded to open and close all the windows. One at a time.
“Mom, it’s the little button with a picture of a car with an open trunk. No… down. No… lower. Down… closer to the earth. At the bottom. Of the door.”
Finally, I was freed from having to live life attached to an automobile. My parents wanted to inspect my damaged digit. It seemed bruised but not broken and I wanted to get away from the crowd as quickly as possible. I think that’s understandable. I had closed the trunk on my own hand.
As I got in the car and pulled on my seatbelt my dad spoke the inevitable words, repeated with slight variation over my whole life, “Why would you close the trunk on your hand?”