Gruesome Accident Tales Part III: "No Stitches."
I couldn't jump curbs or anything with my first bike. My craving to do just that made me ask for a real dirt bike, with fat traction tires and no gearshift. It could jump curbs or just about anything else. It was a sturdy white Huffy.
My friend Tom Emmerling was cruising the neighborhood with me. I had found a good thick stick, about two feet long, light and strong. I was letting it rest lightly against the spokes, vibrating satisfyingly in my hand and making a klonking hum as each spoke struck the stick. It was all going so well, and then for some subconsciously self-destructive reason, I just shoved the stick all the way in between the spokes.
There was a moments delay as the stick came around to the fork and its strength was tested. It held fast, and the front tire was stopped immediately. My chin sailed over the handlebars and landed brightly on the pavement. What a surprise!
"Wow," said Tom, "You're gonna need stitches."
"No stitches." I said.
Six blocks later, my mom concurred. "You could probably use a coupla stitches."
"Stitches, stitches." Tom chanted ominously.
"I don't want any stitches." I said.
My Mom was cool, she was gonna leave it up to me, but wanted to point out the cons, "It's going to leave a little scar on your chin that you'll be able to see when you're grown up."
I thought about it, I really did, but no stitches. You can still see it, if you know where to look, but no one's ever noticed without my pointing it out. I stand by my decision. No stitches.