damonjustisntfunny.com

There are times in every man’s life when his place is not to speak. Such times are: during childbirth, during a ballet, during marriage counseling, and, most importantly, when your best friend is about to do something stupid and preventable.

There is some law of quantum physics which states something like this: if you put a cat in a box with an electron that has been split from its proton, you can never know if the cat is alive or dead without opening the box. And if you leave the cat in the box the cat dies from starvation and if you open the box the cat dies because as it tries to jump out of the box and scratch at your eyes you beat it with the insole of your shoe. And this illustrates how the cat is really dead, no matter what, and there is very little you can do about it except to walk away from the box and go get a taco because all this thinking has made you hungry.

This is how intervening during moments of abject ignorance should be viewed. If I were to intervene, the event would not occur, and, therefore, my intervention would not have been necessary. However: in not intervening, I have sealed the fate of the cat and the box but, somehow, managed not to have my eyes scratched out in the process.

I walked away.

I unzipped my saddle bag and removed the first aid kit. I opened the Ziploc bag and began to examine the Band-Aids, Neosporin, and medical tape. I counted our ration of alcohol swabs and antibacterial ointment quickly realizing that we were going to need a lot more than what we had with us on the trip. I separated two Band-Aids from the pack — which I figured ought to be enough for this particular incident.

The sound of shattering glass came and I did not flinch. The cries from the female traveler of: “Oh my god! Are you all right?” raised no concern. The shaky: “I’m fine, no really I’m fine” drew only a sigh from my chest. The final “Sorry about your window, man” had my eyes rolling.

I sat down on the gravel and began to prepare the alcohol wipes. Ben sat down next to me and I looked at his bloodied hand. She had good reason to sound concerned: from hand to elbow he was covered in dripping blood. It cleaned up easily, though, and only one of the cuts was serious. But even that would heal by the end of the week.

“We are going to need more medical supplies,” I said.

“Yup.”

“And more cats.”

DAMON: June 23rd 3:20 PM. Ben and Damon pull over to the side to help a stranded couple. The medical diagnosis at the end is:

BEN: Laceration. Of the, let’s see: the medial … the medial forearm, as well as the digiti-minimi on the right fore-limb. The lacerations are superficial. They did exsanguinate somewhat; however, after some nifty antiseptic cleaning, neomycin applied, followed by bandaging, they’re as good as new.

DAMON: And thus begins our foolish journeys.

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